A Few of My Stories....

It was June of 2019, and I was in that half-asleep, early morning space where dreams blur into knowing. And then, clear as a bell, I heard: “Move back home to Utah. NOW.” The thing is - I had left Utah when I was about twenty, and I had spent years telling anyone who’d listen that I’d never move back. Ever!  I had very specific reasons, and I stood by them.

Since my divorce in 2015, my kids and I had spent nearly every summer trying to plan a move somewhere—anywhere—warmer, easier, different. We hated Michigan’s brutal winters and sticky summers. But every year, we never quite had the money. So we’d plan, postpone, and do it all again the following summer.

But this was different!!! That morning I was driving to work with my oldest daughter, who still lived with me. She had gone to college in Utah and had asked me for years to move back there. My answer was always the same: “That’s never going to happen! Ever!” So when I turned to her and said, “I think we’re supposed to move to Utah,” she just stared at me like I had lost my mind. “Mom, I can’t. I just started a great job. And you’ve said for years—years!—that you’d never move back.”

I told her plainly, “All I know is that I was told to go. You’re 21—you can stay if you want. But I’m moving to Utah.” She blinked. “Well, I at least have a year. I’ll get another year at this job on my resume, and Bree can graduate. We can save, and plan for Utah"

I shook my head and simply said, “No. We’re supposed to go now.” Her very logical response was, “But we have no money.  There's just no way we can go now, This would just be reckless!"  and I told her again... "All I know is that we’re supposed to go now.”

Later that day, I found out my job was ending in two weeks. That was definitely confirmation for me. But… still—how? We had zero savings. I needed a new car. I needed a hysterectomy. It made no sense. And then everything started lining up.

We found out Utah schools started three weeks earlier than Michigan’s - Bree had to be there by August 13th. Which meant we had less than 2 weeks to pack, drive cross-country, register her, and get me back to Michigan to finish packing the house. October 1st became our move deadline. Bree would start school while we prepped the move. We were making it happen - with absolutely no idea how.

Then, seemingly out of the blue, money started dropping out of the sky—over $20,000. One chunk at a time, right when we needed it. They were old tax returns from years I hadn’t filed, after my ex had garnished mine to cover his debts. I had stopped filing and assumed I owed. But this year, I filed everything—all the past years—and the IRS had been holding onto them to verify things, since I hadn’t filed in so long. I had completely forgotten about them, but suddenly, refund after refund rolled in—each one perfectly timed with exactly the amount we needed.

In the end:
✔️ Bree made it to school on time.
✔️ I got my used 2017 Ford Edge.
✔️ I got the surgery I desperately needed.
✔️ And six weeks post-op, I drove a 26-foot U-Haul—with a car trailer attached—across the country.

We arrived in Utah on October 5th. Landed in a townhome with no jobs yet, but we were here. And the twist? The REASON we needed to move "Now"? The pandemic hit less than six months later. I got a job 3 weeks before it started - and was laid off just three weeks in. Which allowed me to file through Utah and explained why I hesistated to file in Michigan after losing my job there... Because Utah’s unemployment support was significantly better than Michigan’s. I would have received $500 less per week if I had stayed in Michigan. Many friends back there struggled to get benefits at all. If we hadn’t moved when we did… we would’ve been in real trouble.  

I didn’t know the “how.” I just knew the yes. Now we’re all here. Settled. Happy. Grateful. And we all say the same thing: We’re never leaving Utah again.

My husband had been saying it for over a year: “I want a dog.” But he didn't want just any dog - he wanted a German Shepherd. He’d had one back in Venezuela, and she passed just before he moved to the States. He missed her deeply and longed for that companionship again.

Meanwhile, I was firmly on Team Absolutely Not. I’d raised four kids completely on my own, with no help, no breaks, and a loyal dog that I raised from puppyhood to age 15. He was family. His passing broke something in me. I swore to everyone I knew that I would never, ever, do that again. Raising a dog - like raising kids - is a full-time emotional commitment. And I was done.

But my grown kids had other ideas. They adored their own pets, saw how my husband lit up around them, and constantly teased: “We’re getting a dog for him! He deserves one!” He’d stop at every roadside “PUPPIES!” sign. My kids cheered him on. It was cute… but it wasn’t.

Eventually, I had to sit them down for a private “mom meeting.” Only one of them still lived with us, but I needed all three to hear this: “I’m serious. I cannot raise another dog. Please stop encouraging him. It’s not fair to me.” They nodded. Promised to back off. And they did. 

Then one day, in the middle of a completely unrelated emotional moment, I suddenly heard, “You should get a dog.” And the weirdest part? I… didn’t reject it. Something in my heart softened, and I felt open to it. I turned to my oldest daughter (the one living with us) and casually said, “What if we got a dog?” She immediately launched into a 20-minute monologue on why that was a terrible idea. And honestly, I got it. But I told her, “Something shifted. I don’t know how to explain it, but we might be getting a dog - just be open.”

About three days later, my youngest daughter called me at work. Panicked. “MOM, I need you to come get this puppy! I’m at work and a homeless woman just handed it to me - she said she couldn’t care for it. I can’t keep her here, she’s terrified and crying - can you please come NOW?!”

I was stunned. “Wait… what?!” I said. “MOM, Please! I can’t have a puppy at work!” she said.

So I dropped everything and made the 30-minute drive. She said my other daughter would pick up the puppy later and keep her overnight before taking her to a shelter. On my way there, I called that daughter and asked what her real plan was.  She said, “We’ll let her sleep over and take her to a good shelter in the morning.” I said, “No. If you’re not keeping her, then I will. She’s not going to a shelter.” 

