I was raised in the Catholic faith and have remained a practicing Catholic throughout my life. Growing up in places like Cincinnati and Pittsburgh, my faith community was always present and accessible—it was simply part of the fabric of daily life. That shifted when I moved to the South for college. Suddenly, I found myself in a region where Catholicism was less prominent, and where expressions of faith looked different from what I had always known. Attending a Judeo-Christian institution like Wingate expanded my perspective in ways I didn’t anticipate. I was exposed to a wide range of worship styles, traditions, and personal relationships with God. At times, it challenged me; at other times, it deepened my own faith. It taught me that while the expression of belief may differ, the foundation of faith—the search for meaning, grace, and truth—remains universal. One of the most impactful moments of my college experience came when a professor approached me with an unexpected request. As a sophomore, I was asked to tutor a senior in my major, DeColbie Esco (or as everyone called him, "Esco"), a football player from the South Side of Chicago. He was struggling academically and needed both guidance and encouragement to complete his coursework, particularly his senior research project—his final step toward graduation. What began as a tutoring arrangement quickly became something much more meaningful. Esco and I formed an unlikely but profound friendship. Through our time working together, I came to understand more about his life, his challenges, and his resilience. Watching him walk across the stage at graduation—his mother having traveled from Chicago to witness the moment—was unforgettable. He was the first in his family to earn a college degree, and being even a small part of that journey was a gift I carry with me. A few years later, I learned that Esco’s life had been tragically cut short. The loss felt sudden, unfair, and deeply unsettling. I wrestled with it in the way many of us do—with questions, with grief, and with a longing for understanding. Then, a few months after his passing, I had a dream that I have never forgotten. Esco came to me, peaceful and steady, and told me that he was okay—that God knew his heart. He thanked me for always looking out for him and assured me that now he'd be looking after me, as I'd gained an angel. I woke with a sense of calm I hadn’t felt since learning of his death. It didn’t erase the grief, but it reframed it. It reminded me that faith doesn’t always provide answers—but it does offer presence. Years later, during a particularly difficult season of my life—navigating a painful breakup, career changes, and the general growing-pains of young adulthood—I found myself leaning on my faith more than ever, yet also struggling to feel grounded in it. During that time, I adopted a dog, Hemingway—“Hemi.” Not long after, the COVID-19 pandemic shut the world down. Like so many others, I was alone, uncertain, and searching for stability in a time that offered very little of it. Hemi became a part of that stability for me as I navigated the break up, new job, life changes, and more. Friends and family would often say, “Thank God you have him—he’s your little angel.” At the time it would make me smile in agreement, grateful for the comfort but not thinking too deeply into it. However, a few months after adopting him, I took Hemi to the vet for a routine check-up. When asked for his birthdate, I realized I didn’t know it offhand and pulled up his paperwork. As I looked at the date, I thought to myself that I should add it to my calendar. When I opened my calendar to mark the date, I paused. That day was already marked. It was Esco’s birthday as well. In that moment, I felt something I can only describe as overwhelming clarity. It was as if God’s presence—so often subtle, so often easy to overlook—was undeniable. A quiet but powerful reminder that we are not alone, that our lives are intricately woven together in ways we may not always understand, and that grace often shows up when we need it most. That experience didn’t answer every question or eliminate every doubt, but it anchored my faith in a time when I needed it most. It reminded me that God is always present in both the extraordinary and the ordinary, and that He is always working to bring us back to Him. And if we are only willing to pay attention, we can see His fingerprints all over our lives.