Editor’s Note:This story is drawn from true events—none of which have been exaggerated. Names and identifying details have been changed not because the events were mild, but to protect privacy and focus on the deeper truth of our experience. This is one family’s memoir, intended as a reflection on the unseen world and the quiet helpers within it, rather than a formal accusation. What matters most is not who they were, but what we lived through and the modern miracles we witnessed along the way. NOTE: This story is told in journal entry format.

Prologue – On the Longest Night

Across the world and in many traditions, people watch the longest night of the year with reverence. Whether the tale is Egyptian, Greek, or Celtic, the sentiment is the same: a battle between light and dark, fear and hope. They whisper of witches who stole the sun and moon and hid them in mountains. Of spirits slipping through the cracks on the longest night. Of the need to stay awake, to keep watch, to guard the thin line between the campfire light and whatever prowls just beyond it. 

Our experience wasn’t found in a stone temple or an ancient mysterious grove. It happened east of Zion National Park, just as we were about to lose our jobs on the Winter Solstice of 2024, a day I will never forget. I’ve come to understand that life rarely asks for permission; events arrive as they please to reveal who we truly are. What follows is my account. I have refined the words a bit for you, dear reader, but the truth of what happened remains unchanged.

Day One – Solstice
Saturday, December 21, 2025

Today was supposed to be fun. My daughter and I both had the day off. The plan for the day was simple and perfect: start in Orderville with a chai latte and coffee, then head into Kanab to a friend’s café for a Winter Solstice talk. Time well spent with people we love and are so grateful for. For a while, that’s exactly how it went. We listened to a few talks, hugged friends, said our goodbyes, and headed back to the cabin some 15 miles away.

I love these days with my daughter—she’s fun to be with, easy to talk to, and still willing to go on little adventures with her mom. It’s a tender, powerful thing: the mix of wanting to explore the world beside her and the instinct to protect her from anything that might hurt her.

We left Kanab and drove back westward. Even though we knew it was temporary, we both felt blessed to be working at the resort. Yet, something had always felt off. I’d watched the patterns: the methods of management, the way people were treated. It was sad how much damage one person’s choices could cause in such a short time. I should have trusted the online workplace reviews, they were horrendous. I had doubted them at first. I thought I understood the grievances, but I was wrong. This solstice would become one of the most memorable days of my life—and not for the reasons I had hoped. The night would stretch long, and the evidence of betrayal, poor judgment, and sorrow would fill my heart. How could a place of gentle animals and such staggering beauty turn so ugly, almost cruel?

As we approached the cabin, my phone rang. It was the GM, asking where we were. His hesitant silence said more than his words. My body literally shivered as he asked if we had been back to the small cabin. For context: they were moving us from two cabins with frozen water lines into another place up the road—a house with holes in the walls and mouse droppings everywhere. It was uncomfortable, but I had my cleaning tools and that old instinct to make do, to patch and scrub and try to make things livable. We had spent the day before cleaning one of the cabins, trying to transition, trying to be grateful. We finished it spotless. After all, my daughter owned a professional commercial cleaning company.

“Did you go back to the small cabin?” the general manager asked. “No,” I said. He hesitated again. “Well,” he said, “the owner went in and saw your daughter’s cats and tossed them out.”

I yelled, “No!” because I instantly knew what this meant. I looked at my daughter. Her face went pale instantly—she’d heard every word through the phone speaker.

(Their names are Soot—male and solid black—and Angel—female and pure white. It’s a little strange that their fur is solid and completely opposite, one black and one white. These cats were brother and sister, raised indoors from birth for the last five years. Both were physically compromised: mostly toothless, one partly blind, partly deaf, both dependent on the safety of walls and routine).

I threw the truck into reverse and raced back across the highway toward the smaller cabin. My daughter cried the whole way, as if they were already dead. It was one of those weird tunnels where time dissolves and all you feel is panic. We parked and ran into the cabin. Empty. So cold. It sank in quickly. We started calling for them, shouting their names, running into the brush and looking everywhere. Silence. Nothing called back. It was afternoon, but night was on its way.

