I’ve driven to church. Sat in the parking lot. Then turned around and went home. More than once.
I’ve been searching for faith. I still am.
Last weekend I rode to the ranch with a friend. He talked about his faith. I talked about my lack of it. He didn't push. I didn't pretend.
We pulled up to our Airbnb and across the street was a house with a wooden sign over the porch.
GRIMM.
My grandmother's maiden name.
Next to the door, the house number. 302.
The condo unit where she passed away in 2019. I was there, with my dad, my aunt, and others.
I don't know what to do with that house.
A skeptic would call it coincidence. A believer might call it something else.
I may be somewhere in between, standing on a sidewalk, taking a picture of a stranger's porch.
I don't need to settle whether it was a sign. Something real happened anyway.
I stopped. I thought about her and my grandfather. I felt less alone on a Saturday morning in a strange town.
The signs were never missing. We were.