If there is one truth Tatum’s life has tattooed into my heart, it is this: God’s presence is not always loud, but it is always near. Sometimes His comfort is wrapped in what seems like a coincidence… until I quiet my heart and listen to His whisper, gently showing me it was Him all along. I saw many small victories during her life, evidence that He was always near and that His favor was undeniably on her.
Our world was violently shaken when she left, and while sitting in the ashes, I don’t understand why God, who was visibly with us every step during her life and all the progress she made, was now holding my grandbaby in His arms.
But I’m learning that when our world breaks, God doesn’t just meet us in the big miracles… but in daily victories that will pass by unless I intentionally grab them. The ones that slip in as gentle reminders: I see you. You are not alone.
The first example of God’s whispering presence came from a man who approached me while I was volunteering as a Salvation Army bell ringer. I had volunteered for this weeks before all of this happened, and my shift was an early Saturday morning. I really didn’t want to go, and I was confident that if I called and told them I wasn’t coming, my loss would have been an acceptable reason not to go. But I thought about Tatum’s life and how, in the midst of her days, she may not have felt like fighting; she did, and while doing so, she brought us such love and joy. So I decided to follow the motto she lived by, “big and strong,” and went to fulfill my commitment.
The man didn’t know my story. He didn’t know my grief; he didn’t know me. But he pressed a little marble cross into my hand and simply said, “God sees you.” It was not human-orchestrated, and I don’t believe it was a coincidence. It was a wink from God letting me know He was right there with me. And although I felt sad, I chose to give God’s love, and He saw me.
The next day, at a gathering, a man shared that they had also lost a child, and that during their time of grief, someone gave them wind chimes as a gift. He said each time it blows in the wind, the beautiful sound is a whisper that even when our loved one is no longer in our arms, they are never far from our hearts. He shared that he sent one to my daughter with words of encouragement.
And while still basking in the warm presence of God in the windchime story, an out-of-town friend that I had not talked to in a couple of years shared her story. That she, too, had lost her firstborn child, and this year felt able to put up a dedication Christmas tree in honor of her child. She sent me a picture of a beautiful little girl and told me it was time for her test, to become a testimony, to honor her daughter’s life.
While talking to my daughter, she shared with me that a message from a speaker sent to us before our loss had encouraged her. My daughter had not listened to it previously, but the person who sent it reminded us of it, and now we know the timing of that message was yet another wink from God, preparing us for our loss. The speaker shared from her own experience of child loss, and declared to us to keep living in a way that honors the life whose time on earth was brief yet deeply powerful. Her words reminded me that Tatums’s purpose now becomes part of mine: to share our stories and become a quiet echo of God’s presence for others.
Their stories, shared with us during this time, are soft reminders… that love never leaves us. Threads of connection and whispers of God saying, I understand your pain, and I will send people who understand it too.
In addition to the stories God has sent, there are blessings that arrive with accuracy of timing; I know they were arranged in heaven first.
Like the meal train donation arriving three weeks later, and the day after our family had discussed a desire that my daughter and son-in-love would need during the holidays to bring some comfort as they walk out this first Christmas. God provided His blessing when we needed it.
He whispers His love to me by the friend who drove an hour to help me rearrange my home. Helping me create new patterns, new rhythms, new hope in the spaces where the sad thoughts sat heavy. Sometimes God sends His presence in the form of someone who shows up with open hands and a willing heart.
At the Chamber monthly coffee, a dear man intentionally got up from his table during networking time to come and give me a fatherly hug and pray for me. Right there. Right in the middle of the conversation and business cards. God stepped into the ordinary and once again, in His loving, gentle way, reminded me, “I am with you.”
And there are no words to describe the love of a nurse, who is now family, who has become an IV filled with love, for my daughter. A constant, steady reminder that God surrounds us with people who choose to walk beside us long after their “shift” ends. Love like that is not accidental and was birthed because of Tatum Sky.
Or take the moment when my oldest daughter told me she had chosen “All Is Calm” as the theme for a newsletter she was helping me with, only to discover later that the magazine we give our clients was themed “All Is Calm, All Is Bright.” It felt like one of those soft whispers from God. She was excited about the confirmation of her theme choice and realized He had spoken to her heart, and that she was hearing Him clearly.
When she told me, my heart was happy. What parent doesn’t pray for their children to recognize God’s voice and walk closely with Him, especially when they are adults and have left home, but the truth is, this season has sharpened my hearing, too. I’ve been more fervent in praying, listening, and leaning on God during this season, and as a result, I hear the whispers amid the noise of an active day.
It’s another beautiful reminder that even in the hardest seasons, God has a way of turning sorrow into something purposeful and good.
But perhaps one of the most unexpected God-winks so far came from a box of ornaments I had ordered in July. Long before we knew our world would change. I bought Christmas 2025 ornaments for my daughters and granddaughters, a part of our Christmas tradition since my daughters were babies. I thought I had ordered three of the same style ornaments, and the two for my other beautiful granddaughters were cute, but when I opened the third one, it was glass, with a gold-sparkled frame, far more elegant than the other two. I would never choose something so lavish for one of them and not the others. I looked at the receipt and saw I had ordered the same ornament for Tatum, but somehow it ended up in my box; it chose us before we knew why.
Why didn’t I open the box in July? I don’t know. When I finally opened it, months later, after it had arrived and a couple of weeks after losing our sweet Tatum, I was stunned. It wasn’t just beautiful. It lit up around her picture, one of the few where we captured a sweet smile. And it didn’t just say “Christmas 2025” like the others, across its glowing surface were the words: “Glory to God.”
In that moment, I knew—this ornament was not an accident. I don’t know how, but it was a tender wink from God… a reminder that He knew our angel baby would be back in His arms, wrapped in His glory, long before we did.
What I thought was my typical Christmas-in-July 50% off purchase became a December whisper of comfort.
In these past weeks, I’ve heard stories from others losing children, testimonies of surviving the unthinkable. Stories they shared because they saw the ache in my eyes and recognized it in their own. Their words were soaked in pain, yet overflowing with compassion. Testimonies that remind me that grief is not meant to isolate us but to connect us. More deeply to Him. More compassionately to others.
And in those connections, God quietly hugs us through people who have walked through the same fire and discovered that even in the ashes… hope still breathes.
These moments are unexpected, and I believe they are the heartbeat of Defiant Hope. They remind me that the presence of God is not something I run after; it’s something He whispers to me, if I have the eyes and ears to deliberately notice.
If I watch closely, He is everywhere:
In a stranger’s gift.
In a friend’s story.
In the timing of a blessing.
In a glowing ornament chosen months before the storm.
In a heartfelt prayer.
In the love of someone who chooses to stay.
In the shared testimonies of broken hearts that keep beating.
And maybe that is what it means to touch the sky again after loss, not just to rise above the pain, but to recognize the holy ground beneath us… the place where God meets us, whispers to us, and gently lifts us towards defiant hope.
Touch The Sky 