Comment #2

TheseStars — Thu, 08 Oct 2026 18:24:22 GMT

When I saw I hit Texas, if just floored me, that I couldn't even finish my predictions today. I'm taking the day off, and relishing in the thought that we were, somehow, were heard over there. Keep talking to your sister, and keep praying for miracles. Thanks for leaving a comment. I needed to hear it. My Dawnie was my Baby Sister too, and we thought she would pull through with her treatments, but than went ahead and had a brain aneurism instead---died 1 minute... [ More ]

Comment #1

sully16 — Thu, 08 Oct 2026 17:18:17 GMT

She's in my bay window with my orchids, when my other brothers and sisters stop by , they all say hello. At the same time, my niece had a preemie, he weighed 1 pound, he's now 4 years old. We never thought he'd make it and never thought my sister wouldn't . I have to stop now, tears are falling fast.

Original Blog Entry: Sometimes the Signs Come After Goodbye

TheseStars — Thu, 08 Oct 2026 16:32:32 GMT

Sometimes the Signs Come After Goodbye

For anyone who has ever lost someone they love, and wondered if they're still listening.

I've been sitting here today trying to make sense of something that happened, and I decided I needed to share it.

Not because I expect everyone to believe what I believe. Not because I can prove anything. But because somewhere out there, someone may be grieving the loss of a loved one and desperately wishing for just one little sign that they're okay.

And maybe this story will bring them a little comfort.

On September 18th, a beautiful young woman named Chrissy suffered a drug overdose. She was only 28 years old.

For more than two agonizing weeks, her family and friends prayed for a miracle. We wanted her to wake up. We wanted her to open her eyes, smile at her mother, and somehow find her way back to us.

But on October 3rd, her family faced the heartbreaking decision to let her go.

Just after midnight, at 12:03 a.m. on October 4th, Chrissy passed away.

And somewhere in the middle of all that heartbreak, some very strange things happened.

A Little Help From Stevie Ray Vaughan

Now, some of you who have followed my writings over the years might remember my fascination with Stevie Ray Vaughan.

I've written about his astrology, the remarkable connections between his stars and those of his bandmates, and even his relationship to the Rock Roll Hall of Fame.

For reasons I can't entirely explain, I've felt a spiritual connection to Stevie for several years. Almost as though he kept nudging me to look a little deeper into his story.

Stevie knew something about addiction.

He lived it, struggled with it, survived it, and eventually used his experiences to encourage others not to stay too long at the party.

So, while Chrissy lay unconscious in that hospital bed, I did something that might sound a little crazy to some people.

I asked Stevie to help.

I asked him to go to Chrissy, wherever her spirit might be, and help her find her way back.

I wanted so badly for her to survive, to have another chance at life, and perhaps someday share her own story with others struggling with addiction.

I even told her mother what I had done.

Looking back, I wonder whether I should have kept that part to myself. Her mother was clinging to every bit of hope she could find, and I certainly didn't want to give her false hope.

But I was hoping, too.

And I asked for a sign.

Anything.

The Stranger on the Beach

On September 30th, Chrissy's mother and I were exchanging text messages.

She was sitting beside her daughter's hospital bed, exhausted and heartbroken, trying to understand what she was supposed to do.

How does a mother make a decision like that?

How do you decide whether to keep waiting for a miracle or allow your child to go?

I knew she loved going to the beach. She was on Staten Island, not far from one.

So I told her:

Get out of there for a while. Get a coffee, take a ride to the beach, and sit with it.

She immediately texted back.

I'm kissing her right now and leaving for the beach.

What she didn't know was that, after receiving her message, I said a prayer of my own.

I asked that someone, perhaps a stranger unaware, might cross her path and offer her some comfort. Someone who could help her find the strength and peace she so desperately needed.

A few hours later, she texted me again.

She had gone to the beach, gotten down on her knees, and begun praying to God for guidance.

And that's when it happened.

A man approached her from behind, placed his hand on her shoulder, and said:

Don't worry. It will all work out.

She looked up at him.

Thank you, but it won't.

He repeated his reassurance, gently squeezing her shoulder.

She told him her daughter was dying.

Please believe, he said.

And then he walked away.

Later, she told me she had turned around to look for him.

There was nobody there.

Now, I've been to plenty of beaches. They're wide open spaces. Usually, you can see someone walking away for quite a distance.

But she couldn't find him.

Was he simply a kind stranger who happened to be in the right place at the right time?

Maybe.

Was he an answer to a prayer?

That's what I wondered.

And what struck me most was that I had asked for a stranger to comfort her without her knowing anything about my prayer.

I don't know who that man was.

But I know what his kindness meant at that moment.

And perhaps that was the message all along.

Not that Chrissy would necessarily recover.

But that somehow, even through the unimaginable pain of losing her, her mother would find the strength to carry on.

My Sister Dawn

There's another person I need to tell you about.

My sister Dawn passed away in June of 2024.

Dawn and Chrissy's mother were friends. My sister knew how much this woman had already suffered, having lost both her husband and her father.

Dawn used to tell me she wanted me to help her friend understand that the people we love can still hear us.

I need you to talk to her so she knows they hear her, she would say.

And now Dawn wasn't physically here to help her friend through the most devastating loss of all.

So, throughout those terrible two weeks, I found myself talking to my sister, too.

Dawnie, we need your help.

I wanted so badly to comfort her friend for her.

