On Palm Sunday in our church, the gospel account is reenacted by members of the congregation. You can be there in your pew and suddenly discover that the friend sitting next to you is playing the role of Peter or Mary Magdalene or even Jesus. The familiar story comes alive.

READ MORE: 8 Prayers for Holy Week

Before entering Jerusalem, Jesus sends two of his disciples into the village of Bethany, where he has told them they will find a colt. They were to untie it and bring it back to him. If anyone asks them why they’re doing that, they are to say, “The Lord needs it and will send it back here immediately.”

Did those disciples ever ask themselves, “How does he know we’ll find a colt?” or “What if someone accuses us of stealing it?” In fact, they do find a colt in the street, tied near a door.

When bystanders accost them, asking what they’re doing, they say exactly what Jesus told them to say. And it works. It’s as though Jesus is training the disciples to trust him in the small matters so they will be able to trust him regarding the wonders to come.

The disciples throw their cloaks onto the colt, and Jesus sits on it. On his way into the city, the people throw their cloaks down on the ground or spread leafy branches cut from the fields. “Hosanna!” they cry, just as we do in church, waving palms to honor this new King.

READ MORE: Palm Sunday in the Bible: 15 Palm Sunday Scriptures

But what does this King have to offer his people? A second miracle tells us: That same busy week, Jesus passes a fig tree that has borne no fruit. He addresses the tree—as though it might hear him: “May no one ever eat fruit from you again.” By the next day, the fig tree has withered and died. What does it all mean to his followers? Jesus is illustrating the power of prayer. “So I tell you,” he says, “whatever you ask for in prayer, believe that you have received it, and it will be yours” (Mark 11:24). Believe that you have received it. What an astounding promise to come from a king.

Later that week, when an unnamed woman pours an alabaster jar of expensive ointment over Jesus’ head, there is a muttering of disapproval. What a waste. The ointment could have been sold and the money given to the poor. (I find myself having the same thought.) But Jesus says the woman has done a good thing, preparing his body for burial ahead of time. Though he is young and his ministry only beginning, his response assures us that the Son of God already knows what is to come. A close listener in the crowd might get the hint as well.

You can feel Jesus’ exasperation with the disciples, who don’t get it. At the same time, you can also see Jesus’ compassion for them.

READ MORE: A Devotion for Holy Week

On Maundy Thursday, Jesus sends two of his disciples into the city. He has told them they would meet a man carrying a jar of water and should follow him to a house where they would be led to an upper room. The room would be furnished and ready for the Last Supper. And so even this setting is found by way of another of Jesus’ mystical revelations.

During the Last Supper, Jesus tells Peter, the most committed of his followers, that he will deny him three times before the cock crows at sunrise on Good Friday. Peter passionately swears that he won’t. And fails. Jesus didn’t have a spy among the group; his Father had shown him every detail of the Easter story. Jesus is preparing his disciples just as Scripture is preparing us. Like I say, I hear the story with a combination of dread and wonder.

Good Friday is a three-hour service at our church, and it is always the hardest for me to sit through. The betrayal, the desertion, it is all there for us to witness, including Jesus’ own trepidation. He prays in the Garden for the cup of suffering to be taken from him. And only after that honest, all-too-human outburst can he come to any acceptance: “Not my will, but yours be done.”

READ MORE: Why Is Good Friday So Important?

As Jesus had foreseen, none of his disciples has stuck with him to the end. They aren’t there on the hill at Calvary when he is crucified. Afraid, no doubt, of what would happen to them. It can only have added to Jesus’ sense of abandonment, not just by his followers but by God. There, on the cross, Jesus utters the opening verse of Psalm 22: “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” As he spoke those words, he would also have known how that psalm moves into verses of praise: “My soul shall live for him….”“him….”

It all does end triumphantly, with the Resurrection. We celebrate the first stirrings of it on Easter Eve, Saturday night melting into early Sunday morning. Near midnight, the lights of our church all come up, revealing a sanctuary filled with fragrant lilies and cherry blossoms. The choir bursts out with a “Hallelujah!”

A few years ago, after a particularly rigorous week of worship, I came away with an astounding feeling of transcendence. Nothing could harm me. Earlier in the week, we had sung the spiritual “Were You There When They Crucified My Lord?” I had been there with my fellow parishioners. And I knew what it was to experience the miracle of the empty tomb, because I had been prepared for it, just as Jesus had.

