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How Reconnecting with Nature Encourages Spiritual Growth

Every summer growing up in Richmond, Virginia, my family picked the wild blackberries that grew in the woods near our house. The summer I was 15 years old, I plucked a perfectly ripe berry off a bush. All at once, I was struck by a profound sense of wonder at the very perfection of that little fruit. I marveled at its seemingly miraculous ability to grow from the earth and nourish me. I experienced the startling awareness that everything around me was balanced and correct. Each aspect had a purpose: the sky, the trees, me, even this tiny blackberry I held in my hand. It was as if the world itself had suddenly come into divine focus. Then I heard my mom calling and the moment ended.

The experience left me with a persistent question: Why did that moment in the woods make me feel more connected to God than any other moment in my life?

I turned to Scripture. The Book of Genesis describes how God created the lands, the oceans, the vegetation and the wildlife before creating humans, as if he were setting the stage for us, the natural context of our existence. The Book of Job in particular focuses on how God’s power can be seen in every aspect of nature, from mighty storms to the morning dew. When Jesus needed to pray, he often retreated into nature. In the Book of Mark, Jesus went to the mountains. In the Book of Luke, he went to the hills. In the Book of Matthew, he went to a garden.

I also turned to mystics and theologians. In his poem “When I Was the Forest,” Meister Eckhart talks about returning to nature to feel God’s presence. Saint Francis of Assisi believed communing with animals could draw us closer to God.

Still, I wondered about modern cases, like mine, in which nature served as a connection to something more.

I spoke with Paul Marshall to get a better understanding of current revelatory moments in the natural world. Dr. Marshall studied natural sciences at the University of Cambridge and received his MA and Ph.D. in religious studies from Lancaster University. He’s dedicated his career to the study of extrovertive mystical experiences, or mystical experiences in nature.

Dr. Marshall has found that experiences like the one I had often leave the experiencer with a shift into a deeper center of self and a sense of divine presence or a higher power.

“Mystical experiences have been viewed as the purview of a few saints and other holy personages,” Dr. Marshall told me, “but it’s clear that they’re much more common than we think.” He pointed to a 2000 study out of the UK that polled people who’d had a mystical experience. Twenty-nine percent of the respondents reported their experience as “awareness of a sacred presence in nature.”

His research also revealed that these profound moments are experienced by people of all faith backgrounds, levels of belief and age—as if the natural world is a spiritual access point that God has made available for all.

Even if a person doesn’t have a dramatic shift in spiritual perspective, nature can still be the setting for important communion with God, giving us answers to life’s greatest challenges.

Nature held the answers that Colleen Messina, of Bozeman, Montana, urgently sought after her father was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s. Colleen felt she was losing her connection to him. Her father refused to discuss his condition, and she struggled to know how he was feeling.

“The person I loved most in the world was disappearing, and I couldn’t talk heart-to-heart with him anymore,” she told me.

Colleen and her father had always connected through hiking. She found a short hike they could do near their home. It led to the top of a hill where they paused to catch their breath and marvel at the sweeping views of the verdant valley below. Above them a hawk soared on a thermal. The sun warmed their shoulders.

“Looking all around me—the pines, the rocks, the big sky—I felt the full presence of the Holy Spirit and suddenly knew the words I needed to say.”

Colleen spoke softly to her father. “Daddy, how is your heart?”

“My heart is fine,” he answered, then smiled. “My home is my heart. I am at home.”

Colleen found emotional healing and spiritual reconnection on the hilltop that day.

Indeed, nature can be a place where people find healing of all kinds. According to a 2016 article by Time magazine, a series of studies in Japan showed that nature can be beneficial to our physical health as well. The Forest Agency of Japan even recommends that people take the time to walk in the woods for their health, a practice called shin-rin-yokurin-yoku, or “forest-bathing.” Studies , conducted by Qing Li, one of the world’s leading experts in forest bathing, found that the practice can lower our blood pressure and improve our immune system. Dr. Li’s research also shows that it can help ease depression, reduce anxiety and anger, and increase energy.

Yet what is it about nature, specifically, that lends itself to these experiences? Why couldn’t my revelation, or Colleen’s healing moment, have happened at home, at work or even at church?

According to Laurie Kehler, author of the book This Outside Life: Finding God in the Heart of Nature, we are manifestly part of God’s creation. Kehler has spent her life in the great outdoors and believes it is in this space that communion with God comes easiest.

“When we started, we started in a garden,” she said. “God designed nature to speak to us. That’s why we feel his presence so much there. That was the first way he communicated with us.”

She describes how nature is intel-ligently designed to elicit wonder, something that is vital to our faith.

“What I learned being 50 feet underwater scuba diving in Australia or being at the top of a mountain in Yosemite is that God did not have to do this,” she says. “He could have made all the fish gray and functional, but he didn’t. He could have made all the birds blue, and all sing the same song, but they don’t. He made them all amazingly varied in their colors and their habits. I see this creativity in nature as his love being poured out.”

It’s that sense of awe and wonder that leads to experiences like the one I had, says Dr. Marshall. The mountains, the sea, the forest and the night sky are all rich settings for mystical experiences. “They can take one out of oneself with the calming sounds, arresting fragrances and the quiet of mind that these settings can instill.”

With hectic schedules, fast-paced environments and people spending more time in front of screens, experiencing nature is more important than ever to renew our spirit and connect to the divine.

“In the short term, the experiences can help people through difficult periods in their lives,” says Dr. Marshall. “In the longer term, they can encourage a spiritual reorientation. They can increase sensitivity to social and environmental issues—the care of other living beings in general. It is important to recognize that the experiences are not ends in themselves but invitations to look deeper.” In other words, a vibrant pathway to spiritual growth, balance and harmony.

I was imbued by that feeling during my experience in the woods. I looked at that blackberry and felt a deep sense of wonder. My perspective on the world wasn’t so much changed as realigned. As if my soul had been awakened to the purest form of God’s love for us: the very world he created. God is too big, too wondrous, for us to fully understand, but that moment in the woods near my home helped me feel closer to him than I had ever felt. The feeling lingers still.

