Stories come to me unexpectedly. They are like newborn babes crying to me to be fed, held, played with, changed or otherwise pacified and coddled. Such was the case today. This story came to me as I was walking Rocky, our Lab, after I got home from work. Today was one of those perfect fall days where the weather required a little help from my polar fleece jacket, and the gray skies held waning light, beseeching the turning leaves rather than the sun to light our way. It was beautiful. The gestation for this story, though, began earlier. Much earlier.

Sarah Ann Rachel was born to us January 13, 1999. It was a surprise to Phil and I that we actually wanted another child. Mike and Ty were 11 and 10 years old, and we thought our family was beautifully complete. In 1998, we were very active in our church, St. Frances Cabrini in Littleton. I was then employed by the parish as housekeeper for the priest, and every week when I waited for Father's final load of laundry to come out of the dryer, I would spend time in the Adoration Chapel, enjoying some alone time with the Big Guy.

I've never considered myself a religious person, but have always known there were other forces larger than humanity working among us here on Earth. I remember one time, in fact, that I had an ethereal visitor, of sorts, come in my room at night when I was about seven or eight years old. It started in my bedroom at home; I distinctly remember luminescent neon green smoke curling in the ceiling corner. I shut my eyes tight and hid under the covers, willing it away. When I dared peek out over the safety of the blanket's edge, it had left, but I was still very frightened. It came back to visit me at a friend's house during a sleepover. I remember trying to wake Paula up to see if she could see it, but all I could arouse from her were louder snores. I mentally told the smoke that I would shut my eyes and it should go away by the time I reopened them. When I did, it had thankfully complied. I remember not feeling frightened anymore and quickly drifting off to sleep. I never told my parents; I was sure they would chalk it up to my vivid imagination. I never saw the smoke again.

Who knows what that smoke was; maybe it was my creative mind, maybe it was an angel. The only reason I mention it is that was the point in my life when I realized the whole ' God thing,' as I liked to call it, might have something to it. (What can I say? I'm the daughter of a Missouri 'show-me' girl.)

Twenty-seven years later, as I sat in the Chapel thinking that maybe I should go back to school and get my teacher certification, a voice came into my head and very firmly said, "No, Ann. You don't need to be a teacher; you need to have another baby."

Well.

That certainly made me look around the room wondering who would dare talk in this holy place. There was no one else in the room. My heart beat an extra beat, but then I found myself feeling unbelievably light and happy. I tried the idea out on Phil when I was washing dishes after dinner that night, thinking surely his response would be something like, "You're insane. No way do we need more kids! We're done; life is good. If it ain't broke, don't fix it," etc.

Well.

He didn't say that at all. Without even pausing to think, he said, "OK."

We looked at each other with equal parts disbelief that we were even toying with the idea of adding to our family, and sheer excitement over the thought of having another baby, not to mention all the hands-on research that would soon be coming our way.

The time soon came when we were to see the first ultrasound of this new little Himel. We had two sons, I grew up with one brother and Phil, with three. We wanted a daughter very, very badly. Neither one of us dared utter this desire for fear of jinxing our chances. The fetus was fickle, crossing its legs for the sonographer every time her wand came into view. Just when we were ready to give up, the little peanut flashed us spread-eagle and wham! "You're having a girl!"

A moment we will never forget, both of us were speechless with tears rolling down our cheeks. The technician looked at us, smiling as she offered us Kleenex, "Good news, I take it?" "Oh, yes!" was all we could say.

A daughter! Soon our home that had been infested with aliens, slime, trucks, and the other hard, pokey things of boyhood would be softened with the tender niceties of femininity; of tea parties and princesses; of daydreams and dresses; of pink. Lots of pink.

So Sarah Ann came to be. She was such an intensely warm source of love and light for all of us. People, even strangers, were drawn to her. We all thought she was cute, but we're her family. In The Tattered Cover, a woman saw us in the aisles and proclaimed Sarah to be an 'old soul.' Our opinion of Sarah's captive presence began to sway in the observers' direction as events like this intensified.

At Park Meadows Mall, Sarah and I took a break in a seating area to wait for Phil and the boys to meet us. We shared the space with a multi-generational foreign family of about eight. Our encounter began typically, by exchanging silent polite smiles then pretty much ignoring each other. All of a sudden, they began talking excitedly making gestures toward us, smiling. The oldest woman, up until then quite stoic (I actually wondered if she was asleep at one point), began clapping and bouncing her feet as she remained seated. Her actions set the family in motion. Making no indication that they spoke any English, the father (her son?) approached me and through stunted communicative gestures, asked me if he could hold my daughter. I let him, and to my shock and amazement, he put Sarah on his shoulders and began to dance around with her as his family cheered laughed. I noticed their teen-aged son filming this festival of love for my daughter on his digital camera. (Yes, of course, a voice came into my head telling me to go run and take her back, but a stronger voice filled my heart with warmth and assured me Sarah was in no danger whatsoever.) Contrary to my nature, and still questioning the sanity of my own actions, I watched this scene with great pride and pleasure. Sarah was immediately and tenderly placed in my arms at the end of the dance, we nodded our goodbyes, and they disappeared from my view.

While on vacation in Hollywood, a young couple stopped us along the Walk of Fame and took her picture. They didn't ask me if they could; they simply revealed their secretive behavior after the fact, telling me they had never seen a child quite so beautiful.

That was the way it was with Sarah. She just made people happy. Happy enough, in fact, that they felt moved to comment on their joy or record it for their permanent memory.

Then on July 9, 2000, she died.

When we returned home from that trip to L.A., she only lived for about a week longer. She was perfectly healthy. She died of something called Hemorrhagic Shock and Encephalopathy Syndrome, HSES. It is so rare it had been removed from the medical books; only about 250 cases had been reported worldwide at that time. It hits children aged 0-14, and there is no prevention, treatment or cure. It's diagnosis is difficult, as it is often not recognized. It is not genetic; it is a syndrome, which is simply a collection of symptoms. HSES is simply a metabolic fluke; a way that a human can die. The veins become porous, which instigates internal bleeding. The body responds by absorbing the excess blood in the liver and sending fluid to the brain to protect it. There is no diagnosis; there is no cure. Only heartache and loss.

Sarah is with me always, but this time of year I feel her presence very acutely. The lighting in the trees on the cloudy day stroll with my dog this evening brought her presence out so strongly I could almost forego the polar fleece jacket. The yellow leaves seemed brighter, the red more intense, and the remaining green turned ever lighter as it began to reveal what was hidden from view all summer. I felt securely and infinitely blessed.

As Rocky and I left our neighborhood sanctuary, Raccoon Hollar, and rounded the final corner toward home, the Red Maple tree we planted in Sarah's memory caught my eye like a beacon of hope. It's autumnal crimson was just beginning to burn through its cool summer green, and my thoughts rested on the more pleasant memories of Winnie-the-Pooh costumes at Halloween, fluffy pink fur-trimmed snow suits and roasting marshmallows in the fireplace.

I'll never understand why Sarah couldn't stay; she was only here for 18 months. I still feel ripped off, angry, and confused. I can't begin to convey the extent of what I perceive to be her impact on our community at that time; you'll surely think I'm nothing more than a grieving mother. I will be the first to agree with you; I carry that intense sadness with me every day of my life. Yet how can I explain the 500 people in attendance at her funeral?

All I can say is this: Life is too short. Spend every minute of it with those you love. We never know when those minutes are going to end, and we certainly never know when we may be in the presence of an angel.