When I arrived, I saw this tiny, terrified, 9-week-old German Shepherd puppy She was all bones and panic. Her ribs were sharp under her skin. Her gums were pale. She had only been eating grass and sticks. She was dehydrated, malnourished, and completely shut down. My heart broke open on the spot.

I took one look at her and knew, she was our dog. I snapped a picture and sent it to my husband with one question:  “Do you really want a dog? Should we keep her?”  He texted back instantly and only said, “Siiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii” ❤️
 

And that’s how we got Risa. She's such a smart and obedient dog , at such a young age, and perfect in every way. God knew I needed a good dog after raising 4 kids on my own. But the fact that I’d even considered getting a dog just days before - after years of saying I never would - is the real miracle here. But the way she came to us? This very expensive breed. Out of nowhere, just 3 days after opening my heart to a dog, the exact dog we wanted, literally handed over to us... Is way beyond coincidence!

Let’s just say… when the universe says, “You should get a dog,” you better just realize that you'd better get ready because they are sending one to you!

I was about nine months pregnant, asleep in bed, when I suddenly opened my eyes and heard a voice say, clear as day, “Go check all the windows in the house.” It was November in Michigan, freezing outside the covers, and at that point in pregnancy, just rolling over felt like a workout. So I tried to logic it away - had I watched something scary? Was it a bad dream? The answer was no, but the energetic pull to get up wouldn’t go away. 

Reluctantly, I got out of bed, went through the house, and checked every window, making sure each lock was set to the left. I climbed back into bed, exhausted—and the second my head hit the pillow, I heard, “Go check all the windows in the sunroom again.” Frustrated, I said out loud, “I did! Leave me alone.” Silence. Then again, same calm voice: “Go check all the windows in the sunroom again.” 

I sighed, woke my husband (who wasn't thrilled), and asked if the sunroom windows were hard to open - he grumbled, “I don’t know, go to sleep.” But I knew I couldn’t ignore it, so I got back up and went to the sunroom. All the windows looked locked, but when I pushed harder, five of them weren’t latched. They were down, locks turned, but not sealed. I slammed them shut one by one - waking up the whole house - and everyone started double-checking all the windows. Finally, everything was locked. I got back in bed, heard nothing more, and finally fell asleep. 

The next morning, about and inch or 2 of snow had fallen . My husband went outside to smoke, then came back in and told me to get my coat and come outside. I assumed he was mad about last night, but instead, he walked me to the driveway, right next to the sunroom, and pointed at the snow: a trail of footprints, and two clear ones directly in front of one of the windows. He held up the bottom of his boot and hovered it over the prints in the snow - They didn’t match. They were too small. We just looked at each other for a long moment, and he finally said, “Thank you for getting us up.” Because there was no other explanation.

When I was about five, my mom, two of my sisters, and I drove from Utah to Colorado to pick up my third sister from college for winter break. On the way back, we caravanned through the Rocky Mountains - my mom, my oldest sister, and I in a truck, following behind my other two sisters in a light blue Volkswagen Bug.

The fog was thick, so dense we could barely see the red tail lights of my sisters car in front of us. We were right behind her and so when she pulled her VW Bug onto the shoulder, we followed. With no cell phones back then, she ran to the truck, quickly told my mom we should get off at the next exit and stop for the night. She then ran back to her car. They pulled back onto the road, and we were just about to follow when I suddenly yelled, “Stop! Don’t go!”

My mom, who was driving and familiar with me  “knowing” things - listened. Seconds later, a red truck sped past us, far too fast for the black ice and thick fog of our surroundings. She looked at me and said, “He would’ve rammed right into us.”

I said quietly, “Go slow… there’s an accident ahead.” We crawled forward, but before long I shouted again: “Stop!” A red blur appeared ahead, and as my mom hit the brakes, we slid on the ice and much to our chagrin at the time, we veered off into the median and into a ditch. It was later that we realized how lucky we were to have been there.

What we learned afterward was that: as my sister drove slowly in the Bug, she saw a big blur on the side of the road and didn't know what it was or what it was doing. Scared, she hit the brakes and slid. Wedging the front of her car under the long bed of the semi truck that it turned out to be. That same red truck that had passed us going far too fast,  hit the left rear corner of the semi bed, spinning it sideways across the highway and shielding her car entirely.

Sixteen cars piled into that red truck behind us. Not one hit the semi or my sisters’ car.

Everyone in our family walked away without a scratch. However, sadly,  the man in the red truck didn’t survive.

I was about two or three, sitting on the floor with my toys, completely absorbed in my activity. Out of the blue, and without stopping what I was doing, I said, "Mom, when I was a boy, I didn’t have a mom."

She paused and gently asked, "Well… who did you live with then?"

Still focused on my toys, I answered, "My dad and my grandma." Like it was as normal as telling her about my day at preschool. Obviously, this left her a little curious. So she asked, "How come you didn’t have a mom?"

And I told her, "She died… when I was twelve years old."

It was a strange thing to hear from a three-year-old, and naturally, it left her with more questions. She asked, "What happened to her?" But I didn’t say anything else after that, and I apparently never brought it up again.

Still, my mom mentioned it from time to time - usually after something unexplainable had happened. Like when I’d say something I had no way of knowing. 

Years later, I sat across from a psychic I’d never met - no connection, no small talk, nothing she could’ve picked up on. And she told me the same story. Same boy. Same dad. Same grandma. Same mother who died when he was twelve. She couldn’t have known. And yet somehow… she did.