How Persistent Prayer Saved Her Beloved Dog

Sad brown eyes stared back at me from the wire cage in our living room. I poked my fingers through the holes, stroking the graying fur of my spaniel, Kelly. Eight weeks. That’s how long she’d be confined to this crate, if there was to be any chance of her recovering from the injury that left her unable to move her back legs. I looked up at the Christmas tree, still decorated from the holiday a few days before. We’d adopted Kelly from a rescue group on Christmas 12 years earlier, and it seemed especially cruel that she was failing at this time of year. The vet’s words replayed in my mind: “She might never walk again.”

“I’m praying for a miracle,” my daughter, Kate, said, huddled beside me on the floor, looking at Kelly. She and her husband, Aaron, were visiting us for the holidays.

“Kelly is 13,” I said. “Too old.”

“That doesn’t matter. You should pray for a miracle too.”

I knew it wasn’t going to happen. Don’t get me wrong, I believe in miracles, but we’d already received ours. Just a year earlier I’d prayed desperately as my husband, Mike, lay in the intensive care unit on a respirator. He’d been given only a 10 to 20 percent chance of survival. Yet he’d made it. How could I ask God for more?

Kelly’s ordeal started on Christmas Day. Mike and I were headed out for a family get-together. Before leaving, I hugged Kelly close and thanked God for our best gift ever. I tossed her a present from her stocking, a pink stuffed bunny. She snatched it in midair, then trotted over by the coffee table to happily unstuff it. A spry and active senior canine. Several hours later we were canine. back home. Kate had gotten there before us.

“Mom, I just let Kelly outside and she could barely get down the steps,” she told me. “Is she all right?”

“What? She was fine this morning,” I said.

I looked out the door at Kelly. She sat awkwardly in the snow. I called her name. She turned her head toward me but didn’t budge. I carried her inside and made her comfortable on a soft blanket. She probably just pulled a muscle while we were out, I thought.

The next morning, Mike and I took Kelly to the veterinarian. The vet knelt down beside her, listening with her stethoscope. She gently flexed Kelly’s legs and pressed along her back. “How did she injure herself?” she asked us.

“We’re not sure,” I said. “When we came home from Christmas brunch, we found her like this. Could it be a muscle strain?”

“No.” She helped Kelly to her feet. “Show me how she walks.”

I coaxed Kelly on the leash, but her back legs collapsed and she fell. My heart sank.

After a series of X-rays was taken, the vet came back.

“I’m afraid she’s ruptured several disks in her spine,” she said, pointing to one of the X-rays. “You can clearly see the bone fragments in the spinal fluid.”

“What does that mean?” I asked.

“You’re going to have to keep her as still as possible.”

We could do that. “For how long?”

“Eight weeks,” the vet answered. “For even a possibility of healing.”

“Possibility?”

“She might never walk again,” the vet said.

I’d followed the vet’s orders, keeping Kelly confined in a cage. No running in the yard or tromping with me through the neighborhood. No tagging at my heels around the house or pawing at my knee while I worked in my home office. No jumping up on the bed to snuggle beside Mike and me every night. It had been only a few days but there wasn’t any improvement. And now, watching her lower her head in the cage, I wondered if there ever would be.

“Come on, Mom, let’s let her sleep,” Kate said, standing up and helping me to my feet. I looked back at Kelly, my eyes filling. “Keep praying,” Kate reminded me.

Of course I’d been praying! But I was confused. How come God chose to heal some and not others? I’d cried out to God for healing before. For my dad when he’d suffered a heart attack at only 55. For our beloved golden retriever Brooks, after a cancer diagnosis. For friends bat-tling terminal illnesses. They hadn’t made it. There was no logic to miracles, not that I could comprehend. How was I to pin my faith on something so rare and tenuous?

Every day for a week, I watched Kelly in that crate. She lay so still. I set her food bowls next to her. When she had to go outside, I carried her, supporting her with a sling the way the vet showed me. I kept her on a short leash, so short she couldn’t even sniff around. “Sudden movement can cause worse damage,” the vet had said.

And every day after Kate went home, she called to check on Kelly—and me.

“I’m still praying for a miracle, Mom. You are too, right?”

Sweet Kate, trying to give me hope. But Kelly was as limp as that stuffed toy I’d given her for Christmas.

One night, near the end of the week, the house was quiet. I took Kelly out of her cage and carried her outside with the sling. She was old. She didn’t have the strength to beat this. She struggled to move her front legs. “No,” I said, circling her with my arms. “Be still.”

The words echoed in my heart: Be still. Be still. As if God were speaking to me. I closed my eyes and held Kelly close. Be still and know that I am God.

Was it Kelly who didn’t have the strength to beat this? Or was it me? I opened my eyes and looked up at the stars, at the heavens that stretched farther than I could see. The God who created a miracle of such vastness could surely heal a little injured dog.

Lord, Kelly is in bad shape. But I know you can heal her, if it is your will. I am trusting you to do what is best for her.

Kelly remained slumped in my embrace. Somehow, though, I felt an assurance that God was with me, no matter what happened, holding me as lovingly as I held her.

The next day, New Year’s Eve, was Kelly’s first follow-up appointment. The vet examined her. “Let her walk,” she said. “Let me see if there has been any change.” I supported Kelly with the sling. At first she drooped. Then she took a tentative step with her front paws. Then another. Her back legs followed. As she pulled ahead, the sling dropped. She was walking! Not just walking but trotting around the room. No sign of weakness. She scampered to the chair where Mike sat, to the door, then back to me.

”Should I stop her?” I asked.

“No,” the vet said. “I mean…I don’t know. I’ve never seen this happen so fast before.” She did a few more tests, gently manipulating Kelly’s legs. Then the vet looked up at us, her eyes soft. “I can’t explain this. The recovery was supposed to take eight weeks if it happened at all. It’s only been one week.”

I couldn’t wait to tell Kate…and not just about Kelly. I wanted to tell her that now I knew why she had kept urging me to pray: If we are still enough to let God in, we will see his miracles. We may not understand them, but we will see them everywhere, like the stars in the heavens.

How Nickels Became Divine Signs from Above

I was out on a walk,my eyes downcast, trying my eyes downcast, trying to sort through my thoughts. A few days ago, my husband, Russ, and I had lost our house of Russ, and I had lost our house of 28 years to California’s Camp Fire. We’d had to move into a hotel. It was all so hard to process.

