Sadly, 2019 and 2020 started similarly—sudden, unexpected loss.

On January 2, 2019, we lost Peter Magolda, my hilarious and brilliant grad school professor.

On January 1, 2020, we lost Grandma Mary, Steve’s bright, confident, and devoted Grandma.

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I’m not religious, but I am spiritual—less by choice and more by invitation

Since I can remember, my mom and I have talked about angels.

She always speaks warmly of her spiritual encounters, yet I’m still working to adopt her welcoming perspective.

As a high schooler, my mom and I spent a day antiquing. One of the stores was situated in an old barn. After checking out the first floor, we walked downstairs into a basement packed with larger items—old bed frames and tools. While descending into what was objectively an already spooky space, my mom whispers, “There’s a ghost down here.”

Now, we can all agree that there’s only one appropriate reaction: sprint back upstairs and leave her to fend for herself.

When competing with ghosts, my flight response always wins.

On more than one occasion, I confessed to my mom, “I’m afraid of them.” Collectively referring to all spiritual beings.

Throughout childhood, this was the sequence of events:

(1) My mom shared her positive spiritual experiences with me, describing moments when she interacted with loved ones who had passed.

(2) I silently pleaded with a higher power, “Please don’t send me an angel. I’m not ready.” Convincing myself: No angel wants to scare you. They won’t show up until you’re ready.

Today I’m less opposed. Mostly because my otherworldly interactions seem inevitable, and safe.

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I’ve lost three significant people in my life, in this order: my Great Aunt Louann, Peter Magolda, and Grandma Mary, and I’ve had an experience with each of them after death.

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After my Great Aunt Louann passed away, we received her piano, a Kimball Baby Grand.

I learned how to play piano on this Baby Grand, playing nearly every day from ages 7-18. While practicing after school one day, I suddenly felt the weight of another set of hands on top of my hands—like an instructor was showing me how to play, dictating which keys to press.

It was difficult to process both the music and the weight, but I didn’t need to focus on the music—I never missed a note.

It was a time-distorting experience. I think less than a minute passed, but I’m not sure. I am sure that it was one of my first experiences with the afterlife.

The physical feeling was so distinct. I can vividly recall the weight. I was simultaneously apprehensive and astonished.

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Many years after my Great Aunt passed, we lost Peter—January 2, 2019.

Five days later, my sister and I drove to Stillwater, MN to conduct a self-run retreat. We rented a loft and spent time reflecting, setting intentions, and developing goals. We also attended yoga at Studio One Yoga, a few blocks away.

Every yoga class ends with a pose called shavasana, or final relaxation. You lay flat on your back with your eyes closed for several minutes. The lights are often dimmed or shut off, and soft music plays.

I practice yoga frequently and am familiar with how my body reacts to shavasana; This was different.

As I lay with my eyes closed, a bright light, with a glowing trail, came rushing toward me. The light was so bright I was convinced the lights in the room had been turned on. Trying to channel my mom’s disposition, I kept my eyes closed, not to interrupt my experience.

I later confirmed the lights were never turned on.

The glowing light was calming; it moved gracefully. Similar to my experience playing piano, I felt an umistakable physical prescence.

This time though, I was less apprehensive, yet equally astonished.

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A year later, we lost Grandma Mary—January 1, 2020.

Strong-willed, money-smart, pickle-making, Mary.

I knew Grandma Mary for nearly five years. She appreciated cold Sangria at El Bandido’s and high-quality steak at Peter Luger. Her humor balanced her assertiveness—two enviable traits that undoubtedly paved her path as a mother and grandmother, and also a successful businesswoman.

Grandma Mary made recent trips to spend time with family: a July ’17 flight to Oregon and an August ’19 flight to Wisconsin. As we whitewater rafted down the Deschutes River in Oregon, Grandma Mary and Grandpa Gary followed along in a van, winding down the road, waving to us periodically. In Wisconsin, Grandma Mary introduced us to The Elegant Farmer, gifting us an Apple Pie Baked in a Paper Bag.

Grandma Mary was generous. She was sharp. And she was patient. She taught Steve how to carve a turkey on Thanskgiving. And she taught us all how to make her delicious pickles.

Mary loved her family, fiercly.

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This past December, Steve and I spent the holidays apart. He was in NJ. I was in Fond du Lac. Our apartment was empty.

After two weeks away, we arrived back together on Sunday, January 5. Minutes after returning, I turned on the TV.

Our TV rotates among a few channels: 35-1 Food Network, 36-1 HGTV, and local channels 2-1 through 15-1. When I turned on the TV, it was on 58-1, FOX News.

If you know Steve and me, you know this channel goes untouched in our house, but it was one of Grandma Mary’s greatest hits.

Hi, Grandma Mary.

The comedic relief is welcome.

Fortunately, this time I wasn’t apprehensive.

But I will always be astonished.