READ MORE ABOUT HOLY WEEK:

• What is a Palm Sunday Parade?
• 5 Palm Sunday Devotions
• 4 Powerful Good Friday Devotions
• Good Friday Reflection: The Message of the Cross

The post How The Miracles of Holy Week Fortified His Faith appeared first on Guideposts.

Well, not quite.

The real Saint Patrick—or Patricius, to use his given name—proved far more interesting. I learned about him in my friend Tom Cahill’s bestselling book How the Irish Saved Civilization. Contrary to myth, Patrick did not rid Ireland of snakes—the Emerald Isle never had any—and though he might have used the three-leaf clover in a sermon, the greatest miracle he ever performed is what God made of his life.

READ MORE: St. Patrick’s Day Activities for Families

Patricius wasn’t even Irish by birth. He was born into a British Christian family sometime in the late fourth century (though it is hard to know when). It was in England that he learned his rudimentary Latin and, during the waning Roman Empire, lived in prosperity and security. Then as a teenager, he was kidnapped, whisked off to Ireland and sold as a slave to a chieftain there, who made him a sheepherder. He lived in the cold, unforgiving, damp climate with little more than the skin on his back.

Young Patricius turned to prayer to sustain himself, as he later recounted in his memoir, Confession. He forged a deep relationship with God while tending the flock. “In one day,” as he later wrote, “I would say as many as a hundred prayers and after dark nearly as many again, even while I remained in the woods or on the mountain. I would wake and pray before daybreak—through snow, frost, rain.”

For six years, Patrick persisted in his prayers and his work. Then one day, a mysterious voice spoke. “Your hungers are rewarded. You are going home.” Home—back to Britain. “Look, your ship is ready.”

Patrick was inland, nowhere near the sea. Where would he find a ship? Yet he trusted the words that he’d heard. He immediately set out by foot on a journey of some 200 miles, an escaped slave in unknown territory. It was a miracle he knew where to go and was not caught. He arrived at an inlet to find a ship—his ship?—full of sailors traveling to Gaul, a region in present-day Western Europe. They were transporting Irish hounds to sell there.

The captain eyed Patricius suspiciously. “You’re wasting your time asking to sail with us,” he said. What would Patrick do? There was no place to hide. It was only a matter of time before he’d be caught. All he could do was pray. Soon enough, the sailors called him back. “Come on board—we’ll take you on trust.”

Trust, faith, following God’s lead without knowing where it will take you and, most of all, a love for one’s fellow beings—all these qualities continue to make Saint Patrick resonate today, so many centuries later. In a time when Christianity was still defining itself, with monks retreating to the desert in self-denial, Patrick offered a different model for the faithful: goodness sustained by prayer and love.

When Patricius and the sailors landed in Gaul, they were surprised to find a desolate landscape—the result perhaps of the Germans wreaking havoc on the usually fertile terrain. His men starving and hopeless, the captain asked this Christian why he didn’t just call on his so-called God for help. Without hesitation, Patrick turned to the sailors and said, “From the bottom of your heart, turn trustingly to the Lord my God, for nothing is impossible to him.”

They did and, soon enough, spotted a herd of pigs coming in their direction—the most substantial food the hungry crew could hope for.

Patrick eventually returned to Britain and was reunited with his family. But once there, he realized he was not quite at home. He’d become a man without a country. He’d spent a lot of time with the people of Ireland and grown to love them—astounding considering his enslavement by them. One night, he had a vision. A man he knew from Ireland named Victoricus appeared to him, holding a stack of letters. He handed one to Patrick. Its heading read, in Latin, vox hiberionacum, or “the voice of the Irish.” Then Patrick heard the voice of the multitude, crying, “We beg you to come and walk among us once more.”

Patrick would heed the call—and return to Ireland. But first, he wanted to learn more about the faith that had sustained him in Ireland so that he could better help the people once arrived. Like someone today whose call for ministry leads to seminary, he headed to southern France, most likely to a monastery off the coast, where he underwent grueling studies and was eventually ordained a bishop. I wonder if he was tempted to stay there—there would certainly have been plenty of opportunities for him. But he’d been called to Ireland.