An emergency phone call had alerted us early in the morning a few days prior. “Wildfire,” the robo-call repeated. “Evacuate immediately.” We sprang into action. Our next-door neighbor came over to check on us and helped Russ wrestle our four cats into carriers, while I tossed a few changes of clothes, blankets and the family photos hanging in the hall into a bag.

We dashed out to our car, following a caravan of our neighbors along winding back roads. We drove for hours until we were finally out of danger, but we couldn’t find a place to stay. That night, we had to sleep in the back seat of our Subaru, parked in a Walmart parking lot. The next morning, we drove three and a half hours to the nearest hotel that still had vacancy. Only later did we see photographs of the destruction. Our house had been consumed by the fire along with most of our neighborhood.

Our insurance was covering food and lodging until our claim went through and we found a new house. Still, I felt totally unmoored. Exhausted emotionally and physically. Grateful to be alive and safe, for sure, but lost. Not only had we lost our family home, our beloved fixer-upper into which we’d invested countless hours of sweat equity, but so much of our lives had disappeared overnight: family photo albums, my wedding dress, priceless memorabilia and heirlooms.

How are we going to rebuild after this? I thought, rounding a corner in the sidewalk on my walk back to the hotel. Is it even possible?

I noticed something up ahead. Something glimmering on the pavement. A pair of nickels, shining like precious jewels. I felt a flicker of joy and wonder, admiring the way the metal gleamed against the dull cement. They were just nickels, but they somehow felt special. I bent down and picked them up, slipping them into my pocket. Back in our room, I grabbed a paper coffee cup and set it on the desk, dropping the coins inside. If these were lucky coins, I could use all the luck I could get.

A few days later, I made a trip to the store to buy essentials. I wandered the aisles, not knowing what to buy first. The enormous task of replacing everything we’d lost overwhelmed me. I didn’t know if I could go through with the shopping trip. I felt panicky. I was about to run back to my car when I felt the urge to stop and turn my head to the right. I could hardly believe it—there on a shelf, right at eye level, was a nickel! Okay, maybe this is more than luck, I thought and put the nickel in my pocket. The panic went away and I finished shopping, feeling more buoyed.

I told myself the found nickels were probably just a coincidence. Then I found one next to my plate at a restaurant—on Thanksgiving, no less, when I was missing our house more than ever. A few weeks later, I found another in a grocery store while I was thinking about how much I missed our kitchen. It seemed that a nickel appeared whenever my spirits plummeted.

Our insurance claim was finally settled. We started to look for a new house right away, only to find that the market was incredibly tight. Hundreds of people and families in Northern California had lost their homes. All those lost homes reduced housing availability and drove up prices. The bidding was fierce. My daily routine became checking for new listings, calling real-estate agents, then traveling miles to tour homes. Sometimes the homes would be sold while we were on our way to see them. The time we spent living out of a hotel stretched from weeks into months.

And yet, whenever I reached my breaking point, I’d find another nickel. Nestled in the grass at the park. Peeking out from under the tire of my car in a parking lot. Once, my change for a quick lunch was given entirely in nickels. “I’m sorry,” the cashier said. “It’s all we have.”

It’s all I needed! I added the coins to my growing cache in the paper cup in the hotel room. It was practically full by now. When I didn’t feel as if I could spend another day browsing real estate listings, I’d glance at that cup and feel a surge of hope.

One day, I was sitting at the desk when my phone rang. It was a real-estate agent I’d been working with.

“I have a new listing,” she said. “In the area we discussed. Over an acre with a creek running behind it. Lots of mature trees—”

“When can we see it?”

A few hours later, Russ and I were following the agent down the driveway toward the house.

“What do you think?” she asked.

The house was obviously in need of repairs. A new coat of paint, for starters. But the trees surrounding the property were beautiful. They reminded me of the forested area we had lived in. The price was in our range. Had we finally found our new home at long last? Or was I just desperate to cast off hotel living?

I didn’t deliberate long. Because there, in the driveway, I spotted a flash of silver in the California sun. Two nickels, both heads up.

How Mysterious Ways Makes a Difference

Today’s guest blogger is Mysterious Ways assistant editor Daniel Kessel.

Since coming to work for Mysterious Ways magazine, I’ve picked up on Mysterious Moments everywhere. Sometimes one of these stories seems to speak directly to me. As it turns out, I’m not alone.

Check out two recent letters from subscribers who found Thomas Moore’s article, “In Search of an Inner Voice,” exactly when they needed it.

Caroline Stevenson of St. Georges, Manitoba, Canada, writes:

“This actually occurred to me this morning while reading your magazine.

It’d been a terrible year so far–my husband was in and out of the hospital, my daughter was struggling financially. Our hospital bills left us in no situation to help. To make matters worse, mice, squirrels and bugs had managed to find an entrance to our house!

Hoping to simplify our lives and prepare for a possible move, I emptied out all our closets and drawers, packed the clothing into plastic bags and put everything outside on the deck. I planned to go through each bag and keep only the essentials.

Instead, the bags stayed outside on the deck for weeks. I was too overwhelmed with all my life situations.

Today I woke up early, wondering what I should do. While having a quiet cup of coffee, I began to read Mysterious Ways. I came to one article called ‘An Inner Voice,’ by Thomas Moore. Oh Lord, I prayed, If only I could hear that inner voice. Then I began to read his list of how-to’s. The very first one was, ‘Clear the deck.’

The remaining suggestions were equally meaningful to our family. Maybe this is going to be a better year after all!”

From Hammond, Indiana, David DeLoera shares:

“I wanted to write some letters to friends I’ve corresponded with for the past 20 years. But my inner subconscious inkwell had run dry. There simply wasn’t a single inspirational thought or word that I could share. Their letters lay in a pile, unanswered.

Then the mail came. I tossed out most of the catalogs and advertising–then I saw a small magazine I had never seen before: Mysterious Ways–more than coincidence. ‘Yeah right,’ I said skeptically.

I opened the sample issue and turned to an article called ‘An Inner Voice,’ by Thomas Moore in Petersborough, New Hampshire. Petersborough? I gasped in astonishment. A flood of memories flashed through my mind’s eye.

September 1955, I was 15 years old and left home for the first time. I had a train ticket for the overnight trip to Petersborough, New Hampshire, where I was starting school at Saint Joseph’s Carmelite Seminary.

