Over the years, I’ve written about my medium Steffany Barton countless times—whether in blogs, or online, or even in the occasional bliss-filled social media musing. She was the perfect enigma to write about. For one, she was quirky and spirited. And two, we were tight. Like tight-tight. Rarely would a day go by without a bit of inspirational banter back and forth via text message.

When she passed away last week, the energy changed in the universe. Everything in my world got a little dimmer. Whether she knew it or not, she was a life-force to be reckoned with. (I’m guessing she probably did—but was far too humble to take any credit.)

The surreal (read that: woo-woo) stories I could tell about Steffany would make for a short novella. They’re so mystically unbelievable, people would think the book was a work of fiction—except every word would be the God’s honest truth.

While we both had an odd affinity for 80s music and vegan tacos, Steffany was also my single biggest fan. She counseled and cheered me on through job upheavals, medical issues, and relationship woes. If I needed advice, it was ask God first and Steffany second. (Not always necessarily in that order).

A story that I’ve kept near and dear to my heart until now shows just how kind, loving, and gracious Steffany was to me.

In 2019, my beloved father suffered a debilitating stroke. When it was clear he wouldn’t recover, I had to make the gut-wrenching decision to move him from the hospital to hospice care for the duration. On that day, my world stopped. I shut down—paralyzed by overwhelming grief, devastation, angst, and dread.

Hospice care nurses are angels on earth. They kept dad comfortable and helped me navigate through the inevitable. But what I really needed was a definitive sign I was being mindful and making the right decisions. I wanted nothing more than to honor the best interests of my father.

On the third day, a nurse pulled me aside and quietly stated, “Your dad is holding on for some reason, but we don’t know why. Regardless, we’re here for you.”

On the fourth day of me holding vigil, there was a knock at the door—which I thought was odd. The nurses were apt to just politely barge in. When Steffany walked in unannounced, my mouth didn’t just hit the floor, it went into the sub-basement.

What happened next is the stuff of lore. I heaved-sobbed-heaved myself into another dimension. When I came to—curled up on the floor, no less—I quickly realized Steffany had driven from Kansas City to Des Moines that morning to provide me with that solace and reassurance I so desperately needed.

She also made it abundantly clear—in her soothing, no-nonsense way—that she was determined to lay hands on my dad before he passed. “I need to make sure he has a soft landing to the other side,” she said.

All I could do is stammer and blubber my way through a few questions—the most pressing of which was, “How did you know we were here?”

With her quintessential, low-key humor, she half-chided me, half-rolled her eyes and said, “Michael, I’m a medium. I know things.”

I burst out laughing—which felt wrong to do given the gravity of the situation. But it was the levity I needed to start being sentient again. Steffany stayed about a half an hour before exiting stage left. She was a literal godsend.

Dad passed a couple of days later on the anniversary of my stroke—a stroke which I suffered nine years earlier almost to the hour. It was 6:45 a.m. when the hospice called. Steffany called about 30 minutes later. “Your dad held out and waited until early this morning for a reason,” she told me. “He knew how distressing your stroke was. And he didn’t want trauma to compound another day.”

Even during his transition, my father was still looking out for me. Very on-brand for him.

Speaking of transitioning, the fact that Steffany is now holding court with my folks is incredibly comforting. Her faith was powerful—as was her ability to connect with those who had passed on. While I have no doubt my folks are showing her the ropes in heaven, my guess is that it’s likely the other way around.

Steffany and God were clearly on a first-name basis.

I was blessed to have Steffany as my cosmic lifeline for more than a decade. I know she’ll be around in spirit. In perpetuity. Her final gift to me. She wouldn’t have it any other way.