They were gone — discarded, tossed outside in an unfamiliar wilderness, and winter temperatures piercing cold.  I called the owner immediately. He didn’t answer. I texted instead. To this day, I still have those messages.

I demanded to know what he did with them. He replied that he didn’t care what happen to them or where they were. I demanded he come help us find them. His response? That he could have shot the animals because – in his view – they were “damaging” his property. The irony was brutal. We had taken care of his dog for two weeks after it was attacked by a badger. That same dog was the one who had damaged the large wooden mini blinds—not two mostly toothless, half-blind indoor cats. Yes, the cats had gotten into the garbage while we were gone, and in the process of moving but we could not yet move them to the other cabin because it was not habitable.

Then he wrote: “If and when you find them, you can pack it up”.

With that one line, we were fired. Not for theft, not for violence, not for lying. Simply for moving out of a cabin with frozen pipes and preparing another space that could be made safe and warm—for us and for the cats. Two indoor, handicapped cats. One nearly toothless and part-blind. One small and trusting. Put out into cougar and coyote country on the longest night of the year.

And so the longest night began:
flashlights, a moonless sky, freezing temperatures, and a horrible dread that felt more dense than the canyon itself.

Day Two – The Report
Sunday, December 22, 2024

We stayed in the small cabin with no running water—but at least there was heat. We didn’t sleep more than two hours, if that. The porch light stayed on all night. We listened for any sound, any scratch, any meow. The worst ache was knowing they had never been outside before. Five years old and never been outdoors. How could they survive 28-degree weather, with no familiar shelter, no water dish, almost no teeth, poor eyesight, and partial hearing? It felt like listening to a slow leak in a tire, the air slipping out with each hour. Hope deflated the same way.

Before first light, we headed back into the woods. Some of the other employees were kind enough to help, both during the day and later at night. No tracks we could follow. No fur. No sound. Just a growing dread. By late morning, I called the sheriff’s department to file a report. For one, he had entered our space without any notice—not 24 hours, not 10 minutes. For another, he had removed our animals, who were our property and responsibility. It felt like our lives there had been casually dismantled—not just our housing, but the safety of the beings we loved and cared for. From what I’d seen personally and read, this behavior seemed to fit what others had described—harsh, impulsive, and lacking in basic empathy. It seemed to confirm a pattern, not an exception. It was documented and told of by others; the work-board reviews were horrendous.

When the sheriff arrived, I was nervous. Locally, it was rumored that the owner had influence and connections. I had no idea whether that was true, but I felt small and outmatched. Still, I showed the sheriff the text messages. He told me plainly that the owner had no right to shoot or kill the cats or any domestic animal, despite what he had claimed. He took an official report. Around that time, the GM was passing by, dealing with yet another fired employee two cabins down. The place had become a revolving door—people leaving, being dismissed, or disappearing from the schedule without explanation.

I noticed a pattern: unless you were family or part of a favored circle, respect was scarce. Fair treatment was unreliable at best. It was an unhealthy atmosphere, even before this happened. Now it was undeniable.

Day Three – The First Miracle
Monday, December 23, 2024

Another sleepless night. We walked about two miles in several directions with flashlights, stumbling over rocks and roots, even catching ourselves in barbed wire. It was awful, but our gloves kept the barbs from cutting deep. The ravine was brushy and steep, pitch-black and quiet, except for the occasional rustle we couldn’t identify. Some of the staff still came to help, even after getting off work at 10 p.m. They walked with us, shining their lights into sagebrush and shadows. We would hear something move, stop, and hold our breath—never sure if it was a wild animal, a stray branch shifting in the wind, or one of the cats. It was the night before Christmas Eve. And like a Hallmark movie rerun, I kept praying for a Christmas miracle.

The night sky near Zion is its own cathedral. Even in my fear, I couldn’t help looking up. The stars looked close enough to touch, with the occasional streak of a falling one. That was that place’s saving grace… the heavens. Ironically, looking up at night was more than magical; it was spiritual. I had some hope left, but my stomach was hollow. I could feel my daughter’s fear living inside my own body. I also started feeling very sick, and fast. That odd feeling in the back of my throat, the heaviness in my limbs.

