My mother was my person. She was a joy keeper, a vibrant cheerleader, and a woman of unshakeable faith. I witnessed her rise again and again through multiple cancer battles with acceptance, grace, and radiant love. She taught me the importance of having a positive mindset and she sang about the optimistic three little birds in Bob Marley’s song (“don′t worry about a thing, 'cause every little thing gonna be alright”). This joy training gave me the resilience I needed throughout my life.

              

While my father was the person who taught me my love of nature, it was my mother who fostered my imagination and longing for magical whimsy. Together, these passions created a person who sees the sacred and the divine in all things on this fertile earth. I am on constant lookout for creative nature speak, and can find spiritual meaning in anything from a dew drop to a mountaintop. The fairies and the birds know this well about me.

              

So when my precious mother was clearly at the end of her miraculous journey, we decided to develop our own form of communication for after she crossed the threshold of divinity and could go Home. I would miss her greatly, and we both knew it would bring me immense comfort to receive gifts from her.

              

We giggled and clapped our hands at some of our ideas, but the serious ones struck a chord that resonated through our souls. The very first sign we agreed upon was birds on a wire. Mama loved it when the little morning birds, still with their fuzzy “bed feathers,” would perch in a row with their tiny cups of coffee along the power line to sing about the newness of the day. We agreed that if I saw this scene, it would mean she was thinking of me.

              

On her funeral day, I surfed the waves of grief and joy as I had done many times before. I clearly inherited her ability to adapt and flow in hard times. My childhood church was humming with heartaches, memories, and the echo of her warm laughter. With the help of so many who loved her, I made decisions about where to place all the flowers and memorabilia, assuring it was perfect, just how she would want it.

 

I do not remember the weather that day. It could have been raining, sunny, cold, or warm, and I wouldn’t have known or cared. The entire ceremony was inside the colorful church where many loved her, where she sang, like a bird, about her heartfelt amazement of God’s beautiful creation. The sanctuary was ready to go, everything in its place. Then out of the corner of my eye, I noticed something out of place. A brown basket, which would be used to hold the memory cards, was newly purchased and needed the tag removed.

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But there was more than just a tag. Eyes wide, I laughed in disbelief. There it was: a small fuzzy angelic feather, surely from a morning bird, gifted to me, at my mother’s funeral. A feather found me- inside the church. My family celebrated the feather gift with me, and we all knew she was there, perched high on her holy wire, singing “every little thing gonna be alright.”

 

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