EC Stilson's

Another Godwink

2026-06-16T01:41:49.995-04:00

How a Newspaper Clipping Brought Peace Despite Loss

By EC Stilson

In moments of profound loss, some people look for signs—just a hint of hope that makes us feel like our loved ones are at peace. Recently, my youngest daughter, Indy, and I witnessed something that seemed surreal.

The story centers around my dear friend Ralph who just passed away in his 90s. He’s been a close friend and a sort of father figure to me for nearly a decade. Anyway, I felt stunned to hear when doctors gave Ralph a grim prognosis: three to five days left to live.

Defying the odds, Ralph outlived that timeline by almost doubling it. During those final days, my husband and our children rallied around his bedside, holding his hand, reading books aloud, even playing my violin—simply hoping to bring Ralph some peace.

One of the last days when he was still alive, Lana came to visit. Ralph dearly loved her, and I’ve grown to care about her, too, after meeting her a couple of years ago. But when she sat by Ralph’s hospice bed recently, I had no idea that a massive "Godwink"—a moment of divine coincidence—would happen.

This story actually starts in 2019—about six years before I met Lana. She had a habit of clipping articles out of the newspaper and using them as bookmarks. I guess she’d borrowed a book from Ralph’s library that year, and needing to keep her place, she cut out a newspaper article and slipped it between the book’s pages.

Fast forward to recently, with Ralph nearing the end of his life. Lana decided to return the book she’d had since 2019. But before placing it back on his bookshelf, she wanted to see which article had been shut inside. That's when she discovered something that left her completely stunned.

The newspaper clipping she’d used as a bookmark was an article titled "A Dream of Eternity," by EC Stilson (me!). Published on Friday, February 1, 2019 (Indy’s birthday!). What’s astounding is that when Lana cut out that specific column, she hadn't even met me!

Indy and I gaped, watching all of this unfold.

“You must've been having a really hard time when you wrote it,” Lana said, “but then again, it must've touched me because I saved it.”

Several things struck me about that particular article, like it being published on Indy‘s birthday. But the most emotional revelation came when Ralph’s son read the article later.

The piece detailed a heartbreaking, personal loss of mine: the passing of my infant son, Zeke Jackson Morris, who lived from November 18, 2002, to January 30, 2003. In the article, I’d written about the agonizing grief of wanting to know where he was, and if he felt happy and safe in the afterlife. I shared a vivid dream where I walked along a beach at sunset with a tall, healthy man who ultimately revealed his identity: He was Zeke, grown up and okay.

Ralph’s son relayed how much he'd needed to read my story of comfort, heaven, and eternity. I could hardly believe that something I'd experienced and written could've possibly brought him solace and peace as he prepared to say goodbye to his father.

Looking at the clipping, I felt moved to tears myself because although life can often seem like too much, it’s also filled with incredible blessings. I mean, what are the odds that Lana would clip something out of the newspaper that I’d written, long before she ever knew me. Then for it to be published on my daughter's birthday, brought to Ralph’s son at the exact moment he needed to feel peace about the afterlife?

In the face of impending loss, this old piece of paper transformed from a simple bookmark into a beautiful reminder for Ralph's family—and mine—that love, comfort, and connection can truly endure across eternity.

We Became Family

2026-05-25T22:35:03.299-04:00

They say that when someone is dying, the world can shrink down to a single room. For the past week and a half, I’ve felt the truth in those words because a certain room—the living room at Ralph’s house—has felt like my entire world.

It’s an odd feeling, when the vastness of life simplifies to four walls and a hospice bed. Even though I currently have my own physical limitations, still recovering from a major spinal surgery, nothing on earth could’ve prevented me from visiting my dear friend, Ralph, while he’s experiencing such tough times.

Ralph is in his 90s and is easily one of the most brilliant, deeply philosophical people I’ve ever had the privilege of knowing. In his prime, he worked as a court reporter, but in his free time, when he wasn’t enjoying his time as a father and husband, he loved fishing and discussing the complexities of the universe.

Now, that’s changed. He can only say a few words, existing mostly in profound silence. And sitting beside him through this struggle, I find myself traveling backward through memories.

I think about the Father’s Days he spent with us, sitting in the best chair, laughing at our terrible jokes. I remember the undeniable warmth he brought to our Thanksgiving table year after year. We never shared a last name or a drop of DNA, but somewhere along the way, the years seamlessly transformed Ralph into an irreplaceable part of our family.

As I sit near his hospital bed, I think back to the sunny afternoon he took my two youngest kids to a soccer field to teach them the art of fly-fishing. He patiently demonstrated how to flick their wrists, sending fishing lines and barbed hooks slicing over the emerald grass. Another time, my son—at eleven years old—confidently tried to read Ralph’s future, predicting that he’d abandon all intellectual pursuits and get a job playing Mickey Mouse at Disneyland. At first, a quizzical look slid onto Ralph’s face before he roared with laughter.

Those memories are pure gold, but I’ve realized that even the present—despite these trying circumstances—is priceless because Ralph somehow manages to make everything brighter for the people around him.

