Many orders arrive with instructions. Others arrive carrying something fragile—a thought, a memory. This one came from a woman looking to create a gift for her close friend, someone who had just lost her mother earlier in December. There was no rush, no urgency for a holiday deadline. What she was hoping for was something else entirely.She shared a photograph.The image was vertical, striking, and full of life. The woman in the photo stood confidently inside a museum, arm lifted as she took a selfie, echoing the exact upward motion of the marble statue towering behind her. It was one of those photos that doesn’t need explaining. You can feel it.

“There’s no cropping this one,” I remember thinking.

As we talked through shell options, she mentioned something quietly profound. Her friend had asked for a sign from her mother—and then this photo surfaced unexpectedly in her memories. When the image appeared, she shared it with her friend. And her friend knew immediately what she wanted to do with it. Sometimes people don’t ask for signs loudly. Sometimes they whisper.

I found an oyster shell large enough to honor the photograph in full. It was heavier than most, solid in the hand, already prepared with gold trim. It felt right. We decided on an ornament, with a thin gold wire for hanging, and a simple message on the back—words that would sit gently, not overwhelm.

I’m right here in your heart.

There was no need to rush the process. I transferred the image into the shell itself—not layered on top—so it could feel like it belonged there. Then I sealed it with resin and included a stand, knowing it might be something she would want to keep close all year long. When the shell was finished and sent on its way, I hoped it would bring comfort. That’s always the hope. A couple of weeks later, I received a message from the woman who received the gift.She told me her mother had passed from stage-four pancreatic cancer on December 9. She told me that when she uncovered the shell, she burst into tears. She told me her mother would have loved it—loved the creativity, loved the thought behind it. 

She shared something else, too.Her mother had crafted handmade jewelry from recycled materials. She had a soft spot for creativity like this.That detail stayed with me.

I started Shell Tales as a creative outlet—an experiment, really. I never expected the connections. I never expected to be trusted with stories like this. And yet, they arrive. Quietly. Tenderly. Often through correspondence that doesn’t feel like orders at all.I don’t know if the shell was the sign she was looking for that day. But I know it carried love—from a mother remembered, from a friend who noticed, and from hands that understood the weight of both.Sometimes signs don’t arrive loudly. Sometimes they arrive quietly— held inside a shell