Patricius’s journey was the first example of a mission to people outside Greek, Christian or Roman civilizations. “In truth, even Paul, the great missionary apostle,” as Tom writes, “never himself ventured beyond the Greco-Roman Ecumene.”

Aware of the dangers, Patrick headed for Ireland. “Every day I am ready to be murdered, betrayed, enslaved—whatever may come my way. But I am not afraid of any of these things because of the promises of heaven,” he wrote. He stayed in Ireland for the next 30 years, baptizing, preaching, ordaining and teaching.

Notably, Saint Patrick was the first person in history to resolutely condemn slavery. When some of his new converts were stolen by British pirates and sold, he hurled invectives against the horrors of enslavement, a state he knew all too well. It would be more than a thousand years before anyone else spoke out so forcefully against it.

Patricius’s influence on Ireland was transformational. In time, the petty warring stopped and monasteries were established—places where Scriptures would be saved, preserved and copied. As the Roman Empire disintegrated and the Dark Ages descended, chaos disappeared from the Emerald Isle, a land changed by the work of one man.

Theories on who Saint Patrick really was abound. Some say there must have been two Patricks—it’s impossible to ascribe so much to one man. Never mind. What’s important is his legacy: lessons in the power of love, goodness, courage and indomitable faith.

READ MORE ABOUT ST. PATRICK’S DAY:

• How Saint Patrick Was a True Hero
• A Devotion for Saint Patrick’s Day
• 15 Irish Quotes and Proverbs for St. Patrick’s Day
  
• 8 Things You Probably Didn’t Know About St. Patrick

The post St. Patrick’s Miraculous Life Journey appeared first on Guideposts.

Sometime around midnight, Silas and Paul were singing hymns and praying, the other prisoners curious as to how they could be praising God at a time like this. And what was the result? A powerful earthquake that rocked the earth and flung the prison doors wide open. The chains came loose.

Singing…an earthquake…and a miraculous answer to prayer. Why did that bring back to memory something that had once happened to me?

As a kid, I loved to sing. (Still do.) In sophomore year at my suburban California high school, I yearned to be in the spring musical. But not just as a member of the chorus, as I’d done in my freshman year. I wanted to play one of the leads. To sing a solo. To have a starring role. The show selected was Brigadoon. We’d do four performances in May, rehearsing for months.

Auditions began in February. I knew the musical well, having grown up listening to the record over and over, learning all the songs. That was another impressive thing about being in the musical. The school recorded the whole thing on an LP. It would be like hearing myself on one of those original Broadway cast albums I treasured.

I auditioned for the second male lead, Charlie Dalrymple. As the tenor, Charlie sang the upbeat “I’ll Go Home with Bonnie Jean” and the lyrical “Come to Me, Bend to Me.” He even got to get married on stage. A dream role in my eyes.

Brigadoon, if you don’t know it, has , a magical, mystical plot. An American tourist, Tommy, stumbles upon a Scottish town, the so-named Brigadoon. The town appears out of the Scottish mist once every 100 years—and for only 24 hours—because a towns person had prayed it would be hidden to keep it safe from evil. On that magical day of the town’s appearance in the twentieth century, all of Brigadoon is celebrating the wedding of their own Charlie and Bonnie Jean. Meanwhile, the American Tommy falls madly in love with Fiona, one of the residents of Brigadoon. What will be the couple’s fate when Brigadoon recedes, with Fiona, into the fog for another 100 years?

I’d done well enough in my audition to make it to the callbacks, but there my nerves got the best of me. My voice seemed to get lost in a fog of its own. The director, our drama of teacher, went into a snit fit, something he was famous for doing. He declared that the show couldn’t go on. It was impossible under the circumstances. We didn’t have the talent, he said. We had no male leads good enough to play the parts.

I went to bed that night feeling utterly disheartened and said a few prayers of my own. I didn’t have the problems of the imprisoned Silas, but this dejected high schooler saw no way out of his situation. All seemed hopeless. Would I ever get my big chance on stage? My surfer brother in the next bed wouldn’t have understood, so I kept my disappointment between God and me.

Shortly before dawn, I woke to the earth’s tremble. My bed shook. I sat up and watched a tennis shoe bounce into the air. My brother sat up just as the other shoe took flight. “Cool!” he shouted. “An earthquake!” Which was as exciting to him as catching a monster wave.

