My 444 Moment

Piercing the Veil in Hope, Alaska

There are landscapes that hold a current beneath the surface—places where the natural world feels more alive than mere scenery. Hope, Alaska, is one of those places.

On a quiet day along Turnagain Arm, my soul-line brother and Alaskan Sherpa, Tom Miller, led me to where Six Mile Creek empties into the sea. It is a place that resists casual description: a meeting of glacial waters, mountains, and sky that changes with each hour. The tides of the Arm surge in and out with primal force, carving the shoreline in ways both violent and tender. To stand there is to feel the pulse of something older than human memory.

As we arrived, several Beluga whales surfaced in the waters before us. Their pale bodies broke through the gray-blue surface like spirits rising, catching the light in a shimmer that seemed otherworldly. I have always admired whales for their grace, but on that day, I felt their presence as something far deeper. In Inuit traditions, whales are considered protectors and providers—beings bound to survival, abundance, and the guidance of ancestral spirits. A Beluga sighting is often read as a sign that unseen forces are watching, ensuring safe passage through life’s icy waters.

That interpretation resonated in me instantly. These Belugas weren’t just passing creatures. They were emissaries, arriving as if to herald what was about to unfold.

Tom, ever the thoughtful guide, lifted his camera as I stepped out onto a rocky jetty. The sea stretched on both sides, and behind me, the mountains rose in solemn witness. In that moment, something inside me shifted. I felt an overwhelming urge to lift my arms to the sky. Tilting my head back, I closed my eyes, and I let go.

The tears came—uncontrollable, unashamed. They weren’t the tears of sorrow that sometimes still visit me when I think of my son, Sam. No, these were tears of joy, of presence. It was as if a veil had lifted and I was standing not just on the edge of Turnagain Arm, but on the edge of two worlds—the living and the eternal.

I Call it My 444 Moment

For reasons I cannot fully explain, the number 444 has become a thread of connection between me and Sam. It appears in my life when I need it most—on clocks, receipts, mile markers, addresses. Each time it shows itself, I feel his presence: not as a memory, but as a companion. It’s as though the universe has woven this sequence of numbers into the fabric of my days as a reminder that Sam and I are still walking together, even if on different sides of the veil.

That day in Hope, however, the connection transcended numbers. It wasn’t subtle, like digits flashing on a screen. It was elemental: whales rising from the sea, mountains standing eternal, skies vast and open. It was Sam, there with me, through everything that surrounded me.

When grief enters your life, it teaches you to look differently at the world. You begin to notice patterns, signs, small disruptions in the ordinary that whisper of something more. Skeptics may call it coincidence, or the longing mind inventing meaning. But for those who grieve, meaning itself becomes the lifeline.

To believe that love survives is not weakness—it is courage. And sometimes, as it was for me on that jetty, you no longer have to believe. You simply know.

Hope itself—the name of that Alaskan town—feels like no accident. To have this moment in Hope was a message in its own right. Hope is not blind optimism. It is not denial of loss. Hope is the steady faith that love carries on, that presence can still be felt, that joy can arrive like whales surfacing from the deep.

So I carry Hope with me now. I carry 444. I carry Sam.