Around 5:30 a.m., I got up, got my gloves an hat, coat and stepped onto the porch to inspect the traps and cages. Nothing, ugh… As I stepped off the porch, I heard a faint sound. A small, broken cry. My daughter was inside. This wasn’t her. I stopped and listened again. There it was—a tiny, hoarse yelp. “I just heard it!” I yelled back toward the door. My daughter ran out. “I think I heard them—grab the flash light, hurry!” The sound was coming from underneath the cabin. I got down on my knees and aimed the light under the floor board. And there she was.

Angel. All white, pure white—but now dirty, scared, and shivering. One eye partially shining, the other not because she is half blind. I reached in and grabbed her paw. She resisted, dazed and confused, but I held on and gently pulled. Thankfully my gloves were on; her claws helped me hold on. My daughter and I were both in tears, calling her name over and over to calm her. My daughter brought a blanket. I finally had her and brought Angel out, holding her tight against my chest. We wrapped her with the blanket and brought her in the cabin. We cried with a kind of relief I don’t have words for. Even in that joy, another thought crept in: There’s no way we’ll find her brother too. But we had one miracle. One small white cat pulled out of the dark.

Day Four – Christmas Eve
Tuesday, December 24, 2024

Christmas Eve…

No presents. No cheer. Just prayers. Quiet ones. Half-whispered. Less conversation now, more waiting—more of that strange kind of surrender that feels like standing at the edge of something you can’t control. Tired and exhausted, but we kept moving. We walked more, over and over, all day and all night. I thanked the heavens, God, and the unseen watchers that we had found Angel. I kept trying to give my daughter hope, but I could feel her private conclusion: that we would never see Soot again. Their names are Soot—male and solid black—and Angel—female and pure white. It’s a little strange that their fur is solid and completely opposite, black and white, brother and sister.

Inside me was a strange mix of relief, heartbreak, surprise at the mercy we had already received, and the sharp ache of what was still missing. We stayed close and used the small cabin as our base of search operations. We took Angel back to the large cabin and settled her in the RV trailer, a place that was familiar and kind to her. Early in the day, we tore up pieces of worn clothing and tied them to branches and bushes, making scent trails leading back to the cabin from different directions. We had googled every trick we could find for finding lost pets. We knew that with each day, the odds dropped. Some dear friends gave us a night-vision camera. We set it up on the porch at the small cabin, aimed at a humane trap with food and water inside. If he was out there, hungry and thirsty, we wanted to give him a reason to come home.

My heart ached for my daughter. In many ways, these cats are her children. I was also getting sicker. The flu-like symptoms were rolling in hard. But we had planned to go to the Catholic church for Christmas Eve mass, to hear the singing and borrow a little Christmas hope. I thought a brief break might do us some good. We went to Church and the music was heavenly yet it was hard to sit there. I felt like I was half outside my own body, watching my life from a few feet away. Leaving the church, I looked up at the night sky again and silently asked for another miracle—careful not to feel too entitled after the first one.

We drove back to the cabin in near silence. When we returned, we changed our clothes and began to search again. My fever had fully arrived. My body hurt everywhere—bones, skin, teeth, joints. I didn’t know if it was the illness or the weight of the last few days, or both. Probably both.

Day Five – Christmas Day
Wednesday, December 25, 2024

Nothing was holding back this fever that came over like a title wave. After a short search the night before, I had to get back to the cabin to lay down. Christmas morning I woke up with a horrible fever. I was burning up and shivering with chills at the same time. Ugh. My first thought was: I do not want to get anyone else sick and WTH – the timing – why?! I couldn’t stay lying down. Everything hurt—my eyes, even my eyelashes, my joints—and beneath all that, my heart. My heart hurt most for my sweet daughter, who deserved none of this. Not the fear, not the grief, not the cruelty of an employer we had worked hard for. 

Some of the staff came by to check on us and help. They brought soup and, more importantly, kindness, support, and understanding. My daughter went outside to chat with them. I suited up, despite the fever. I could not stop. While we stood outside, preparing to search again, one of them shook her head and said, almost in disbelief: “Can you imagine the gall of these weasels…”They asked me to ask you both of if you would be willing to work Christmas and New Year’s.” I just stared at her. “What the hell, are you kidding”.  Had it not been for my brother working there, I would have left in the first week, like so many others. I’d watched people come and go, month after month, worn down by the same patterns and shenanigans. I could not give new people confidence in any of it. I would be lying to myself and to them.