And in my heart, I could almost hear my sister telling me that since she couldn't be there, I needed to be.

So I tried.

I don't know whether I said all the right things. I probably didn't. What do you say to a mother watching her child die?

Sometimes all you can do is listen, love, and be there.

And Then Came Texas

Now, here's where my LotteryPost friends might find this story particularly interesting.

You know I love my numbers.

I've been working with Pick 3 numbers for years, and recently I've been participating in the State of the Day Challenge here on LotteryPost.

For those unfamiliar with it, each day features a different state, moving alphabetically through the states. The challenge limits how many combinations you can post.

It's not an easy challenge, especially for someone like me who works primarily with boxed combinations.

I've been posting daily since September, and until today, I hadn't scored a single hit in that challenge.

Not one.

Then today, October 8th, I saw I finally got my first hit.

Guess which state?

TEXAS.

Yes. Texas.

The home state of Stevie Ray Vaughan.

And guess what number came in?

416.

My posted box combination was 146.

Now, to most people, that's just another Pick 3 result.

But here's where my jaw practically hit the floor.

In my astrological work, Stevie Ray Vaughan's Pluto position, at approximately 26 degrees of Leo, can also be mathematically expressed in celestial longitude as:

146.

And in astrology, Pluto is associated with death, transformation, and the mysteries of what lies beyond our physical existence.

Of all the states.

Of all the numbers.

The timing is just to impeccable.

My very first hit in that challenge came from Texas, with a number I personally associate with Stevie Ray Vaughan's Pluto.

The very Stevie I had been asking to help Chrissy.

The very Stevie I had asked to send us some kind of sign.

I just sat there staring at it.

You have GOT to be kidding me!

Now, before anyone starts telling me about mathematical probabilities, let me say that I understand perfectly well that coincidences happen. And that anything can happen in the Pick 3 games.

I'm not suggesting that this proves anything supernatural.

But I am telling you what that moment meant to me.

After two weeks of fear, heartbreak, unanswered prayers, and watching a mother lose her daughter, that little number felt like a familiar tap on the shoulder.

As though someone were saying:

I hear you.

And maybe, just maybe, that was enough.

Another Room We Cannot See

I've had experiences throughout my life that have shaped how I understand death.

Since I was about seven years old, I've felt that communication with those who have passed is possible. As an astrologer, I've spent much of my life using people's stars as a focal point for that work.

I could fill hundreds of pages with the things I've experienced.

When my sister Dawn died, I was in New Jersey visiting her. Back home in Ohio, my husband had just mowed the lawn when a fairy ring appeared in our front yard.

He photographed it and sent me the picture.

To us, that little circle was a comforting reminder of Dawnie at a time when we couldn't physically be together to comfort one another.

Someone else might have seen nothing more than a natural formation in the grass.

And that's okay.

We don't all have to interpret these things the same way.

But I've come to believe that death is not necessarily the end of our connection to one another.

Perhaps it's more like someone walking into another room.

We can't see them anymore.

We can't reach out and touch them.

We can't pick up the telephone and hear their voice.

But perhaps the love that connected us doesn't disappear simply because their physical body is gone.

I don't believe our loved ones spend every moment hovering around us. I believe they have their own journey to continue.

But I also believe there are moments when they can find a way to remind us that love survives.

A song on the radio.

A familiar scent.

A dream that feels different from all the others.

A stranger who says exactly what you needed to hear.

Or even a three-digit number.

What If We Paid More Attention?

I think one of the saddest things about grief is how desperately we want one more moment.

One more conversation.

One more hug.

One more chance to say everything we didn't get to say.

And sometimes people experience something unusual after losing a loved one but are afraid to talk about it.

They're afraid someone will laugh.

Or tell them they're imagining things.

Or think they're crazy.

But what if we could simply share those experiences without worrying about being judged?

We don't have to agree on what causes them.

Maybe some are coincidences. Maybe some are the remarkable ways our minds recognize meaningful patterns when we're grieving.

And maybe there are mysteries about consciousness, love, and death that we simply don't understand yet.

I don't pretend to have all the answers.

But I do know that comfort can arrive in unexpected ways.

Chrissy didn't get the second chance at life we had prayed for.

Her mother didn't get the miracle she wanted.

And nothing, not a stranger on a beach or a number in Texas, can take away the pain of losing a daughter.

But perhaps that stranger's words will stay with her.

Perhaps she'll remember the gentle hand on her shoulder.

And perhaps one day, when the grief isn't quite so overwhelming, she'll find a little peace in remembering that someone told her:

Don't worry. It will all work out.

Not because everything turned out the way she wanted.

But because somehow, one day at a time, she'll find a way to keep living and loving.

And as for me?

Well, Stevie, if that Texas number was your way of saying you heard me...

You certainly got my attention.

Rest peacefully, Chrissy.

And to my sister, Dawnie, you use to tell me all the time, You don't listen . Well, I'm listening now and I'm sharing your message, the one you always gave me, that Love is all.

To everyone reading this: Have you ever experienced something after losing someone you love that you simply couldn't explain?

Maybe a dream, a song, a stranger, a number, or an unusual coincidence that seemed too perfectly timed?

I'd genuinely love to hear your stories.

No judgment. No need to prove anything.

Just a place to share those little moments that made you stop and wonder.

Because sometimes, when we're missing someone terribly, even the smallest reminder of their love can mean the world.... [ More ]