The tremor lasted about a minute, at which point my mom poked her head into our room. “Did you feel the earthquake?”

Yes, Mom, we did. As it turned out, we weren’t far from the epicenter.

School was canceled that day. Fortunately, there was no apparent damage in our town, but it was certainly a reminder of how fragile life could be. Some of my drama friends and I gathered at the coffee shop for lunch, all of us in dismay about the show. We wanted to do it.

Back at school, the director surprised us. He was willing to give us another try. Maybe the earthquake had put things into perspective for him, softened him a bit. This time I sang my heart out, quelling my fears and giving the performance my all. In the end, I was cast as Charlie, a lead role in my sophomore year!

In the play, Charlie and Bonnie Jean’s isn’t the only love story. Everything works out for Tommy and Fiona, his one true love of Brigadoon. The town schoolmaster gives the final message: “When ye love someone deeply, anythin’ is possible. Even miracles.”

Someday I’ll sit and watch Brigadoon with Silas, and maybe he’ll even sing along. Silas was quiet during the hymn singing when we took him to church on his first birthday. He was mesmerized by the stained-glass windows, staring at the worshippers who were enchanted by him. But soon he’ll be ready to talk about miracles, like the big earthquake that freed his biblical namesake and the little earthquake that led me to my breakout role on the high school stage.

The post Silas: A Miraculous Connection from A Biblical Namesake appeared first on Guideposts.

Steve and I had been together for 24 years before we separated. At that point, divorce had seemed the only solution to resolving our differences. Though not everyone in my life felt that way. “I know you two will get back together,” one of my friends had said after the divorce papers were signed.

“That will never happen,” I’d scoffed.

Well, never say never!

Three years after the divorce, our children wanted to throw me a big party for my fiftieth birthday. Of course they wanted to invite their father. I agreed. The split had been amicable, after all. But I surprised myself with how much I enjoyed his company at the party. I realized how right we seemed together. How much I’d missed him. How much I still loved him.

We started seeing each other more frequently, spending time together, just talking freely without old hurts and defensiveness getting in the way. After some deep soul searching and prayer, we decided to give “us” another shot.

We remarried in a small ceremony with only our grown children in attendance. Afterward, Steve and I took off to our favorite spot, Cape May, New Jersey. We had vacationed there with our family going back 20 years. It felt like a return to old times…but different too.

As the sun rose on our first full day, I prayed that Steve and I would get everything right this time, and for good. We walked along the shoreline, our feet in the water. We weren’t walking for long when I spotted something in the sand, just out of reach of the waves. It was a seashell! A whelk with a shiny, smooth interior. It was unlike anything I’d ever seen on this beach before. I was used to finding clam, oyster and mussel shells in the past. Nothing this big. And the shell was perfect—no chips or imperfections.

“Look!” cried Steve, pointing. Just a few feet away was another whelk shell. Like the first, it was whole and unblemished but a little smaller and pinkish in color, in contrast to the other shell, which was larger and darker. But they seemed like they belonged together. A perfect match. We took them back to our room, amazed at our find.

The next morning, we got up early and hurried out to the beach to catch the sunrise again. “What if we find more shells today?” Steve asked, teasing.

I laughed. “That will never happen.”

Well, never say never!

We strolled in the opposite direction that morning, toward the cove, the early morning sun warming our backs. We had been walking for only a few minutes when I saw them up ahead. I blinked in disbelief. Two perfectly formed whelk shells. As we got closer, I could see that they closely resembled the pair we’d found the day before—one larger and dark in color and the other smaller and pinkish, just a few feet apart.

I stood there, stunned. The probability that they were there in the first place, that Steve and I had been the beachcombers who found them—two sets of shells—on the honeymoon of our second marriage was…well, infinitesimal.

But I don’t believe in coincidences. I know it was a sign that Steve and I were on the right track. And whenever I look at the whelk shells that sit in our happy home, I’m reminded of love and second chances. And to never say never!

The post How These Shells Became a Coincidental Sign from Above appeared first on Guideposts.

I was at my mother’s house, sorting I through her things. It was my birthday, but I was too sad to celebrate. Plus, there was so much to do. Mom had passed just two days earlier.

