Our family recently experienced a gentle sort of heartbreak: our beloved dog, Abbey—who had been joyously wagging her tail and chasing after her favorite balls for fourteen wonderful years—peacefully passed away last month. She’d grown older, but the bond she shared with my daughter Meredith, then four years old, remained as vibrant as ever.
The morning after Abbey left this world, Meredith awoke with a sorrow that was palpable—even in her small frame. Tears pooled in her eyes, and through hiccuped breaths of grief, she whispered, “I miss her, Mommy. Can we send Abbey a letter so she can be with God and He’ll know it’s her?” The innocence—and the tenderness—of that request stopped me cold.
We gathered stationery, took a photograph of Abbey and Meredith snuggled together, and Meredith dictated every word with solemn care. Her tiny hand signed it, “Love, Meredith.” Once she’d meticulously pasted several shiny stamps across the envelope—declaring, “It needs lots of stamps to reach heaven!”—she gently dropped it into the mailbox.
Days crept by while the world around us hummed with everyday noise—but our home felt quieter, softer, as if waiting. Then one afternoon, a package arrived. Wrapped in golden paper, labeled “To Meredith,” it sat on our doorstep like a secret.
Inside, Meredith carefully unfolded a book titled When a Pet Dies by Mr. Rogers. She flipped the cover and found the letter she had written—sealed inside the same envelope, now opened. Across from it hung the photo of Abbey and herself, a still-cherished moment captured in time.
And there, in handwriting both comforting and inexplicably divine, was a note addressed to Meredith:
“Dear Meredith, Abbey arrived safely in heaven. Your picture helped me know exactly who she is. She’s not sick anymore; her spirit is free and right there with you in your heart. Abbey loved being your dog. We don’t need pockets in heaven, so I’m sending your picture back in this book—for you to treasure. Thank you for that beautiful letter, and thank your mother for helping you send it. You are a lucky girl—so loved. I send my blessings every day. Love is always where I am, and I am wherever there is love. Love, God.”
Meredith’s blue eyes widened, and though her words trembled, she managed to say, “I think God really read my letter.”
Sometimes, moments like this aren’t about faith or proof—they’re about wonder. About how, in our most tender times, kindness drifts in like a whisper and reminds us that love doesn’t end: it evolves. When we allow our hearts to remain open, miracles—big or small—find a way to return.
And so, in a world swamped with noise, this simple, heartfelt exchange between a child, her dog, and immeasurable love stands as a modest but powerful testament:
“The first thing in life is to be kind. The second thing is to be kind. And the third thing? Still, to be kind.”