When the train stopped, me and another kid got off. His name was Foster, from Milwaukee. The van came to take us to the school, and Foster sat up front with the priest. Immediately they began conversing in Latin!

What a wonderful experience it was, the beauty of New Hampshire in the autumn. The chapel at Saint Joseph’s. Our teachers and studies and classmates.

Years later, someone sent me a copy of American Scholar. I found an article about a prominent Latin scholar at the Vatican by the name of Foster. My classmate! In the article he even described how it all began for him: ‘I got off the train from Milwaukee…’

Now I can write those letters–I have the inspiration right here in my hands. But first, a letter to you, Mysterious Ways. More than coincidence–right!”

How has one of our stories impacted you? Send us your letters! We love to hear how a story made a difference.

How Mysterious Tracks Gave Her Hope in a Snowstorm

Thick snowflakes swirled around my windshield. Everything around me was blanketed in white. The light was fading as the sun set over the rocky peaks.

I was driving up a mountain pass on what was supposed to be a four-hour trip from Red River, New Mexico, to Durango, Colorado. I inched along on a winding, unfamiliar road in a snowstorm.

I was on my way to meet my boyfriend, who was visiting his family in Durango. He’d invited me to join them for the weekend. I was staying at a friend’s house in Red River. The fastest way to Durango from Red River would take me through this mountain road, but I was so excited about the weekend ahead that the route didn’t faze me. I left without checking the weather.

Thirty minutes into my drive, the snow had started. Gentle flurries at first. I thought about turning around. But it hardly looked threatening, so I continued.

Now I regretted that decision. But it was too late. The road was too narrow and icy for me to turn around. To my right was a sheer cliff face, and to the left, a sharp drop-off descending hundreds of feet. The snow was bad, getting worse. The only way out was forward, higher and higher into the mountains. The last bit of sunlight disappeared, and I couldn’t see anything beyond the few feet illuminated by my headlights. I panicked.

My cell phone had lost service as soon as I’d entered the mountain pass and remained at zero bars. I couldn’t call for help. I had some bottled water in the trunk. The clothes in my luggage. Maybe I could find a place to pull over and bundle up until morning. Would that be enough to keep me warm all night? How long would it take for someone to find me? If anyone ever would…

I gripped the wheel tighter. “Please, God, help me,” I whispered.

Then I noticed something. A pair of lights seemed to glow dimly through the snowstorm. I blinked hard, then peered ahead. There they were. Taillights! There was a car in front of me! At least someone was here with me. Focus on the lights, I told myself, not your fear.

I followed my guide for at least another half hour as we continued to ascend the mountain. Finally, I felt the road start to level out and then gradually descend. I lost sight of the taillights ahead of me. But the panic didn’t return. I could see the car’s tire tracks in my headlights. All I had to do was follow the tracks the rest of the way down the mountain. I drove slowly, keeping my wheels within the tracks every inch of the way. Soon I could see the lights of a town twinkling in the distance. The snow started to cover the tracks I was following. But both of us had made it.

At the base of the mountain, I spotted taillights. I wondered if it was my guide. If so, I wanted to thank him. But as I got closer, I saw it wasn’t a car. It was a snowplow. I pulled up beside it and rolled down my window. The driver of the plow did the same.

“Excuse me,” I said. “Did you see another car come down this road, ahead of me?”

The driver looked at me as if I was insane. “Lady,” he said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’ve been working here at the base of the mountain for the past two or three hours. No one has gone up or come down that mountain but you.”

I didn’t correct him, but I knew differently. I hadn’t been alone on that mountain road that night.

How Mothers Can Comfort Us From Beyond

Mother’s Day—it is often a day of reunion, joy, and family connection. However, for some, it can be a difficult occasion to get through. Whether we’ve lost our mother, are not in contact with her, or perhaps, never even knew her, sometimes we get a sign that lets us know we are still connected. These seven profound stories highlighting the mother-child bond can inspire all of us, especially those missing their mothers today.

  1. One Last Surprise

Mama passed away in December 1997 at age 93. Two months later, on a cold gray February morning, four of us sisters gathered at our childhood home in Clarkesville, Georgia, to go through her things. It took hours to divide her treasures into orderly batches. We piled them on the beds, the dressers, even the window ledges. But we still hadn’t tackled Grandfather’s big black trunk. It was more than a hundred years old and sat at the very back of the closet.

The trunk’s hinges groaned as we raised the heavy lid. We pulled out old coats, prom dresses, baby sweaters, all things we remembered. An old, yellowed sheet was spread across the bottom of the trunk. Was there something beneath it? I pulled back the sheet. We all gasped.

See the last surprise Brenda’s mother had for her and her sisters.

  1. The Woman in His Dreams

The dreams were vivid, he said, like sensory overload. They always took place amid lush, green hills. A soothing tune would drift through the dream, like a movie soundtrack. And, there before him, Charles would see a woman in a chiffon gown. Her smile made her glow. With her arms outstretched, she’d call for him: “Eddy!” A nickname only a few people knew. “The woman had curly brown hair and deep blue eyes,” Charles said. “I felt like I knew her voice too.”

Charles would go toward the woman. But he always woke up before they reached each other. By the time he was 11 or 12, the dreams stopped. Whenever life got hard, though, Charles would think back to the dream. And the woman in the chiffon gown, whose feet never touched the ground. “I always wondered who she was,” Charles said.

Learn why the woman in Charles’s dreams was not so unfamiliar after all.

  1. A Tribute

It’s been three years, Mom, and your old neighbors still don’t understand your garden in Greenville: lush southern magnolia; evergreen gardenia; dirt brimming with native pollinators, snakes and bees. You made it an Eden. I’ve done my best to care for the plants and animals you left behind, but folks here think it’s overgrown, too wild. Then again, I’ve always felt safe in wild places…

Your family—Swedish immigrants who’d learned to coax wheat stalks from the earth—learned everything they could about South Carolina, but even to them, you were peculiar. Maybe because you always believed that nature didn’t just serve us, but was part of us.

Robert shares the important lessons he learned from his nature-loving mother.

  1. A Final Visit

Through years of ups and downs, all the insults and erratic behavior, I’d never been able to cut Mom off completely. I felt bad for her. I prayed for her. Asked God to heal her. But I’d finally found my breaking point… I’d already given her too many chances. I knew that she desperately needed help, but she needed to be the one to want to change. I couldn’t fix her. I needed to take care of my own family first.

