When my mom returned from a trip to Europe a few years after my father passed away, she told me about visiting the catacombs in Rome. Anchors are inscribed into the walls—a symbol of eternal life.
“We have this hope as an anchor for the soul, firm and secure” (Hebrews 6:19)
The anchor speaks to hope. She needed hope then. And when we received Zoey’s diagnosis we needed hope. We hoped we’d still hear her heartbeat at the next ultrasound, we hoped she’d get to take one breath, we hoped for one more day. We hoped she knew how much she was loved. And now we hope she’s somewhere more beautiful than we can imagine. And we hope we get to be with her again someday.
The rational, practical side of my brain can easily explain away the signs. But sometimes the irrational mom in me takes over and allows me to believe Zoey is sending us her love. It would be easy to say that the two purple balls that bounced into my fenced yard last year were just blown in randomly with the wind (but would it help if you knew that Zoey’s friend Hattie’s color is purple?) I know how playlists on the radio work… but isn’t it strange how our song comes on the radio just as I stop to take a picture of a double rainbow? And I know that weathered penny was probably sitting on a ledge until I bumped it, but isn’t it funny how it fell to my feet at the beach where I’d stopped to feel closer to Zoey before the race in her memory? Love isn’t always rational. And love can shine through in the most extraordinary ways.