Signs of our times
Volume 16 / July 2025
If I believed in signs, which I think I do, then the world is rife with them.
It all started a few weeks ago in my humble Brooklyn garden. As I tilled soil in a raised vegetable bed to make room for fava beans, a large quarter-sized jumping spider leaped from the golden currant bushes behind me. Using my head as a launch pad, he hurled himself onto his unwitting victim below: a fat, squirmy grub that had been exposed during my labor.
First, I was impressed with the spider’s acute eyesight and athletic prowess. How he managed to see the grub before I even noticed it from feet away and precisely pounce from such a height is beyond me. Second, I was mesmerized with this nature documentary-in-action unfolding before me. The frantic flailing of the grub and the triumphant dance of the spider were simultaneously horrifying and fascinating. Third, I was especially pleased because historically, spiders have been harbingers of something good in my life, whether something concrete or simply a feeling of encouragement.
I tucked into my heart this feeling of hope. What did this sudden and incredible moment mean? In the privacy of my own head, I wondered: Could it be x, y, or z? Or is it simply a reminder for me to be alert to the marvels around me?
I’m always afraid to hope too little or too much. So, instead of agonizing over what might be, I focused on being excited for what lay immediately ahead, in just a few days’ time: a wonderful two-week camping trip with my husband and dog. Typically tent campers, we decided to rent an RV so I could be more comfortable after my spinal surgery earlier this year.
We aim to take at least one or two camping trips each year. Each one has a different intention or focus for me. Previous expeditions afforded me opportunities to work on myself, to grow, and to heal. To clarify desires and dreams. To discern my purpose and certain decisions. To accept some things as they are, to aim to change what can be, and, overall, to let go. Cue the serenity prayer:
God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, courage to change the things I can, and wisdom to know the difference (Reinhold Niebuhr, 1943).
I took that prayer to heart and to action.
This time around, having survived what must have been the most challenging twelve months of my life, I was ready to just bask in the glory of life as it presents itself to me. To enjoy every moment. To breathe deep and easy. I was set on searching for signs, on pursuing the grace in finding good things in everyday life.
And boy, did I find them.
When we arrived at our first reserved campsite in New Hampshire, just shy of the Canadian border, I realized that the site was a lovely open grassy field. In the past, our campsites were surrounded by tall trees which provided necessary shade during hot, sunny days.
But no problem, we said. We packed an extra canopy after all. We can pop that up, and voila! Shade.
The catch: We forgot to pack the rooftop canopy fabric. And the sun was blazing.
We were determined to remain undaunted. How could one be mad in such a beautiful place? So, as my first grade teacher would say, we put on our thinking caps. Lucky for us, there was a singular, tall evergreen tree in the corner of our site. Sitting a few feet away from the fire pit, we hadn’t considered it before. It was just in the periphery. But when we needed relief most, that tree stole the spotlight: Every morning, we dragged our camp chairs under its lovely umbrage and delighted in the coolness of the shade.
When we sat down for the first time under its welcoming branches, I looked out at the lake and saw it: A bald eagle. My grandfather’s favorite bird. I traced its majestic flight until it disappeared.
First, the shade-giving tree. Then, the eagle. I could have shrugged my shoulders and just taken them for granted. Chalked them up to luck. But I chose to see them in a different light: As signs of glory, of hope. Of grace.
There was a hiking trail from the campground that hugged the shoreline of the Connecticut River for miles (Yes, “Connecticut River” in New Hampshire. Go figure!) If you’re imagining a peaceful little babbling brook, one where Mole and Rat could have a fine, lovely English countryside adventure—think again.
The river hurtled, no, ramrodded its way through the land. It rushed down towards the lake in wild fury. Loud, proud, and obviously dangerous, we kept obsessive track of Sonia’s wanderings, as she often too curiously wanted to step too closely to the edge.
Further down the trail, I had the privilege to witness a quintessential New England scene unfold before my eyes: A bend in the river, flanked by tall pine trees and vivid green lit by the slowly setting sun, and in the middle of it all, an angler in mud waders, hoping to catch a fish passing through.
What a gem of a moment. How glorious the wild, untouched, sun-kissed wilderness. How peaceful the interlude. How poetic, the fisherman, casting each line with hope, and doing it again and again, even if it came up empty.
Aren’t we doing the same thing in life? Holding fast onto hope, even if we come up empty? Even if our line gets tangled or the weather turns bad, or the current practically sweeps us away? Don’t we hold steady and fast and grounded and keep casting?
I think we start to get in trouble when we stop trying. After all, sooner or later, the catch does come. The fat fish bites. (It might not look like the one you wanted, but it’s a meal nonetheless). We just have to be ready. There’s grace in the waiting. There’s grace in seeing the signs around us while we wait.
We visited two different campgrounds that trip: Lake Francis State Park and Umbagog State Park, which shared its lake with Maine. I soaked in the grace around me: The deliciously fresh New Hampshire air, the bird and toad song at night, the constant swirls of yellow butterflies, the ENORMOUS—and I mean, enormous—night beetles that propelled themselves stupidly at our headlamps, Mama duck waddling through the campground every afternoon with her platoon of babies—all of these could be signs that life is for us to enjoy. All could be signs of hope, of perseverance. All could be signs.
Over time, I came to realize what these signs really were: Blessings. And what I learned was the more you look, the more blessings you find. It’s like what radio host Gus Lloyd says to his listeners when they call in and ask how he’s doing:
I’m blessed beyond measure.
I’m going to keep searching for these blessings, and revel in the grace they bring, every day and every moment. I hope you join me.
See you next month.
Peace,
Veronica
P.S.: Awards news!
I am pleased and humbled to announce that I won two awards in this year’s Catholic Press Association Media Awards:
Honorable mention for Best Essay: How to Talk to Those Who Disagree with You—And Still Love Them
Honorable mention for Best Blog: Expression of Faith: Playing Fetch At Dawn!!!
P.P.S.: All of my writing is 100% generated by me and AI-free.
Check out my newest publications!
Connecting with Creation: Creative Ways to Pray Outdoors This Summer
(Busted Halo)
Canadian Marathon: 25 Years of Non-Stop Novenas (Marian Helper)
Wow congrats on the wins! I think I have read the second one, need to read the first one. Again, enjoyed your photos and story. Too hot for my brain to provide any more substantial thought now...