I hadn’t communicated with Mom since that day. At least not until the experience I’d had the night before. I couldn’t shake the feeling that what I’d seen and felt was more than a dream.

See how Jackie’s vivid dream brought her healing.

  1. The Ceramic Bunny

I’d lost my mom, Anita, to ALS when I was 24 years old. Her diagnosis came out of nowhere. Her decline was rapid and brutal. She went from fine one day to slurring her words the next. Coughing, choking, muscle weakness and weight loss quickly followed. I’d watched my strong, selfless mother—a pillar of our church community—wither away. Now I feared some illness would take me away from my own children, just as ALS had taken her from me.

On the drive home, a sign caught my eye: GARAGE SALE TODAY. On a Thursday? I love garage sales and flea markets. You never know what you’ll find.

Learn how a garage sale find turned out to hold the very message Daryl needed.

  1. An Unexpected Gift

Mother lived with metastatic bone cancer for a little more than a year. At the end of her life, she was no longer conscious. Her wish was to be discharged to my cabin for hospice care. The night before, I moved all the furniture and cleaned the hardwood floor to prepare for the delivery of her medical equipment. I was honored to care for Mother in her last days but saddened knowing I’d soon lose her. As I cleaned, I prayed for the strength I knew I’d need to usher her from this life to the next.

The next morning, two burly guys lifted the sofa to move it, making room for the hospital bed. “What do we do with these, ma’am?” one asked. I looked over.

Read about Roberta’s final gift from her dying mother.

How ‘Indiana Jones’ Helped to Preserve Her Sobriety

I was 30 days sober, and I was pretty sure I wasn’t going to make it to day 31.

I dug my nails into my mattress and squeezed my eyes shut. One minute I’d been folding laundry in my bedroom, the next I’d been overtaken by a craving for alcohol so strong, I had to cling for dear life to my bedsheets.

I thought I’d already experienced every withdrawal symptom possible. The shakes, nausea and headaches. But this was the worst one yet. Not a dream. A vision that played out before me like a scene from a movie. I saw myself as a thirsty golden retriever, frantically lapping up liquid from a golden lake that sparkled like diamonds. A lake filled with Chardonnay. My drink of choice. Or maybe I should say I’d lost the ability to choose. I was like that thirsty dog. No choice.

I took a deep breath and tried to remember everything I’d learned in my outpatient treatment program. “Go home, don’t drink, come back tomorrow.” That’s what my sponsor kept telling me. Those seven words had become my mantra whenever I had a craving, which was all the time. But what on earth were you supposed to do when you started seeing yourself as a dog drinking from a bottomless lake of Chardonnay?

Part of me knew it was just my disease talking to me. That, on a subconscious level, I wanted to drink so badly that I conceived of myself as a thirsty golden retriever. But another part of me was scared to death. Was I going crazy? I was supposed to be getting better, not worse! Was I one step away from ending up like my father?

My dad had always been a heavy drinker. I was just a freshman in college when he died of liver disease at the age of 54. Even though he was an alcoholic, as I realized now, he was still a good dad. My rock. The one person who really got me. So when he died, I turned to the one thing that made me feel closer to him—alcohol.

By the time I was in my 20s, my occasional social drinking had turned into a bottle-of-wine-a-day habit—and sometimes a glass or two more. I was building a successful career in advertising. The perfect cover for a budding alcoholic and an overachiever like me. In my field, it was normal to start drinking at noon. Nobody blinked an eye if I downed a few glasses of wine at lunch with colleagues.

Things got worse when I went through my divorce. I drank more. Sometimes I didn’t quite remember going to bed. I still didn’t see myself as an alcoholic, though. I was thriving in my career, raising two young daughters and maintaining a beautiful home. Alcoholics slept in doorways and drank out of paper bags, right?

One morning, nursing my daily hangover, a voice popped into my head: “Mary, you’re one glass of Chardonnay away from losing everything.” My kids, my job, my home. The voice scared me, really scared me. The idea of losing my girls was too much. I sought treatment.

People at rehab were always talking about “God shots,” those moments of divine intervention in the midst of recovery. I knew the voice that popped into my head could’ve only come from God. As much as I wanted to believe he cared for me on a real, personal level, though, where was he when I really needed him? Like when I had a hallucination about drinking from a lake of Chardonnay? Was I having the DTs? Was I losing my mind?

I got up from my bed and paced the room. I drew in a deep breath and released it. Again and again. With every breath, I imagined just a little something to take the edge off. I’d long since thrown out every bottle of alcohol in the house, even my vanilla extract, as well as my crystal stemware. But my keys were on the kitchen table, my car was in the driveway and the liquor store was less than a mile away. I didn’t need a wineglass. I could drink straight from the bottle. Nobody would ever have to know.…

My hands shook. I picked up the phone and dialed my sponsor. “Come on, pick up, pick up,” I said. No answer. I dialed the number of one of my rehab friends. No answer. I called another friend. And another. No one was there! I sat back on my bed and did the last thing I could think of. I prayed. The only word that came to mind was “help.”

It happened just like in the first vision. A scene playing in slow motion, like an IMAX film projected onto my brain. This time I saw an old man lying on the floor of a cavern. He’d been shot. A younger version of the man, dressed in khakis and a beatup fedora, crouched by his side. The man’s son. He knew how to save his father, but first he had to go through a series of deadly tests to prove himself. Finally, he reached the edge of a canyon. Across the chasm was the source of his father’s healing—the Holy Grail. It was impossible to jump across such a great distance, though. He was only human.

Then it dawned upon him. “It’s a leap of faith.” The man put his hand to his chest, momentarily paralyzed by fear, and made a decision. He extended his left leg and took a step into the void. He fell forward, seemingly to his death. But a stone bridge appeared, making his footing sure. He took another step and another. Crossing the abyss…

The vision was gone as quickly as it had come. I blinked. It was so bizarre, but I’d seen it before! It was the final act of Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade. Of all the movies in the world, why had I seen that one? I wasn’t a fan of action flicks or even Harrison Ford. I’d seen the movie once, about 15 years earlier. So how on earth did I remember it so clearly? So vividly? And what was I meant to do with it? Was it a message from God or just another sign that my mind was going?

