The Prettiest Cardinal

I know that not everyone believes the same things about what

happens after we die. I hold that with a lot of respect.

Grief is already heavy enough without feeling like we have to explain or defend what brings us comfort. So I never want to assume, or insist, or make anyone feel like there is only one way to make sense of loss.

But I do want to share this:

My faith has become an anchor for me in grief. Not in a way that erases the pain, or wraps everything up neatly, but in a way that gives me something steady to hold onto when the waves come. Because I believe that my mom is home.

I believe she is whole, at peace, and more alive than ever in the presence of God.

And somehow, that belief doesn’t make me feel farther from her, it makes me feel more connected.

Before my mom died, in one of those moments where we were somehow both honest and lighthearted at the same time, I asked her a question.

“What will you come back as?”

I don’t know exactly what I meant. Maybe I just wanted something to hold onto. Some way to recognize her. Some sign that she wasn’t really gone.

She didn’t hesitate.

“A one-eared cardinal,” she said.

We all laughed.

And then, very practically, I said, “Mom… maybe just come back as a regular cardinal so we have a better chance of seeing you.”

She smiled and said, “Okay. I’ll be the prettiest cardinal you see.”

At the time, I didn't realize what a gift her answer was going to be. Because since she’s been gone, I have seen cardinals at the most unexpected and most needed times.

And every single time, it stops me.

Some people might say it’s coincidence. Some might say it’s trite.

And maybe, from the outside, it is. But from where I stand, in the middle of loving and losing her, it means everything.

It feels like a whisper-a reminder.

A small, sacred connection between what I can see and what I believe to be true.

It reminds me that God is good.

Not because everything feels good. Not because I don’t still ache for her.

But because love doesn’t end. Because connection doesn’t disappear.

Because even in loss, there are moments where we are reminded that we are not as alone as we feel.

That doesn’t mean grief is easy.

It doesn’t mean I don’t have questions.

It doesn’t even mean I don’t have days where I feel angry… even at God.

(But that’s a story for another time.)

What it does mean is this:

In the middle of grief, I have something that gently pulls me back toward hope.

Something that reminds me that my mom is not lost.

She is home.

And every once in a while, when I catch a glimpse of a cardinal at just the right moment, I smile and think...

There you are.

The prettiest one I’ve ever seen.