Night fell. My chest hurt. I finally slept deeply. I took Tylenol—I didn’t want anything that would make me too sleepy. I slathered Vicks everywhere: chest, throat, under my nose. I wanted to kick this as fast as possible. I couldn’t afford to lose time. Still, the thought nagged at me: Why? Why get sick now, when I need to give this everything I have? Ugh… Watching my daughter’s mental stamina wearing thin, I pushed myself up anyway. Fever or not, I went back out. The bitter cold a reminder of not so good things. I bundled up: hat, gloves, walking stick, and a plastic bag filled with empty cat-food cans. By the end of the day, my hope was thinning out. 

The GM kept pressuring us to pack up and leave the new cabin. I texted him and told him he might be waiting awhile. Under these circumstances, we were not going to leave until we found a body or some kind of evidence. There was no way we were going to drive off and leave our pet to fend for itself in the wilderness, to be eaten or run over on the highway. We needed closure, some kind of answer.Soot was precious. We deserved to know what had become of him.

Day Six – The Day After Christmas
Thursday, December 26, 2024

The night was long. No running water, no working toilet in the small cabin. But that’s where we chose to stay, just in case Soot found his way back there. What if he returned and we weren’t there…but

Morning came. The sun rose.
No sound. No sight of him. Just a deepening heaviness. My flu worsened. But in the middle of all that, the people who truly cared showed themselves. Their compassion and help in the freezing darkness are things I will never forget. I wish I could name them one by one in print, so they’d fully know who and what they are to us.

Day Seven – Questions and a Goodbye?
Friday, December 27, 2024

Was today a miracle or a goodbye?

I’m still not sure. The canyon felt different. I walked the ravine for miles. During the day, there were a lot of crows circling above us. Actually, they’d been around for the last two days, flying overhead like quiet sentinels. For what it’s worth, I asked them for help. It might sound silly, but they have a view we don’t. And I was compelled and maybe desperation makes us doing things we don’t understand. They can see in a way we never will from the ground. So I spoke to them out loud, when no one else was nearby.

I asked them to tell Soot that she needed him back. To please guide him toward us. And for them to help him not be afraid. I was starting to mend from the flu. I was still weak, but at least my joints and body didn’t hurt as bad. My emotions and spirit were a different matter. I drove the truck slowly along the walking path, scanning every shadow, every tree line. It was getting late. We were invited to our dear friends home near the resort—people I quietly think of as saints of this century. They had opened their door to us again and again, and their kindness made the harshness of everything else easier to bear.

Before evening, on our way to supper at their home, the sun was setting. There was this eerie, empty feeling. I was starting to give up, and my stomach hurt with that hollow kind of grief. My daughter and I didn’t speak as we drove off. I could see the sunset in the rear view mirror. It was beautiful – no matter my sorrow. The highway was empty. As we drove further, I saw this jet black object in the distance. I slowed down with disbelief. On the side of the highway, facing us and looking at the sunset behind us, was this little tiny black shape. 

“It’s Soot, Of my goosh!” I shouted. I could not believe it—he was alive.

I pulled over carefully so I wouldn’t scare him. The highway was dangerous, and thank God there were no other cars on the road at that minute. My daughter hopped out and got close to him. He ran back into the ravine and into the thick bushes. At least not into the road. I made a U-turn to go back the other way because on that side of the road was a walking path where I could drive the truck on and get further back into the brush. The sun just set, and with it came the freezing temperatures. I drove along the bike/walking path and parked about where we’d seen him. I started calling for him. In the brush,the ravine again. I could hear my daughter but could not see her. We didn’t have our flash lights, just our phone lights. The barbed wire caught me again as I fell. We called and searched until 2 a.m., until we could no longer walk.