Except for one thing. One amazing thing. My craving for alcohol was gone. Lifted. I curled up in bed, exhausted, and fell into a deep sleep. After I woke up, my sponsor called back. “It’s okay,” I said. “I’m okay now. I got through it.” I didn’t tell her about the visions. How could I? She’d think I was crazy if I told her my mind was playing scenes from Indiana Jones!

“I’m so proud of you, Mary,” she said. “You fought back against your disease. Good for you!”

I guess. But how much longer could I keep going like this? I was terrible at being sober. What if next time I wasn’t saved by some weird scene from an old movie?

I hung up the phone, got some snacks from the kitchen and plopped back on my bed. I just needed to get through the night. I turned on the TV, flipped the channel…and almost fell off the bed.

On the screen was the same exact scene, to the second, that had played before me hours before. The scene that finally convinced me to put my trust in my higher power. The scene that I still turn to today, 13 years of sobriety later.

Professor Jones stepping out into the void, stepping out into apparent nothingness—a leap of faith.

How I Found True Love

No, this isn’t the cover of next month’s issue of Guideposts magazine. It’s a card from my Guideposts family, to congratulate me on my upcoming wedding. On July 3, I’ll marry the love of my life, and I’m happier than I’ve ever been before.

It’s a long way from how I felt in September 2008. My best friend since childhood was engaged to be married; my roommate, Seth, was in a serious relationship and headed toward marriage. And me? I had yet to find true love. In my lonelier, self-pitying moments, I wondered if maybe such a thing didn’t exist for me.

I was wallowing in this attitude when Seth’s girlfriend came to the apartment one afternoon. “Hey, Adam,” she said, “I’ve got a girl for you. Her name is Nicole.”

The last time someone had tried to set me up, I called the girl only to be told that she had a long-term, serious boyfriend. Yikes. So when Seth’s girlfriend showed me a picture of a cute, tanned, dark-haired girl with maple brown eyes and a sweet smile, I said, “No thanks.” I’d had enough disappointment. She didn’t press the issue, but I could tell she thought I was making a big mistake.

A few days later, on a Saturday afternoon, Seth and I were in the midst of a videogame marathon. We must have played for four hours straight—not an unusual occurrence for us. “Should we get outside?” Seth wondered aloud.

“What for?” I asked.

Seth pondered that a moment. “I’ve been meaning to buy a teapot,” he said.

So out we went into the sunshine, in search of a teapot. On the street outside our building, two girls were out for a walk. Seth’s girlfriend, with a friend. The friend she’d wanted to set me up with. Nicole.

She was even more beautiful in person than in her picture. The teapot was forgotten. Instead, we all went out to a Mexican restaurant and had mango margaritas.

Nicole and I talked for only an hour, but it felt like more. We talked about our love of the New York Yankees, our close-knit families. She kept kosher, to a degree, avoiding mixing milk and meat, pork products, shellfish. “Me too!” I said. Such a thing was rare among my Jewish friends. Seth himself used to tease that he’d put bacon into my mouth while I was sleeping, so I’d know what I was missing.

As Nicole and I began dating, we kept noting similarities—and discovered strange ways our paths had crossed before we even knew each other. Nicole’s Uncle Sam was good friends with my parents’ good friends—they’d all attended the same wedding together. I’d been to the Jewish Community Center just steps from her house on many occasions for youth group events, and she went to the beach nearly every year at the same place I did—Bradley Beach. Nicole had gone to summer camp with my sister—they were even in the same “Camp Memories” videotape.

The connections weren’t always direct, and maybe not all that unique. But as our relationship grew, it felt more and more like the two of us shared a common past. Nicole felt like the person I had been with from the start. We knew each other better than anyone. Bumping into her that day in New York wasn’t a first meeting. It was coming home again.

Home. That’s what true love is to me. I’m at home with Nicole, and that feeling has only gotten stronger with time.

OK, I’m a sentimental guy. But I do believe that when we find these strange connections, these weird coincidences, these crossing paths—they are a sign. A sign that none of us ever has a reason to be lonely. We just have to step outside for a walk, open our eyes … and start looking for a teapot.

I’ll see you in three weeks, readers, after my honeymoon. In the meantime, share your “How We Met” stories with us (like these people did). Write in the comments section below or email your story.

Happy Fourth of July, and enjoy your own summer of love!

How His Vivid Dream of Dogs Became a Divine Sign

In the dream, I stood at the end of a long, straight gravel driveway. At the other end, I could see a white two-story farmhouse. There were no power lines leading to the house. No car in that long driveway. Details revealing that it was an Amish farmhouse, similar to the ones I often drove past near my home in northern Indiana. There was something inside that house that drew me there, but what it was, I didn’t know.

Fields spread out on either side of me, but I focused on the house. As I got closer, I saw a shimmer of gold out of the corner of my eye. I turned to look. The field was fenced and full—not with rows of crops but with puppies. Golden, fuzzy puppies. There were dozens of them, dotting the field like dandelions. One of them approached me. I felt a connection with her.

Then, abruptly, the dream ended. I woke up.

As I got ready for the day, the dream didn’t fade as my dreams usually do. It stayed with me. It felt important—and unfinished, since I never made it inside that farmhouse. Was it some kind of a sign? Something that had to do with our family pup, Charlie?

If I was going to dream about dogs, I would have expected one about Charlie crossing the rainbow bridge. Our beloved Charlie had passed away only a few weeks before. My wife, Kathy, and our kids had adored him. I’d had dogs my whole life, but Charlie was special. He may not have been the brightest dog in the world, but he was kind and gentle and loved to be around people, tail wagging.

Then, at almost 12 years old, Charlie’s tail didn’t wag so much. His health declined. An examination at the vet uncovered the problem. He had tumors throughout his body. Charlie had cancer, and there was nothing we could do. When he could no longer walk, I knew it was time. Our vet came to the house to put him down. Charlie passed away peacefully in our front yard, cradled in my arms.

Friends and family had already started asking when we were getting a new dog. I shrugged it off. We were still grieving. I didn’t know when I’d be ready to let another dog into my heart again, even one as delightful as the dandelion dogs in my dream.

A few months later, Kathy was reading the newspaper and stopped on a page, folding the paper in half.

“Look at this,” she said, pointing to an ad. “Goldendoodle Puppies for Sale,” it read, followed by a phone number. I’d never had one of these golden retriever and poodle mixes, but I’d heard they were intelligent and affable.

