By Jim Miles
It was November 1985, when I began receiving strong inner urgings to embark on an extended odyssey to the Great Northwest. I had taken several spiritual journeys in the past and knew that I would be guided along the way. Having entrusted six months’ living expenses to a friend, and with a promise to check in periodically, I ventured out into the unknown full of excitement and anticipation.
At an Odessa army surplus store, I loaded up on warm clothes for the frigid winter that lay ahead. After spending time in nature’s grand cathedral known as Big Bend National Park, I motored north toward New Mexico. To become more receptive and refine my vibrations, I had quit smoking, begun a liquid fast and played tapes of Native American music on the cassette player in my ’78 Coupe Deville.
As I began the ascent to higher elevations, the air became increasingly rarified, and I found myself entering the “zone” of no-mind, universal at-one-ment with man, nature, and the transcendent. I had been traveling for almost two weeks and certainly seemed on the right path, enjoying an incredible euphoric state. But then, for no apparent reason, I sensed a subtle shift in consciousness. Something wasn’t quite right. I began to experience a strong, inexplicable urge to return to Houston.
Amazed at this turn of events, I started asking for guidance. I needed a sign. My mind and eyes focused on everything from highway billboards, license plates, and signage on trucks. Finally, I stopped at a roadhouse to use the restroom. As I looked at the stall door freshly painted in white shellac, I saw scrawled in bold, black script, “Jesus Christ is Lord.” My Jesuit background and esoteric training kicked in. No matter where I’d found it, this was the sign meant for me. Later that evening, I meditated, quieting my rational mind, and got the confirming message to go back to Houston as soon as possible. The next morning, I did just that.
On December 4, I arrived back home. A message was waiting on the answering machine. It was my mother leaving the horrific news: My sister, Mary Lee, had lost her husband and her home in a devastating fire. Immediately, I swung into action and took the red-eye to Boston’s Logan Airport to help prepare for the wake and funeral.
On Saturday, December 7, the 45th anniversary of Pearl Harbor and the day of the funeral, St. Elizabeth’s Catholic Church overflowed with mourners. My brother-in-law, Gene, a well-known and respected pediatrician, had treated nearly every child in town. He was 46 years old. Speaking on behalf of the family to this extraordinary assemblage, I felt their profound loss, frustration, and bewilderment.
Later that morning the gray, overcast skies above the snow-filled graveyard epitomized the sadness of this tragic event. Gene served in the U.S. Navy, and his flag-draped coffin rested above the ground. When the honor guard began to lift and fold the flag, a young man in a Navy uniform, who had been a patient of Gene’s, lifted a bugle to his lips. Amidst the dismal and dying landscape of winter, upon a distant knoll, he played Taps as the casket began its slow descent. The poignant memory of that day shall remain with me for the rest of my life.
As the Christmas holidays approached, I drove Mary Lee and her three children 500 miles south to our parents’ home in southern Maryland. During the trip, we reflected on the beauty of the previous Christmas Eve. The family together at Mary Lee and Gene’s old, colonial home near Boston. Singing Christmas carols in the snow. And later, me holding my little niece on my lap sitting with the family around a warm and crackling fire as I read, ’Twas the Night Before Christmas. But this Christmas we knew would be far different. It would not be a time for cozy merriment, but a time for healing, and also a time to become aware of the paradoxes and dichotomies that many of us experience at this time of year.
In 1985, there were no cell phones or laptops, only telephone answering machines. If I had not turned back, I would have missed being there for my sister when she needed me the most. I would not have these extraordinary experiences had I not listened to my inner voice, discerning its message and following its divine guidance that led me to where I was supposed to be.
< Home - Next Article >
|
|