The other afternoon, while Ralph napped in his hospital bed, the neighbors’ dog darted into the house, jumped on Ralph’s legs, and cuddled up to him. This dog is a character, and even though he only has one eye, he sees a lot better than most people do. He doesn’t actually belong to Ralph—but no one has the heart to tell the dog that. And, like a self-appointed guardian, Snuffy loves Ralph more than anyone on earth. So, I smiled at the dog and didn’t move him or put him outside. Instead, I remained sitting in the chair beside them, gently holding Ralph’s frail hand, and wishing Snuffy could comfort him.

Ralph’s son asked if he could take a quick trip to the store, and I said, “Absolutely. Take your time.”

The air felt so still after Ralph’s son left, and before I knew it, a heavy wave of exhaustion washed over me….

I had the strangest dreams then, about trying to save Ralph, hoping to find the fountain of youth. Snuffy was there too, wanting to help. But no matter how much closer we moved toward Ralph, the farther away he seemed to be.

When I finally woke up, the afternoon light had shifted, casting long shadows across the floor. Ralph had woken up, too, and he looked over at me with an expression of such profound kindness and unconditional love that I blinked, wondering if this was another dream.

“Ralph?” I said, smiling at him and then Snuffy.

He nodded and I couldn’t help but laugh. “Wow, I’m just like this dog,” I said. “You can’t seem to get rid of either one of us!”

He laughed, a genuine, wheezing sound that crinkled the corners of his eyes and lit up his face with a brilliant smile. But after a moment, the smile faded into a look of intense concentration. He desperately wanted to say something. His lips moved, his brow furrowed, but the words simply wouldn't come. For a man who spent his entire life mastering language and philosophy, I knew this sudden change must be beyond devastating.

Seeing his struggle, I gently squeezed the hand that I still held. “You don’t need to say a word, Ralph. I’m just happy being here with you.”

The tension and frustration drained from his face only to be replaced by a deep, heavy peace that seemed as tangible as the air we breathed. Ralph and I turned our heads and gazed out the window together, watching the leaves rustle in the afternoon breeze. Two squirrels ran by, and a few birds swooped into view, chirping and eating the seeds in a bird feeder.

When I looked back at my friend, he seemed so…happy. I realized that we didn't need words. In that simple room, love was the only language required. After all these years, we’d somehow become family.

The Weight of a Feather: Finding Light in the Trenches

2026-05-06T14:23:00.004-04:00

Life has a strange way of shifting gears without warning. One minute, you could be deep in the trenches, fighting health battles or navigating the heavy stress of family issues and future concerns. Then, the next second, a sudden "bright spot" might break through the clouds, changing the entire landscape.

This week, I found myself bracing for the storm. I’ve been dealing with a new tumor in my spine, and the physical pain has compounded with the news that my surgery date has moved up. Looming over everything I felt desperate to keep a tandem event where my youngest daughter would be featured by her art and I’d get to sign books next to her.

We’ve been looking forward to this for months, but with the increased pain and the looming surgery, I didn’t know if I could pull it off. So, I waited a few days before the event to make a decision. Then, the unexpected happened: I started feeling a lot better!

It seemed like a miracle as I helped Indy set up, and we watched for the event to begin. She hugged me so tightly, “Thank you for doing this with me,” she said. “I just know we’ll never forget it.”

That evening, I watched Indy as she showcased items she’s worked on for months—crocheted scarves, hats, and phone holders. She looked radiant, chatting with friends from school and people who’d heard about her upcoming journey to Italy this August.

When my own booth grew quiet, I’d sneak over to catch a glimpse of Indy. Seeing her thrive, watching her navigate any “obstacle” with grace, has been a gift I didn't know I needed. In the past, I’ve had to cancel numerous engagements because of poor health or hospitalizations. So, being present for Indy’s showcase felt like a hard-won victory.

But the universe had one more surprise waiting. A woman named Ann and her friend, Carol, walked up to my booth. Ann is one of those people who’s unforgettable—shining, exuberant, and full of a life force that felt contagious. Carol seemed trustworthy and kind, the type of friend everyone hopes for but rarely find.

As we talked, Ann said she’s been reading my columns for a while and she brought something to give me. My breath caught as she handed me a “Blessing Feather” because Ann had no idea about the new tumor in my spine. She had no way of knowing about the looming surgery or how scared I’ve been this time around. Usually, I handle surgeries with a bit of stoicism, trying to be tough for my family, but this time….I’ve really been struggling. And just when I needed a miracle, Ann and Carol came my way.

Ann gave me a piece of paper explaining the significance of the gift. It said that in many Native American traditions, birds are believed to be messengers for the Creator, embodying a spirit that is sacred. While the birds vary by tribe, a feather is often given to those fighting illness or cancer as a symbol of spiritual protection, strength, and valor. The note read: “Use this wisely and often for strength, protection, and guidance.”

At the time of writing this, the surgery is tomorrow, and as I look at that beautiful feather, the fear hasn't entirely vanished, but it has changed. I no longer feel like I’m heading into surgery alone. I feel acknowledged, seen by a stranger who became a friend at exactly the right moment.

Life is often a series of grueling battles, but it is also filled with miracles. Not only did I get to witness my daughter shine as an artist, but I remembered that even when we’re fighting hardships, there is still good to be found. I feel so fortunate to still be here, experiencing whatever life has to offer.