“Whether you turn to the right or to the left, your ears will hear a voice behind you, saying, ‘This is the way; walk in it.’” – Isaiah 30:21 (NIV)

Before we begin, a little note — especially for you if you’re not sure what you believe anymore.

Maybe you’re not a “religious person.” Maybe you used to be. Maybe you believe in nature, in energy, in the whisper of the universe more than anything with chapter and verse.
That’s okay. You’re welcome here.

This isn’t a sermon.

It’s a story about grief, and signs, and the way squirrels sometimes deliver sacred truth without even trying.
Because whether you believe in God, or love the rhythm of the earth, or are just hoping for a shred of peace in this season — this story still belongs to you.

Because the natural world? It has a way of teaching us. Creation doesn’t need permission to speak.
And sometimes, the smallest creatures remind us how to survive.

I didn’t want a burning bush.

I didn’t need an angel choir, or a prophetic dream, or the clouds parting with divine GPS coordinates for my next step.

I just wanted something.

Something to say, “Hey… I see you. You’re not invisible in this valley you’re slogging through.”

So I prayed. Out loud. In the car. Ugly voice and all. I told God I needed a sign — something to remind me I wasn’t completely forgotten in the fog of my grief.

I even gave Him a little room to work creatively.
“Anything, Lord. Just make it clear. Something unmistakable.”

Cue the squirrel.

Not five minutes later, I pulled into my driveway and saw it: this wild-eyed, twitchy-tailed squirrel perched on the porch rail like he owned the place. And I’m not talking about your run-of-the-mill nut-burying type. No, this one locked eyes with me like he had something important to say. Then—without a lick of shame—he launched straight at the bird feeder, flipped upside down, and ransacked the whole thing while dangling by one toe like a fuzzy little acrobat.

I stared at him, waiting for the heavens to open or for the squirrel to spell out a message in Morse code with sunflower seeds.
Nothing.

Just a twitch, a tail flick, and crumbs all over my welcome mat.

And I thought, Really, God? A squirrel? That’s the sign?

But here’s what I realized a few days later, somewhere between cleaning up seed husks and replaying that moment in my mind:

That squirrel? He was bold.
He was upside down.
He was surviving.

Not gracefully. Not quietly. Not in a way that made anyone clap.
But he was doing what he had to do, on my porch, in broad daylight, because survival mattered more than appearances.

And suddenly, I saw it.

Maybe the sign wasn’t the squirrel himself. Maybe the sign was the reminder that survival in grief looks like that, too.

Messy. Upside-down. Scrappy. A little nuts.

And absolutely worth it.

I had been looking for signs in the stained-glass moments — the calm ones, the clean ones, the moments that felt like church.

But grief signs don’t always come in stained glass.
Sometimes they come in fur and chaos.
Sometimes they look like squirrels stealing joy where they can get it.

And sometimes, that’s exactly what God (or nature, or healing itself) wants us to do, too.

To stop waiting for grief to look tidy.
To take what we need from the day and keep moving — even if we’re clinging by one toe and holding on for dear life.

I wanted reassurance that I wasn’t alone.
I got a porch performance by a squirrel that refused to give up.

And somehow, that was enough.

Because maybe what God was really saying was this:

“Whether you turn to the right or to the left, your ears will hear a voice behind you, saying, ‘This is the way; walk in it.’” – Isaiah 30:21

Even in the upside-down, even in the wild —
He speaks.
Creation speaks.
And healing speaks, too, if you’re listening.

Still watching for your own sign? Don’t be surprised if it has whiskers. Or doesn’t make sense at first. You might just find your reminder of hope, purpose, and yes — even God — in the middle of a mess.

Let it come.
Even if it’s a squirrel.