I felt the loss deeply, even though Mom and I had had a complicated relationship. I was the youngest of nine. She’d told me she thought she was done having children when she got pregnant with me, and she’d hoped for a boy. Sometimes I wondered if I’d been a disappointment.

Just keep cleaning, I told myself. I was going through the drawers of Mom’s nightstand when I found a white envelope with my name on it. I opened it. A birthday card! It was decorated with yellow tulips, my favorite flower. “To My Daughter on Her Birthday,” it read. The hair on the back of my neck stood up.

The printed message inside was simple. “Have a wonderful day and a great year!” And below it, in Mom’s slanted cursive, the card was signed, “Love you always, Mom.” On my birthday, I’d been given the exact message I needed to hear.

Kaylin Kaupish Editor

I sat in my living room, scrolling on I my phone. My twenty-ninth birthday was in three days. I’d wanted to mark the final birthday of my twenties with an unforgettable celebration. I’d planned a party with all of my closest friends. My family was even going to travel from Virginia to join the festivities. But then Covid-19 hit and we had to cancel.

I would be spending my twenty-ninth birthday at home. Alone. I was trying to make the most of it. I was going to cook a nice dinner, watch my favorite movie—Ding! A message notification popped up on my screen. It was my coworker, Megan. We used to sit next to each other in the office. I loved the days when she brought her five-year-old son, David, into work. I opened the message. “I don’t know why, but David asked me to send you this,” she wrote.

The words were accompanied by a video. I clicked on it. David was sitting on their couch. “What did you want to tell Kaylin?” Megan asked. David beamed. “Happy birthday!” he said. How in the world did he know?

I texted Megan back immediately. She had no idea my birthday was in three days or how David could have guessed. I wasn’t sure either, but now, thanks to his sweet and unexpected message, this birthday would be one I’d never forget.

Roberta Messner from Huntington, West Virginia

Standing outside the airport in Los Angeles, I waited for the driver who would transport me to a conference. I was feeling a bit down. My birthday had been a few days before, on September 24, and it had gone by without much celebration.

My car pulled up to the curb. I settled into the backseat and introduced myself to Phil, the driver. We hit it off right away. “Say!” Phil said. “Have you ever just ‘lost’ your birthday?” He explained that his had recently passed without much notice.

I asked him when his birthday was.

“The twenty-fourth,” he said.

“Wait, that’s my birthday too!”

Phil was over the moon. “All these years I’ve had passengers with birthdays on September 23 or 25, but never have I driven someone with my birthday!”

Right then, I remembered I had a gift card in my wallet. “If you have time, we can swing by Starbucks for a celebratory treat,” I said. Phil was touched. I bought us coffees, and we sat down together and chatted away. When he dropped me off at the conference center, we exchanged numbers. Now we text each other every year on our shared birthday. God had given me the something small I’d been yearning for—plus a new friend.

The post 3 Miraculous Birthday Gifts from Above appeared first on Guideposts.

Crystal Dawn stared at the words on her phone. They were from Remy Meyer, a guy she’d been messaging on a dating app for the past two weeks. Remy was from California but had recently moved to Indiana, where Crystal lived.

At least that’s what he said.

Crystal felt a strong connection to Remy. He was in recovery from years of drug addiction, as she was. He wanted to find a job and settle down.

At least that’s what he said.

Crystal trusted no one, especially herself. After all the self-destructive decisions she’d made in her life, all the men who’d lied, cheated and abused her, she wasn’t even sure why she was on a dating app. Or why she felt drawn to Remy.

Crystal had spent years as a drug user in Austin, Indiana. Since getting clean nine months earlier, she’d left Austin and now lived 20 miles away in Seymour, where she was committed to her recovery program. There were so many red flags in Remy’s story, but he didn’t sound like a liar when they finally talked on the phone. His voice was kind, good-hearted, sincere.

But that was probably just wishful thinking. Why risk everything for a voice on a phone? She closed the app and put her phone away. She had to think this through.

Drugs ran in Remy’s family. His mom and aunt overdosed from heroin when he was three years old. By age 13, he was in a gang selling drugs. A carjacking arrest put him in prison when he turned 18. It wasn’t his last time behind bars.

