Miracles that Stick, Paddling, God is Not Outdone

During today’s homily, our pastor spoke about the miracles—small and big—that we see in our lives. The Gospel story from John we reflected on today was the miracle of the loaves and fishes, which took place by the Sea.

As usual, I had my mass journal open, scratching notes about the homily and whatever came into my heart during that time. I started writing and thinking about all of the miracles we saw during Jon’s diagnosis and since he left this world for eternal life.

I wrote: “What miracles have you seen? The simple miracle—all the ways grace, peace, hope, and joy came about during the harder days of diagnosis when Jon was still stuck with us facing brain cancer and then now as he is gone, but definitely still among us. The Lord provides even when things are hard. When we offer our gifts, He is never outdone in generosity….”

It’s the 28th, and I prayed Jon would send us a love note to let us know he is sticking around us. Perhaps we’d see a Blue Heron. Read here and here about Blue Herons.

Fitting I came across these Gospel readings today from Matthew: “Ask and it will be given to you; seek and you will find; knock and the door will be opened to you…Your Father knows what you need before you ask him. Blessed are the Merciful,”

“Ask and it will be given to you…Your Father knows what you need
before you ask”

Gospel of Matthew

God is not outdone in generosity.

Ask and we shall receive, Trust because God is not outdone in generosity, He always knows what we need.

Here’s a story for you. Maybe it’s a simple little miracle, a sign that sticks from above.

The kids and I always try to do something (in a small or big way) to honor our beloved Jon on the 28th day. He was taken from us in this life and born into eternal life. It is hard to celebrate, but it is undoubtedly worth holding space to remember. We do this every day in some way, but our busy lives make it nearly impossible to do big things every day.

Last year, on the 28th, we trekked to a beach, where Jon and I spent many weekends in our early summers together. The summer before, in 2022, was the last time we got Jon’s feet in the sand and ocean. That was a miracle in itself. So being at the beach is always bittersweet.

It was a great memory being by the sea with him. Each summer since 2020, we held our breath, wondering when it would be our last. We were given three incredible summers after diagnosis, despite the diagnosis and stroke.

Knowing he isn’t with us in our favorite places sometimes stirs an indescribable ache. The kids and I find ourselves returning to and facing those familiar places (where we have made special memories as a family with Jon) rather than avoiding them. While we know we will sometimes face sadness/sorrow, we find comfort in returning to where we have been together. I’m learning that it brings us undeniable comfort, even in our moments of grief, to be where we lived some adventures and made treasured memories together as a family.

Just as we visited another favorite beach in South Carolina earlier this summer for the same reason, it brings comfort to face these moments and memories—both beautiful and painful—together.

CS Lewis said, “The pain now is part of the happiness then. That’s the deal.”

The pain now is part of the happiness then. That’s the deal.”

CS Lewis

Our schedule didn’t allow for us to roll down to the beach today, July 28—15 months too long—but we did load up our car to get on the water more locally.

As we unloaded the cars with our kayaks, paddle boards, chairs, and sandwiches for a dip and paddle in the creek, one of my kids noticed a shipping sticker stuck to their leg.

It was addressed to their dad and dated Sunday, 7/7, with no mention of the year.

It seemed like Jon was “sticking” around in a special way. We all cherished this little connection to Jon as we continued unloading.

Naturally, we thought this was a cleverly unexpected love note from above, reminding us that Jon was with us at another treasured body of water.

We searched the internet to see in which years July 7 fell on a Sunday. It turns out July 7 was a Sunday this year, 2024, and also fell on a Sunday in 2019.

We are confident that Jon didn’t have anything shipped to him this year or in recent years. Although he used to receive frequent deliveries for work, this sticker seemed familiar but clearly wasn’t recent.

So, I did what I often do—I searched through my photo memories to see what was happening on July 7, 2019.

And there it was…a profound connection from our past to the present which felt like a nod from above.

In the memories from Sunday, July 7, 2019, I found many photos of us on the water with our kayaks and paddle boards at the very spot we gathered for an adventure today.

I remembered why we took our paddle boards and kayak out that day in 2019. We needed to face a fear head-on. A few weeks before, we had a harrowing experience in the Gulf of Mexico off Marco Island. While exploring tiny “islands” for shells, we were caught in a rip current. I fell out of my kayak, and Jon ended up in the water without his life jacket. We had to be rescued—it was a whole ordeal, which I share more about here.

It was a frightening experience, but we emerged safely by the grace of God (and our Blessed Mother, Mary…read more here).

Once back home, Jon and I decided it was crucial to get back out on the water in our kayaks and paddle boards as soon as possible. We chose to return to a more manageable body of water—not the turbulent ocean, but calm water—to overcome any fears and reclaim our love for being on the water. It became a significant moment of bravery and resilience.

Ironically, I just shared these photos with the kids just last week while searching for something else.

Today, we trekked out to our favorite local body of water for the first time this summer to get our paddles and vessels in the water. Each time we return to these places, I am reminded it takes courage and resilience to keep going, to keep paddling, to keep living despite our grave loss.

Mind you, we took these boards and the kayak out last summer.

Ian and a friend took them out on the water in the summer of 2022.

I share this to explain that it’s nearly impossible to believe this sticker stuck on these vessels after being in the water. None of us know where this sticker came from.

But alas…One of the kids got out of the car in the unloading zone with that sticker, a love note from their dad on the 28th of the month, at a place where we held space as we paddled on and embraced the days as he would want.

Most days, it takes a lot to dig deep and keep paddling; sometimes, like today, while our hearts can be heavy, we still find peace and comfort by simply being stuck with a memory that reminds us we were once here together. While we’d prefer for Jon to paddle out to the other side with us. I know these winks from above help connect us to the memory of what was and will be someday again.

Fifteen Months too long.

One day closer, my love.

Keep sticking with us, Jon.

Keep sending us clever little love notes from above.

Author’s Note: I wrote this reflection on my phone while waiting my turn to get out on the water. This evening, as I sat on my deck editing and refining it (knowing it might still need some tweaking, but feeling called to share this sweet story as it is), a large, beautiful Blue Heron sailed above me, just skimming the roof of our house. It felt like a love note from Jon—a sign for me and a special message for one of his kiddos who needed an extra bit of love today because they were feeling a bit down.

Keep sending us love notes, Jon. I can’t tell you how much we miss you. I wish you were here with us more than words can express. I’m grateful that we continue to face each day and our fears as we paddle through life, just as we always did.

This morning, I asked for a love note from above. Not only did we find a shipping label addressed to Jon, but I also saw that rare Blue Heron sail right above me in our backyard.

God is never outdone in generosity.

Real grief is not healed by time…if time does anything, it deepens our grief. The longer we live, the more fully we become aware of who*he was for us.”

Henri Nouwen.