The strange, tender timing of the things that can leave a mark…

Coincidence is a funny little word for something that can feel anything but little. It means the surprising things that happen at the same time by chance, with no planning and no obvious connection. They just happen. Sometimes we hardly notice them. Sometimes we shrug and say, “Well, wasn’t that odd?” And sometimes, a coincidence taps us on the shoulder so many times that we stop calling it odd and start calling it memorable.

Some coincidences are sweet. You think of someone, and the phone rings. You hum a song you have not heard in years, then walk into a store and there it is, playing like it has been waiting on you. Some coincidences are once-in-a-lifetime strange. And then there are the kinds that leave a mark—the ones that become part of your family’s story, whether you invited them in or not.

Mine began on June 27, 2009, with the passing of my husband. I did not know it then, of course, because grief does not come with a calendar warning. It arrives, takes up space, and changes the room. One year later, to the very day, my mama passed away. Then five years after that, my daddy passed away—again on June 27.

Three people I loved dearly. Three losses. The same date. I mean, what are the odds? I could probably ask someone who enjoys math more than I do, but I already know the answer in my bones… rare enough to make you look twice, and painful enough to make you remember every time June rolls around.

That coincidence changed something in my sisters and in the rest of our family. It gave us a new perspective on death, not a tidy one, not a dramatic one, but a very human one. We learned that dates can hold weight. A square on the calendar can become more than a number. It can become a doorway, a reminder, a place where memory gathers.

Two years ago, my sister passed away on June 21. It was not the same exact day, but it was the same month and the same heavy week of the year. By then, we had already started side-eyeing June like it had walked into the room wearing muddy shoes.

So now, in our family, we call June “Jumanji month.” If you have seen the movie, you understand. If you have not, just imagine a month that does not simply pass by politely. It rustles the bushes. It rolls the dice. It makes you wonder what might come crawling out next.

We are not making light of their deaths. Not even close. Humor, at least in our family, is not a dismissal of grief. Sometimes it is how we carry it without dropping everything else. It is how we say, “This hurts,” while still finding a way to breathe, laugh, cook supper, answer the phone, and keep going.

As May ends, I can feel June coming before the calendar even turns. There is a heaviness that settles in… a mix of memory, love, dread, and gratitude. I remember how quickly life can become complicated. How shock can enter without knocking. How one ordinary day can become a date your heart recognizes forever.

And yet, we made it through this June. All of us did. Thank you, God.

By July first, I am usually ready to holler, “Jumanji!” and step into the rest of the year like I have survived a round of something wild. The anxious feeling does not disappear completely, but it loosens its grip. June goes back into its box, and we go on living with our memories, our stories, our strange family calendar, and the people we loved still woven into every month that follows…