For years he bounced around from California, where he was born, to Florida, Oregon and back to California. He wound up in Indiana after a friend offered him some construction work in Austin.

Every time he moved, Remy vowed to start fresh and stay clean. He signed up for the dating app to meet people in Austin. He’d met a lot of women over the years, but there was something different about Crystal. Something gentle and good. He could tell she’d endured years of pain. She was searching for peace. For God. For sobriety.

Remy wanted those things too. At first, he wondered whether Crystal had relapsed when she stopped responding to his messages. But there was a likelier explanation. Why would a good person like Crystal want to date a junkie like Remy? She’d ghosted him. She was gone. He needed to try to forget her.

Months went by. Crystal ignored Remy’s messages until they stopped. She was 38. She’d been using drugs since she was 13, after a babysitter raped her and shattered what had been a happy, normal childhood.

Decades of addiction had left a trail of wreckage. Failed marriages, her kids taken into state custody, life-threatening overdoses. Before her fourth husband died, he had made Crystal promise that she’d get clean and reconnect with her kids, who’d been adopted by her father.

Crystal overdosed one last time. It proved to be a come-to-Jesus moment. Something deep inside her changed. I’m done, Crystal thought. I want out. I want to be with my kids. This time, she knew she meant it.

She began attending Celebrate Recovery, a Christian 12-step program at a local church. She achieved weeks, then months of sobriety. She found a job and rented an apartment in Seymour. She had no desire to go back to Austin.

Celebrate Recovery recommended at least a year of sobriety before resuming dating. Crystal had been sober nine months when she signed up for the dating app and met Remy. Everything Remy said in their talks came back to one idea: He wanted God, sobriety and love in his life. But she had to stay focused on her own healing. Maybe Remy was the right guy at the wrong time, she decided. Crystal felt bad about ghosting him. But she knew what her sponsor would say: “It hasn’t been a year. You’re not ready.” Was it possible she ever would be?

Remy struggled after he lost touch with Crystal. The friend who’d promised construction work vanished. A job at Circle K helped pay bills, but Remy felt directionless. He started using drugs again. Soon he was selling. Then he got arrested for stealing from the store cash register.

Scared, ashamed, alone in a jail cell, Remy cried out to God. How to break this cycle of hopelessness? Remy stumbled back into his old life after he was released, but God had his eye on him. Walking home one snowy night, Remy took shelter outside a church in Austin called Church of the New Covenant.

Jacob Howell, one of the pastors, wandered outside. He saw Remy and sat and talked with him in the snow for two hours. By the end of that conversation, Remy had an inkling that things could be different. It was a first step toward a new path.

He joined a Celebrate Recovery group in Austin and spent time every day at Church of the New Covenant. He didn’t know where all of this was going, but he liked how it felt.

Crystal heard her phone buzz with a text: “God told me you need to go to the Celebrate Recovery meeting in Scottsburg tonight.” The text was from her friend Lori.

That was odd, Crystal thought. She liked her Celebrate Recovery group in Seymour just fine. Scottsburg was half an hour away.

“Okay, I guess,” Crystal wrote back. “But only if you go with me.”

A church bus made a stop in Seymour to pick up people going to Scottsburg. Crystal and Lori boarded and attended the meeting, which, Crystal thought, wasn’t much different from her regular group. She’d been quiet during the meeting, new faces and all. Nothing gave her a hint as to why God had wanted her to go to a meeting a bus ride away.

On the ride back, Crystal and Lori introduced themselves to people around them. Crystal put out her hand to a man in the row behind her.

“I know who you are,” said the man, smiling. “You’re Crystal.”

Crystal didn’t know what to say. She’d never met this guy.

“I’m Remy,” he said, still smiling. “From the dating app. You ghosted me last year. Eight months ago, to be exact.”

She felt her face flush. “How did you know it was me?” she asked.

“I’ve never forgotten the sound of your voice,” said Remy. “But I never dreamed I’d run into you this way. The bus is from my church, Church of the New Covenant.”

Crystal’s eyes widened. “New Covenant? In Austin?” she said. “The church where Harold White was pastor before he retired?”

Remy nodded.

“Harold White was my friend’s cousin,” said Crystal. “Years ago, he told me I’d attend his church one day. I just laughed at him.”

Crystal and Remy talked the rest of the way. