When I stop at the crash site, I don’t know what I’m looking for. I just know I have to stop. Plant my feet there. Stand in the grief there. Speak to God there.

Golden grass waves in the wind. Tire tracks: ambulances, firetrucks, tow trucks, I imagine them all. Imagine Anna leaving us. There.

I can’t spend the rest of my life driving by “there.” I know days will come on this highway–not every day– but more days than I’m prepared for, I will drive by “there” and weep for our family’s great loss.

Even though I know Anna is in heaven my imagination still places her there. Taking her last breath there. It’s the “there” I can’t get over.

So I stop. Driving home from seeing Anna’s parents, I park near the call box and look out across golden fields along the Interstate. Forty Mile Road behind me. The road home ahead of me. A thousand miles unfolding inside of me. Since Anna’s death, I’ve traveled a thousand miles of years and tears.

And I’m afraid.

Of what I’ll find there.

Oh God, help me. Why am I doing this? What am I looking for? Tell me Anna’s happy. Tell me she’s with you. I know she’s with you, but tell me again she’s with you. Show me she isn’t here. Give me a sign. I really need a sign here.

Every day since Anna died I’ve begged God for signs, and every day God has provided beauty that soothes my soul. Sunrises, sunsets, holes in the clouds with light pouring down. Anna’s young cousins, not my kids, her other cousins, ask me about Anna in heaven. “What does she look like in heaven?” they want to know.

“Anna is her truest, brightest, most beautiful self in heaven,” I tell them. “We are like caterpillars down here. Anna is now like a butterfly up there.”

There.

It’s the butterfly swooping in front of me as I walk the crash site that stops me in my tracks.

It lands right in front of me. Spreads its wings. Bright blue spots on its wings. Anna’s favorite color, blue. I stare at those bright blue spots with my words to the cousins coming back to me, Anna is like a butterfly in heaven. I take a step toward it and the butterfly rises and swirls around me. Traffic on the Interstate creates a whooshing sound. A breeze cools my face.

That butterfly is my sign. Not only does it swirl around me, it leads me back to my car. I follow it and the butterfly turns me around and takes me right to my vehicle. Go on with your life, is the message. Like I’m released. Like the butterfly has captured me and now is encouraging me to fly away. To go on doing what human beings do. Anna is her truest, brightest, most beautiful self up here, Jesus reassures me. Live, laugh, love while you’re down there.

When I arrive home, I hug each of our children. Full of gratitude, I make my family dinner.

Two days before Anna died, I’d begun a blog post titled: When Raising Kids is Hard. I never finished that post. Since losing Anna nothing in my ordinary life seems hard. Raising our kids feels like a gift.

Life feels like a gift.

I find myself stopping along the road to stare at something beautiful. Old barns. Pretty flowers. Mountains shimmering in the sunrise. Before, I never took the time to stop and stare at something beautiful.

I didn’t follow butterflies. Didn’t savor beauty. I was in a hurry. Getting life done.

I’m done with getting life done.

I want to savor something beautiful.