There are days when nature has a way of slowing us down enough to hear what our hearts already know.
This week, I found myself floating quietly down a river in my kayak.
No agenda.
No destination.
Just the gentle rhythm of the current carrying me downstream.
Earlier, a magnificent great blue heron stood motionless along the riverbank.
I didn’t have my camera in my hand.
For just a moment, I felt that familiar urge.
“I wish I had my camera ready.”
Then I smiled.
Because I realized I didn’t need one.
The image of that beautiful bird standing in quiet stillness before gracefully lifting into flight had already become part of me.
Some moments don’t need to be photographed.
They simply need to be lived.
It reminded me that while photographs and videos are wonderful gifts, they are not the only way we remember.
Some of our most treasured memories are the ones our hearts quietly hold.
A laugh that still echoes in our minds.
A familiar voice.
The warmth of a hug.
The sound of footsteps coming down the hallway.
The way someone threw their head back when they laughed.
No photograph can fully preserve those moments.
Love does.
As I continued floating downstream, something extraordinary happened.
A pair of juvenile bald eagles emerged from the trees and soared downriver. Their wingspan was breathtaking.
Not long afterward, another bald eagle lifted from nearly the same place, zigzagging gracefully across the river and directly over my kayak before disappearing into the summer sky.
Whether it was coincidence or simply one of nature’s beautiful gifts hardly mattered.
Because only days earlier, I had been speaking with the mother of a young man who had died unexpectedly in his sleep.
He was only thirty-two years old.
A husband.
A father to a precious two-year-old.
A son.
A family member.
A friend.
One morning, the alarm sounded…
…and he simply didn’t wake up.
There are no answers yet.
Only questions.
Only shock.
Only unimaginable heartbreak.
During our conversation, she quietly asked me something I have heard many times throughout my years supporting grieving families.
“Do you believe in signs?”
She shared an experience that she believes was her son reaching out to let her know he is okay.
She wasn’t asking me to prove it.
She simply wanted reassurance that she wasn’t “crazy.”
When families ask me whether I believe in signs, I rarely begin with my own beliefs.
Instead, I gently ask,
“Do you?”
Because my role isn’t to define someone else’s experience.
It isn’t to convince them of what they should or shouldn’t believe.
My role is to create a safe space where they can explore whatever brings comfort, meaning, and hope.
What the Research Says
One of the most meaningful developments in grief research over the past several decades is the concept of continuing bonds.
For many years, grief was often viewed as something that required “letting go” or achieving closure.
Today, bereavement researchers such as Dennis Klass, Phyllis Silverman, and Steven Nickman have helped reshape our understanding. Their work suggests that healthy grieving is not about ending our relationship with someone who has died. Rather, it is about finding a new way of carrying that relationship forward.
Many grieving people continue to feel connected to their loved one through memories, values, rituals, conversations held quietly in their hearts, dreams, acts of service, or moments in nature that feel deeply meaningful.
Many also describe experiences they interpret as signs or symbols.
A bird appearing at an unexpected moment.
A favorite song playing just when it is needed.
A vivid dream.
A meaningful coincidence that seems almost impossible to ignore.
Research does not claim to prove where these experiences come from, nor does it dismiss them.
What research does tell us is that they are remarkably common and, for many people, they provide genuine comfort, strengthen resilience, and support an ongoing sense of connection with the person who has died.
Perhaps the question isn’t whether signs are objectively real.
Perhaps the more important question is this:
Does this experience help the grieving person feel connected, comforted, and able to take one more breath?
If it does, then it has served an important purpose in the healing process.
As grief professionals—and as caring human beings—we don’t have to explain away every meaningful experience.
Nor do we need to define it for someone else.
Sometimes our greatest gift is simply to witness the story with compassion and curiosity.
Whether we call them signs, symbols, meaningful coincidences, or continuing bonds, what matters most is not proving them.
What matters is the comfort, connection, and hope they bring to a grieving heart.
As I floated quietly beneath that wide summer sky, watching the eagles disappear into the distance, my thoughts returned to this grieving family.
I silently prayed.
Not that their pain would somehow disappear, or that answers would suddenly erase their heartbreak.
But that somewhere amid these impossible days…
they might discover one small slice of peace.
One deep breath.
One quiet sunrise.
One unexpected smile.
One warm embrace.
One reminder that love has not ended simply because life has changed.
Over the years, I have learned something from both research and from the thousands of grieving people who have entrusted me with their stories.
Grief and peace are not opposites.
They can exist together.
One does not erase the other.
Sometimes peace quietly flows alongside heartbreak, patiently waiting to be noticed.
Perhaps that is one of grief’s greatest lessons.
Not that life becomes what it once was, but that even after unimaginable loss, our hearts can still recognize beauty.
Still notice hope.
Still experience moments of profound peace.
Perhaps today you’ll discover your own small slice of peace.
It may arrive in the flight of a bird.
The whisper of trees.
A favorite song.
A cherished memory.
Or simply in remembering someone you love with more gratitude than tears.
Whatever form it takes, don’t rush past it.
Those moments matter.
They remind us that while death changes a relationship, it does not erase love.
Love continues.
Sometimes quietly.
Sometimes unexpectedly.
Always leaving its imprint on our hearts.
I’d love to hear your thoughts. Have you or someone you love, experienced a meaningful moment after the death of someone important? Whether you call it a sign, a symbol, a coincidence, or simply a cherished memory, how did it impact your grieving journey?