The Sparrow

Time has a way of softening the edges of memory, and people rarely remember the same moments the same way. Add trauma to that, and memory gets even messier. There are large gaps in what I remember from that time, even now; but this moment stayed... even if it didn't happen exactly this way.

The last night I went to the hospital was Christmas Eve. I'd been there every day for a week, sitting beside Robert while machines did the work his body couldn't do anymore. That evening, my mom and I left the ICU and drove to my brother's house for the family Christmas Eve gathering. I needed a break. I needed to see my daughter. I needed to pretend, for a few hours, that the world wasn't ending.

Earlier that day, I had made the decision to turn off life support. The doctors told us there was no brain activity. His heart was still strong, so it could take days. Maybe longer. They recommended I not stay for the final hours. Bodies do things at the end that aren't easy to witness, they said. Better to remember him whole.

I wasn't expecting him to die on Christmas morning. I thought I had time. The plan was to spend Christmas Eve with family in Salem, then drive down to Eugene to stay with my sister so Emmy and I wouldn't be alone on Christmas Day. I was trying to give my five-year-old daughter some version of a normal holiday, even though nothing about any of this was normal.

After the family gathering, my mom, dad and I headed back to their house so I could pick up my car and make the drive to my sister's. It was late - maybe eleven o'clock. We were transferring things from the car, making several trips back and forth, leaving the front door open as we ferried leftover food and gifts into the house.

On one of those trips, a sparrow flew in through the open front door.

I thought it was odd immediately. Birds don't fly around at eleven o'clock at night. They're asleep, tucked away somewhere safe. But this one came right in, as if it had been waiting for the door to open.

It landed in the kitchen. First on the curtain rod above the window, then it flitted down into the sink. It didn't panic. It didn't bash itself against the glass trying to escape. It just sat there, calm, like it belonged.

My dad grabbed a kitchen towel, walked over, and gently gathered the bird up in his hands. It didn't fight him. It didn't struggle. He carried it back to the front door and let it go, and it flew off into the night.

I started crying immediately.

I said it out loud. "That was Robert. He's saying goodbye."

I don't know if my parents believed me. I don't know if they thought I was grasping at something, anything, to make the unbearable feel bearable. Maybe I was. I had just made the hardest decision of my life. I had chosen to let him go. The guilt sat heavy on my chest, and I needed something to tell me it was okay. That he was okay. That this wasn't abandonment.

The sparrow felt like that something.

I'm not a superstitious person. I don't look for signs in license plates or cloud shapes or songs on the radio. I don't generally believe God sends blatant, unmistakable messages in this day and age, like burning bushes or ladders to heaven. But that bird, in that moment, felt different. It felt intentional. And whether it was Robert's spirit or God's kindness or just a confused sparrow looking for warmth, it gave me what I needed. It gave me permission to let go.

Robert died the next morning. Christmas morning. Just hours after the sparrow flew away.

I don't expect everyone to believe what I believe about that bird. I don't need them to. But I do want to say this: if you're grieving and you see something that feels like a sign, you're not crazy. You're not foolish. You're not grasping at straws.

Maybe it's just coincidence. Maybe it's your brain trying to find meaning in chaos. But maybe it's not. Maybe it's exactly what you need in that moment to keep breathing.

After Robert died, I read stories of others who experienced 'signs'. A cardinal that showed up every morning at the same time. A song that played at the exact moment they needed to hear it. A scent that arrived out of nowhere. Pennies on the ground. Butterflies that landed and stayed. Dreams so vivid they woke up convinced their person had been there… I’ve had those.

Some believed those things were real messages. Some weren't sure. Some knew it was probably just their grief looking for comfort. But all of them said the same thing: it helped. It made them feel less alone. It gave them a moment of peace in the middle of unbearable pain.

That's what the sparrow did for me. It didn't bring Robert back. It didn't make the grief go away. It didn't erase the guilt of turning off life support or the horror of losing him on Christmas morning. But it gave me something to hold onto in the darkest moment of my life. It let me believe, just for a second, that he was still there. That he knew I loved him. That letting go was the right thing to do.

I know some signs are real. I do believe God orchestrates moments like that, that seem impossibly right. Maybe that sparrow was Robert or just a bird that happened to fly in at exactly the right time for me. Whatever it was, it mattered. It still matters. Twenty-three years later, I can close my eyes and see that bird sitting calmly in the sink, letting my dad gather it up without fear. I can feel the weight of that moment, the way it cracked something open in my chest and let a little bit of light in.

If you're looking for signs right now, let yourself look. If you find something that feels like a message, let yourself believe it. You don't have to defend it. You don't have to prove it. You don't have to convince anyone else.

Grief is heavy enough without carrying the weight of other people's skepticism. If a cardinal or a song or a dream or a sparrow gives you five minutes of comfort, take it. Hold it. Let it be what it is.

Maybe it's a sign. Maybe it's not. Either way, it's yours.

With grace for the mess,

~Stef