When you lose a pet, you don’t just lose an animal—you lose a friend, a companion, a family member. That’s exactly how four-year-old Meredith felt when Abbey, the family’s beloved 14-year-old Labrador, passed away last month.
The next day, Meredith was inconsolable. She missed Abbey terribly. Her tiny voice shook as she cried, asking her mom why Abbey had to die and whether God would recognize her when she got to heaven.
Then, through her tears, she had an idea—what if they wrote a letter to God?
Her mother gently said yes, and sat with Meredith as the little girl dictated her message with all the honesty and love that only a child can offer:
Dear God,
Will you please take care of my dog? She died yesterday and is with you in heaven. I miss her very much. I am happy that you let me have her as my dog even though she got sick.
I hope you will play with her. She likes to swim and play with balls. I am sending a picture of her so when you see her, you will know that she is my dog. I really miss her.
Love, Meredith
They placed the letter and picture in an envelope addressed simply to: “God / Heaven.” Meredith insisted on covering it with stamps—”lots,” because “heaven is far away”—and together, they dropped it in the mailbox.
Days passed.
Meredith asked often if God had received the letter. Her mother told her she believed He had.
And then—something extraordinary happened.
A package appeared on their doorstep, wrapped in shimmering gold paper, addressed to “Meredith” in unfamiliar handwriting. Inside was a book: When a Pet Dies by Mr. Rogers.
Taped to the inside cover was the very letter Meredith had written, and beside it, the photo of her and Abbey. Opposite that was a note, handwritten with care:
Dear Meredith,
Abbey arrived safely in heaven. Having the picture was a big help—I recognized her right away.
She isn’t sick anymore. Her spirit is here with me, just like it stays in your heart. Abbey loved being your dog. Since we don’t need our bodies in heaven, I don’t have pockets to keep your picture, so I’m sending it back to you inside this book—so you’ll always have something to remember her by.
Thank you for your beautiful letter, and thank your mom for helping you write it. What a wonderful mother you have. I picked her especially for you.
I send my blessings every day and remember that I love you very much.
By the way, I’m easy to find—I’m wherever there is love.
Love, God
Meredith held the book close. Her tears, this time, were softer.
A stranger—most likely a kind-hearted postal worker or employee—had seen Meredith’s letter and decided to respond not just with words, but with something lasting. A message of hope. A comfort that could be held.
It wasn’t just a gift to a grieving child—it was a quiet reminder to us all:
Kindness matters. Love matters. Small gestures ripple far.
Because sometimes, heaven answers in the form of a wrapped package, a handwritten note, and a story that no one forgets.
And wherever there is love—that’s where God lives.
And for Meredith, that one small gesture transformed her grief.
She would take the book to bed each night, cradling it as if it were Abbey herself. Whenever she missed her best friend, she’d open it—not just to read Mr. Rogers’ words, but to run her fingers across the note tucked inside, as if she could feel God’s presence there, soft and steady.
The photo, now taped carefully above her bed, reminded her that love doesn’t end. It just changes form.
Her mom noticed a shift, too. The nightly tears grew fewer. The anxious questions faded. In their place bloomed something quieter, steadier — a kind of peace that only children seem to accept without needing to fully understand.
And isn’t that what we all hope for, when we lose someone?
Not answers.
But peace.
That one anonymous act — from someone who could have simply forwarded the letter on, or discarded it as undeliverable — became something much bigger. It became a touchstone for a little girl’s healing. A lesson in love. A story passed from family to friends, from town to town.
And as it was retold — whether around dinner tables, on social media, or in quiet whispers at bedtime — it reminded countless others that empathy still exists. That someone, somewhere, still cares enough to notice a child’s heartbreak and do something about it.
Whoever sent that package didn’t just respond to a letter.
They responded to a longing — the universal ache of goodbye — and met it with gentleness.
They showed that divinity doesn’t always wear robes or speak in thunder.
Sometimes, it wears a mail carrier’s uniform. Sometimes, it slips a book into a golden bag. Sometimes, it signs a letter with just one word: Love.
Because the most sacred miracles don’t always come from beyond the clouds.
Sometimes, they arrive quietly.
Through the hands of a stranger.
Into the arms of a child.
And they stay — not in the form of wings or halos, but in the tender truth that even when we lose someone we love, love itself is never lost.
When Abbey, the family’s 14-year-old Labrador, passed away, little Meredith was heartbroken. Through tears, she asked her mom if they could write a letter to God—just to make sure He’d recognize Abbey in heaven.
So they did.
Meredith dictated every word with childlike sincerity, thanking God for letting her have Abbey, asking Him to take care of her, and even including a photo so He’d know which dog was hers. They addressed it to “God / Heaven”, covered it in stamps (“because heaven is far”), and dropped it in the mailbox.
A few days later, a package arrived—wrapped in gold paper, addressed simply to “Meredith.”
Inside was a book: When a Pet Dies by Mr. Rogers.
And taped inside, her letter. Her picture. And a new handwritten note:
“Abbey arrived safely. I recognized her thanks to the photo.
She’s not sick anymore, and her spirit is here with me.
Since I don’t have pockets in heaven, I’m sending the photo back for you to keep.
I picked your mom especially for you. I’m easy to find—wherever there is love.
Love, God.”
Whoever sent it—postal worker, kind stranger, unseen angel—gave Meredith more than comfort.
They gave her proof that love never disappears.
That kindness can fill the space between heartbreak and healing.
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