“I’ll think about it.”

Though I was hesitant, I kept the newspaper. A few days later, I called the number. A woman answered. “We have one puppy left,” she said. “You can stop by and meet her if you’d like.”

She gave me the address. It was only about 15 miles away. I was familiar with that area. As Kathy had pointed out, it wouldn’t hurt to have a look. I hopped into my car and headed north.

Half an hour later, as I turned down the long gravel driveway, I had a sense that I’d been there before. Then I caught sight of the white two-story house up ahead. And when I pulled up behind the house and parked, an Amish woman came out to greet me.

Okay, this is really strange, I thought. I didn’t know what to make of everything.

The woman led me to a back room of the house and went to get the puppy. When she returned, a golden ball of fluff came around the corner, following behind her. The puppy trotted right up to me. Even though I was a stranger, she showed no fear. She plopped down at my feet and licked my leg. Then she looked up at me with her gentle brown eyes.

She gave me a doggie smile just like the little dandelion pups in my dream had, and that’s when it all clicked. The puppy was what was waiting for me in that house. She was meant to be ours.

“I’ll take her!” I told the woman.

We named her Missy. For the past four years, our beloved Goldendoodle has been a wonderful addition to our family. The dog I was guided to even before I knew my heart was ready.

How Her Father’s Hammer Became a Spiritual Symbol

”Remember what Dad always told us,” my twin sister, Brenda, said as I took out my toolbox. “‘You can do anything you set your mind to.’” It was true that Dad never set limits on us. But building a new porch from scratch? Maybe that was pushing it.

Initially I thought I would just be replacing a few of the rotten planks on my deck. That would have been an easy project, the kind of thing I’d been familiar with since I was a kid.

When our parents decided to build a weekend cabin, Dad drew up the plans and enlisted Brenda and me as helpers. He showed us how to do everything from floor to ceiling. I had my own lightweight hammer, but sometimes he’d let me pound the nails with his big 16-ounce. After Dad died, Brenda let me keep the ham-mer, which I displayed in a place of honor in the den.

How I wished Dad were here to answer my questions now. When I pulled up the rotten boards, we found the support beams were deteriorating too. The entire deck would have to be rebuilt, and all we had was Dad’s can-do spirit to inspire us.

“I wish I could be more help,” Brenda said. She was staying with me while she recovered from shoulder surgery, so construction work was out for her. “But I can do little things with my good arm and cheer you on!” Rather than a simple deck, we designed a new porch together—screened in, with an angled roof. Now it was time to get to work. I measured, sawed and hammered. Brenda stayed one step ahead, so I knew what was coming next. I imagined Dad right there with us, encouraging and building our confidence. “How do we know when it’s ready?” I’d asked him, just 11 years old, as we mixed concrete for the cabin’s basement floor.

“We drag a hoe through what we’ve got mixed and see how it acts,” he said. “If it crumbles along the sides, it’s too dry. If it sags into the middle where we just dragged, it’s too runny. Once the consistency is just right, it’s time to pour.” Why shouldn’t a couple of 11-year-old girls know how to pour concrete?

After a few months of hard work, Brenda and I had set new posts with concrete anchors, finished the floor and laid down support beams for the rafters. We set up scaffolding and stacked the two-by-eight-foot boards so they were ready to install. Brenda had already cleared everything off the scaffolding so I didn’t trip while nailing them down. Now she was on the ground, reaching up with her good arm to space them right where they needed to go, so I didn’t have to measure.

“These boards would be easier to place if I could just tap them with a hammer,” she said. “Would you grab Dad’s off the shelf for me, please?”

Maybe Dad’s hammer is just what we need out here! But when I looked inside, the hammer wasn’t on the shelf. It never left its special spot in the den. I searched all over, but the old hammer was nowhere to be found. It felt like a bad sign for our project. I went outside, where Brenda was still absorbed in her work. “Brenda, I have some bad news.”

Before I could tell her, we both looked over at the scaffolding. It had been empty minutes before—everything moved off for safety—but now, sitting right in the middle of it, was Dad’s hammer. “How did that get there?” Brenda said. Dad may not have been able to supervise our new project in person, but his can-do spirit was close at hand. This was going to be some porch.

How Hearing God’s Voice Provides Comfort and Reassurance

Go back into the house!

Sandra Farney, of Reno, Nevada, was backing out of her driveway when she heard the voice. It was a man’s voice, coming from inside her own mind, cutting through her thoughts with surprising force. Shocked, Sandra slammed on her brakes. She debated going back inside, but she was late for work. She had to go. Then she heard the voice again. It was more insistent.

Go back into the house, now!

This time she got out of the car and ran inside her home. She checked each room. All seemed fine. Then she opened the back door to check the yard, which her two dogs had access to via a dog door. She was met with a horrifying sight. One of her dogs, Goofy, was hanging from the fence, vines wrapped around his neck. He wasn’t moving. Sandra raced to free him, frantically tearing at the vines. Goofy collapsed into her arms, gasping for air. He was stunned but otherwise unharmed. Sandra held Goofy close until he calmed down.

“I cut down all the vines to make sure this nightmare could never happen again,” Sandra said. “And with each cut I thanked God for the divine voice that saved Goofy.”

What Sandra experienced—hearing a divine voice—is miraculous but not as uncommon as we might think. Adam Powell, a research associate at Durham University in England, spent four years studying this phenomenon as part of a research project called Hearing the Voice. Powell estimates that 5 to 15 percent of the population has one of these “unusual or anomalous” auditory experiences in their lifetime.

Accounts of divine voices vary greatly, from when it happened to how it happened and what the voice sounded like. For Sandra, the voice was internal but masculine. Powell says that this experience is fairly common. However, other people report the voice was neither male nor female. Some say that the voice came from outside themselves, almost as if someone were standing right next to them. “It’s also somewhat common for people to say it came from their right side,” Powell adds.

Whether the voice was internal or external, Powell noted several similarities. Experiencers said the voice was clearly distinct from their own internal voice, that it was speaking directly to them and that it was trying to help them. Frequently, the voice offers clarification around a particular problem. Sometimes it’s prophetic. Other times it gives its listeners direction in life and purpose. Often people report that this mysterious voice provides comfort and reassurance.

These various accounts of what a divine voice sounds like and how it manifests don’t negate the idea that it’s God speaking. Laura Harris Smith, ND, a pastor and author of the book Seeing the Voice of God, says that experiencing God’s voice differently actually aligns with Scripture. Smith points to several stories in the Bible in which people heard God’s voice differently—Paul receiving a message from God on the road to Damascus, John hearing a voice from heaven after he baptized Jesus, Elijah when he went searching for the voice of God, Moses hearing God’s voice from the burning bush. “In Scripture, it happened in different ways for different people,” she says. “Sometimes it was an external, audible sound. Sometimes it was a small voice… It’s going to be different for everybody because everybody is different.”

In some cases, the divine voice can even sound like someone we know. This happened to Jen Myers, of Aurora, Colorado. She’d recently lost her close friend, Kit, to an autoimmune disease. One day, while driving alone, she approached an intersection. The light turned green. She was about to step on the gas to go when a voice rang out next to her.

“No!”

Jen slammed on the brakes just as a car blew through the red light. She was safe but it had been close. Jen recognized the voice that warned her. It was Kit’s. It had come from the passenger seat, almost as if Kit had been in the car with her.

“I don’t know if it was Kit or God speaking through Kit, but I was saved from a serious accident,” Jen said. She later wondered if she’d heard Kit’s voice because it was a voice she knew and trusted. Perhaps God had used Kit’s voice to be certain Jen would listen and stop just in time.

But how can we be sure that the voice we are hearing is God’s?

Smith says that aside from an innate sense of knowing within your soul, there’s another way to determine whether the voice is divine.“No matter what it is—there are times when the voice is going to tell you practical things, when it is going to tell you helpful things…it will align with God’s written word,” she says, “and it will never harm you or anyone else.”

While voice-hearing can be a symptom of mental illness, the main difference is the feeling the experiencer is left with. According to Powell, people who hear voices due to a mental health condition typically report negative effects. They can feel distressed, threatened or a loss of control. Whereas those who hear a divine voice most frequently feel comfort, encouragement and a sense of peace. That peaceful, comforting feeling imparted by the voice is so all-encompassing that some people report a physical sensation of warmth whenever they remember it.

That lasting, positive impact is what Marta Kennedy, of Springfield, Ohio, took from her experience.

Marta was packing for a trip with her daughter, Trudie, who had breast cancer. They were going to a special clinic a few towns over for her treatment and planned to spend the night. As she packed, Marta suddenly heard a voice telling her to pack scissors.

“It was a gentle, calm voice,” she said. “A medium tone, not a man or a woman. It felt close by, like it was in the room with me.” Marta brushed it off. Why would she need to bring scissors?

“I said, pack scissors,” the voice insisted.

Marta relented and tossed a pair of scissors into her suitcase. She and Trudie went to the appointment and then to the hotel room. Trudie was exhausted. She just wanted to put the hospital visit behind her and relax, but her patient armband was plastic and difficult to remove. Exasperated, she pulled at it. No luck.

“Mom,” she said, “you don’t happen to have any scissors, do you?”

Marta was shocked. “Actually, I do have scissors,” she said. “I was instructed to bring them.” She explained the voice to Trudie, who was amazed. It brought joy and wonder to both of them after a long, stressful day. They even got matching scissor charms for their charm bracelets so they’d never forget it.

“I know that removing hospital bracelets might not be a big issue, but it was quite apparent that the voice I heard needed to get my attention,” Marta said of the experience. “Perhaps had I not packed scissors, we might’ve missed this joy.”

Marta wasn’t anticipating hearing from God, but the experience left her with a beautiful memory from an otherwise difficult time.

Indeed, it is the unexpectedness of hearing a voice that is often another indicator that it is divine. It’s common for people to hear God’s guidance when they are praying, or to hear the comforting voice of a deceased loved one after their death. However, Powell was surprised in his studies by the number of people who heard a voice when they weren’t praying for any sort of guidance or direction—or even when they didn’t have a strong faith background.

“Oftentimes they were thinking about something unrelated,” he said, “and then suddenly this voice says something that had nothing to do with what they were focused on.” This proves to many experiencers that the voice did not originate from themselves but came from somewhere else. A source that knew what they needed in that moment.

Each of us experiences God in our own unique way because each of us is unique in God’s eyes. Whether his voice is a whisper in our hearts, a booming pronouncement or the gentle voice of a friend, God reaches us in ways we can’t ignore.

How Grace Finds Us

Have you ever found yourself in a place or situation and quickly realized that it is exactly where you should be? Some might call it good fortune or happenstance. I would call it grace.

Like so many others, I can find myself stretched thin with job and civic responsibilities, meeting the needs of the students at the school where I work, meeting the needs of my family, and meeting my own needs for exercise and mindfulness. Stretched thin is where I found myself most of this fall.

Last Wednesday I arrived at Mohonk Mountain House in New Paltz, New York, for a three-day conference entitled “Counselors and Health Educators Conference: Exploring Roles, Responsibilities and Resources to Promote Student Wellness.” What was left out of the title was the opportunity for attendees to renew body, mind and spirit. That’s where grace comes in.

To be at Mohonk is a respite in and of itself. Set atop a mountain, Mohonk Mountain House is an enormous, rambling structure, the epitome of rustic luxury. There are picturesque views of Lake Mohonk and pristine wilderness, and the coziness of the interior is soothing. This was the perfect place for this conference—just what I needed.

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On top of this, the conference leaders, all incredibly knowledgeable and engaging, gave those of us in the field of counseling and student wellness a wonderful opportunity to be together, to collaborate, to learn more about ourselves and our work, to be supported and affirmed, and to have fun.

On the first afternoon, each of us was asked to share a word that described how we were feeling at that time. My word was “grateful.” At the end of the conference we were asked to share again. My word then was “gratified.” How did I know that I needed this conference as much as I did? I knew I needed something to ease how stretched I was feeling, but I did not know this was where I would find the grace I was longing for. As Anne Lamott has written, “I do not understand the mystery of grace—only that it meets us where we are, but does not leave us where it found us.”

As hard as it can be to hold onto that feeling of grace once you leave that place or situation, make the effort. It’s worth it. My time at this conference met me where I was and did not leave me where it found me. For this, I am grateful and gratified.