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[thisunfoldinglife]

The Quest for Evidence of the Divine

When I was a little girl, I used to beg God for proof of his existence. Faith wasn’t enough. I needed solid undeniable evidence. “Dear God, if you exist, could you make the lights flicker?” Pause. “Dear God, can I hear you whisper?” Pause. “Dear God, can you make me pretty and brave and worthy of love?” Through the ages, my requests matured and the intervals between them lengthened, but I always privately prayed for some true sign of his or her presence in my world.

There was talk of God all around me. Over a decade of Catholic schooling impressed upon me the need for some supreme being to inform my journey. Catholicism, however, with its fire-and-brimstone instruction, can be a scary beast. It took many years to undo the fear of hell I’d imagined would result from my placid childhood sins. So, when I was 18, I left the Church to embark on an intense twelve-year search for spiritual meaning. I divorced religion, yet I still sought relationship with the divine, knowing its face and name would shift and change with my discoveries. I began with literature—looking to writers like Emerson and Whitman to show me the imprint of God in nature. I sought out psychics and reiki masters, seeking answers in energy fields. I studied manifestation, the principles of attracting and creating one’s own reality. I retreated to the mountains of Arizona to experience the psychedelic effects of the SAN Pedro cactus, meant to induce introspection and healing. I travelled to Northern Colorado to study at a Buddhist meditation centre, and I went to Spain to walk the 500-mile Camino De Santiago trail. For forty days, I walked alone, in pursuit of truth and inspiration, a pathway to myself and a higher power. I read every book I could get my hands on and talked about spirituality with whomever would listen. Eventually, to leave no stone unturned, I even revisited my old friend Jesus. I was a woman on a mission—a spiritual detective.

My quest was further fuelled when I heard other people’s stories—candid accounts of the divine dwelling just beyond our eyes and ears. One such story was shared by a dear friend of mine, who had a mystical experience while visiting the small town of Lourdes in France. Lourdes is home to a holy grotto where a fourteen-year-old peasant girl claimed she once saw the Virgin Mary. Now each year millions of pilgrims come to Lourdes to ask for healing from its presumably miraculous waters. My friend visited the grotto in the dead of winter, in the stillness of night, and from out of the darkness, appeared the bright twinkling of blue lights all around her. She described the grotto in its beautiful blue glow and reported that, even after, at random moments, the twinkling lights return to envelop her. When she revealed her experience, I was desperate to see this blue light appear out of nothingness. She was a witness to the supernal. She had her proof that the world we see before us has mysterious layers of which we cannot even perceive. Where was my proof? I didn’t know it at the time, but I was never meant to experience those lights. That was her gift—her confirmation. And I would find mine.

Though the bulk of my exploration hadn’t yet granted me empirical verification of the Divine, it left me with an open heart and a reverence for the magical orchestration of life. I was 31 and my journey had taken me into the depths of myself. I knew who I was. I was happy within myself, and though I didn’t have all the answers, the ones I did have all pointed to love. I think in the end, the simplest and most powerful truths rest in love’s hands.

And then one night, I had a dream—a dream so vivid, I can still visualise it eleven years later. I dreamed I was flying, soaring in the air over Zaire, an African country to which I’ve never been. Typically, in my dreams I take flight by slowly extending my arms out from my sides and pushing the air down beneath me until it lifts me off the ground, just above the trees. This time, I was wearing a harness of a sort, and I was aware that I’d humbled myself enough to accept the support. When I landed, I heard the gentle voice of a man behind me. He spoke: “You did very well. I’m proud of you.” I couldn’t see his face, but I could very clearly hear his distinctive British accent. “Come with me,” he said. “We’re going on a journey.” He gave me a small card and on it were the initials: “G.H.” I stared at the card and said out loud: “This is the man I am going to marry.” I looked up then and the room was filled with large colourful spheres of light. I smiled in appreciation, while children danced happily in front of the man, obscuring his face beyond recognition. Then I woke. I immediately wrote down every detail of my dream, carefully underlining the shocking specifics of this British man with the initials G.H. who I was supposed to marry?!

At the time, I was working reception at The Grand Canyon Youth Hostel in Arizona, so the likelihood of bumping into a few Brits was a possibility, so I kept my eyes open. For two weeks, I scoured the hostel in expectation. And when G.H. didn’t appear, I let it go. Perhaps it was just a dream. And then, a week later, on Thanksgiving Day, I somehow caught the attention of a British traveller at the hostel. He was eager to engage, but I wasn’t interested. This guy, with his Beatles haircut and happy grin, wasn’t like the depressed lumberjacks I typically went for. His interest was keen however, and after I rebuffed a few of his invitations, he said, “Come on—You give me a chance and I promise it’ll end up in marriage.” I laughed and he left the reception area. I was taken aback by his confidence, wondering what normal man speaks of marriage with someone he hardly knows? All of a sudden, my dream came back to me. I’d forgotten about the mysterious man with the British accent. I quickly checked the guest registry, searching for his name, and there in front of me were the words: Garry Hutchinson. G.H.

I waited for him to return, my heart in my chest. And when he did, we sat together, and I told him of my dream. The words tumbled out of me, swirling around us, and he smiled, “I suppose you should to give me a chance now?” We fell in love rapidly, diving deeply into one another, our hearts fusing into an entirely new organ. It was clear from the beginning that our partnership would only magnify and multiply our happiness and individual growth. It’s funny how I couldn’t see that when I first saw him. The dream was my compass. Some mystical force of goodness brought me direction, knowing I wouldn’t recognise love if it stood right before me.

Now, after nearly ten years of marriage, I sometimes take for granted the marvellous circumstances that brought Garry and I together. But when I do remember, I’m grateful for my shiny nugget of proof that there are sacred, intangible, and divine forces amongst us. I don’t talk about God much anymore. God, after-all, is a word with a thousand meanings on a thousand tongues. Instead, I love with great depth and length. And in seeking love, and its sisters—kindness, empathy, generosity—I can see evidence of the divine in everything. My church is now any place where bliss can find me—a leisurely bike ride at dusk, lying beneath leafy trees, dancing with my husband, and reading bedtime stories to my children, feeling the pleasant weight of their little heads upon my shoulders. And with my kids, in their marvelling at rainbows, fresh snow, and starry skies, I’m continually reminded that it’s a truly magical world.