It’s the sort of thing that’s shared surreptitiously. Carefully. With disclaimers and explanations and vows that we don’t actually believe in signs, because we are not that “flaky.”

No one wants to be seen as flaky.

But the reality is, almost everyone has a story of something precise and random happening in their grief that let them know there is something going on here: the well-timed song, the appearance of birds or hearts or sudden messages, things showing up just as we’ve thought to look for them.

Can we talk about these? Can we voice the wonder and fascination at these external evidences of some larger thing happening, whether it is simply our brains making connections – which is completely cool in and of itself – or something beyond just our minds? Can we make it safe for each other to share these occurrences, without having to defend our intelligence first?


I’ll go first. Below is a story that happened in 2011. As with many of my stories here, it starts with rain:

It was pouring.

The dog did not want to go out. We drove the tiny eighth of a mile to the dog park instead of walking, because it was so windy and he hates to get his feet wet in puddles. A man opened the gate for us, a very sweet man, who had apparently spent the night in the shelter at the dog park.

He talked to me about his dogs, how much he loved them, how he was with them when they died. He asked about our dog, and I told him how Matt had crouched down in front of his kennel at the shelter and told me, “he’s the only dog in here.”

I told him how we wanted an older dog, in order to give him a good last few years. The man said how important and kind that was, how special it was to adopt a creature knowing you are facing the end sooner than you’d like. He said, “you and your husband are good people.”

During all this, I managed to not cry at all. I was, however, trying to talk myself out of offering him a ride somewhere. Instead, I offered him the umbrella I had in my car, because he said he had to walk across town to meet his girlfriend.

He said, “that’s so kind of you. In return, I will sing you a song about your dog. I am really good at songs. I can make them up instantly.” He told me that he would have a song by the time I came back from the car.

I walked to the car. I came back. Handed him the umbrella. Left my rain-averse dog in the car. The man was standing inside the shelter. I was outside in the rain.

He said, “so okay, tell me about your dog. What do you love? What makes him special to you and your husband?” I stopped. I stared at our dog, standing on the driver’s seat, looking at me. I started to cry.

The man said quietly, “Oh. We are sharing a moment here. Okay. You don’t have to say anything. No. Tell me what it is about your dog.”

I didn’t even think. I just blurted. “He is who is left of my family. My husband died. And it is his birthday today.”

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