In my heart, it felt like he had shown himself to say his goodbyes one last time. I didn’t say that out loud but we both felt it. I could not shake the seared visual of that tiny little thing looking at the sunset on the side of the road. Had it not happened to us, I could not believe it. Hope is renewed and lost in the same moment. My daughter cried herself to sleep. I could hear her and I could not help, it was so hard and hopeless. 

Day Eight – Crows and Unseen Forces
Saturday, December 28, 2024

I woke up with a pounding headache and a clogged nose. The flu was easing, but now a cold has settled in. All I could think was: He’s still out there, please help us. I didn’t care how I felt. We had to find Soot. He was still alive. We could not leave that mountain without him, but some aching part of me whispered that we had already reached the limit of miracles. The idea of driving away while he was still out there made every part of my body ache.

Eight days.
No food.
No water source he could count on.
No teeth to defend himself.
No experience of the outdoors.

We went back into the cold again and again, walking until I felt half-dead myself. Eventually, we returned to the larger cabin—the one up the road. We had moved our RV trailer next to it and were staying there because that felt safe for now. Sweet Angel was coming around and feeling like herself again, but she looked and seemed empty to me. I could feel it.

It was getting late. After a long day of searching, we went back to the big cabin to check on Angel and let the dogs out. The bigger cabin was in a beautiful setting. And yet the irony of it—the disrespect, the dilapidated neglect. The deer wandered through the backyard of rubbish, old tires, and broken-down appliances. The land itself felt sacred—despite the neglect and lack of respect it had been shown. As I walked back toward the property, I noticed three crows circling above the house and the backyard. They looked like the same three that had been hanging around for the past several days, but this time they were circling directly above the cabin. They were loud—calling out instead of just gliding silently. It felt like they were trying to draw attention to something. In my mind I thought something was dead back there.

In the previous days, they had flown overhead in almost complete silence, as if simply watching us. I stepped inside and my son helped me harness the dogs so we could let them out in the front yard. We still kept them on leashes even though the front was fenced. The deer liked to poke around and we didn’t want the dogs to confront them. We stepped off the front porch down to the dirt; they naturally went toward the fence on the west side of the house.

I was holding the oldest dog’s leash when she pulled hard, then froze at the corner of the house. The younger one did the same, with my son holding her. I walked forward to see what had stopped them, thinking it was the deer. As we rounded the corner, I saw him.

Soot…
Small, solid black, frozen in place, staring back at the dogs.

I looked at my son, speechless, I couldn’t even say a word I was frozen –  then my mind returned to me and my voice….I shouted for my daughter. “OMG! He’s here! He’s here, hurry!” I yelled toward the house.

I dropped the leash and climbed over the small fence to follow him. He bolted—but instead of disappearing into the brush, he ran under the house through a large opening in the foundation. The one that we did not cover and thank God for that.

My son ran to get my daughter. She came out. “What? What? You sure?” she asked.

We all ran to the back, speaking softly to him, trying to coax him out. He didn’t make a sound. We placed a board to cover the one opening I had missed. He looked tattered, fragile, like a ghost of the cat we knew. His energy wasn’t the same. It was weird, he looks feral with wild eyes. We blocked the opening so he couldn’t run out again and set a humane trap with food and water. My daughter removed a piece of wood so he could exit from under the house and go into the cage. Within thirty minutes, we had him.

We carefully carried Soot’s cage into the RV trailer and placed it next to Angel’s crate, where she remained quarantined. He was terrified and silent. Angel, sadly, hissed at him—they didn’t recognize each other anymore after the trauma. It was heartbreaking. These two had been together since birth. Soot ate and drank with a bit of hissing. We let him rest, covered the cage so that he could acclimate, and to prevent any possible contagion he may have contracted.

Tonight, for the first time in over a week, I slept. This is an unbelievable miracle—one guided by animals, by unseen help, by something larger than our own efforts. Eight days of humility, grief, gratitude, and a kind of inspiration I don’t fully understand.

Day Nine – Strange Distance
Sunday, December 29, 2024

Today was strange.

We couldn’t reach a veterinarian right away, and Soot and Angel were not acting like siblings. We weren’t sure if the trauma had changed him, or if he’d gone partly feral out of fear. We put their cages near each other so they could smell one another without fighting. We decided to give them time and space.

New Year’s Eve was approaching. The resort usually did a big celebration. Under normal circumstances, we might have been excited. Now, we just felt tired and bruised. A part of us wanted to disappear and put all of this behind us. But still this is unbelievable. Is this realty, I keep thinking.

Day Ten – Packing Up
Monday, December 30, 2024

The cats were still unsettled, still off. We finally spoke with a veterinarian, who advised us to keep them apart and quarantined for a while. They both looked like they’d come out of dumpsters—dirty, skittish, unsure.

But they were alive.

At least they were together again in the RV trailer, a place that was familiar and safe. We started packing. We took loads to a storage unit. Sadly, we had just spent hundreds of dollars moving things out of storage to settle in here. Now we were returning it all, two hours away. I had mixed feelings. I loved the land, the view, and the wildlife. But I did not love the atmosphere of inconsistency and the way so many people, ourselves included, had been treated.

I would miss my chickens and dogs most of all—the Great Pyrenees that walked 2.5 miles every other night and slept on our porch. Like more miracles…even they found us. I used to buy bones from the butcher and bring them back for our dogs and for the three who visited. As our indoor dogs would start barking at midnight or shortly thereafter, I would look out the window and there they would be—all three of them. They would hop on the couch on the porch and sleep there. I would come out in the middle of the night and sit with them under the stars and the moon. It was precious and priceless, this small little ritual we’d fallen into. They trusted us. We did not set foot on the resort grounds again, only to take the dogs back before the morning broke.

I cried the first time they showed up. I had not seen them in weeks. And soon it would be time to say goodbye. Somehow, they had known where to come. And in his own way, so had Soot. Just like the Hallmark made tv movies. Its exactly what happened.

The miracle on Highway 89 will never leave my mind: that a physically compromised indoor cat, who had never been outside, could survive eight winter nights in the East of Zion, in dangerous and unforgiving country full of mountain lions, coyotes, and fast traffic—and somehow found his way back to us.

Why this mercy?
Why this particular miracle?

I don’t know.

But I am endlessly grateful—for the friends who cared, for the animals that taught, for the natural and unseen world that seemed to guide him back and bless our broken hearts.

Day Eleven – Lanterns and Fire
Tuesday, December 31, 2024 – New Year’s Eve

New Year’s Eve. A day of hope for new beginnings.

I was nervous about many things—the uncertainty of losing a job in the middle of winter, the financial strain, the logistics of moving an RV before the heavy snows. And something about today felt off. I almost had a premonition, but like always, I second-guessed my intuitions. But I also knew this truth: things have a way of working out. They always have, in one way or another.

The immediate priority was clear: move the RV before the storms rolled in. Still, we allowed ourselves a small celebration. We were invited to our beloved friends’ home across from the resort. We gathered with kind people, shared simple snacks, and sat in their warmth for a few hours. I was still recovering, worn down in body and spirit. We left around 10:00 p.m.ish… We needed rest if we were going to pack and move in the next week.

Driving past the resort, we saw lanterns rising into the night sky. It was beautiful and bittersweet—a tradition we might have enjoyed under other circumstances. Instead, it felt like watching a celebration from which we could not be a part of. We reached our place and checked on the cats. They were safe. For the first time in days, the world felt quieter, less threatening.

My phone was beside the couch where I was lying down. A message came in:

“explosion at the firework show. “Owner hurt real bad”
At first, I thought it was a dark joke. A few of the staff had strong feelings about him; sarcasm wasn’t uncommon. Many had struggled with his style of sinister. I replied, “No way, stop it”

He answered, “Swear.” “They’re going to life flight him” I called another worker. The story matched. And then, about twenty minutes later, I heard the helicopter overhead… It was true.

I looked at my phone.
It read 11:10 p.m. Wow…ugh. What a way to cross into a new year. I don’t pretend to know the meaning of all this. I don’t dance on anyone’s suffering, no matter what they’ve done. But I do know this:

On the longest nights, in the coldest canyons east of Zion, and under the stunning millions of stars in the Milky Way, mercy found its way to two small cats and two broken-hearted women. And this is the miracle I choose to remember.