Believe.

Not long after my husband Don died of Covid-19, my children and I found ourselves in a space without clear answers. I was experiencing small, undeniable moments that felt like messages—things moving, patterns appearing, a presence that felt steady and real to me. For them, it was different. They wanted to believe, but without experiencing it themselves, they stood somewhere in the middle. A few months later, my son Ansel came to visit. We were talking about it again, still asking the same question: what is real? We sat down to play Scrabble. To start, we each drew tiles. Ansel pulled one, then another… and on the third, he paused. He looked up at me, then kept drawing until he had his full set. When it was his turn, he said quietly, “Mom… this isn’t possible.” He laid the tiles down in the exact order he drew them. They spelled Donald. He stared at the board. “I can’t believe this is happening.” I asked, “Now do you believe me?” He didn’t hesitate. “Yes. I believe.” In that moment, something shifted. It wasn’t about proving anything—it was about experiencing something neither of us could explain. It felt like Don reached across the distance, just to say one thing clearly: Believe.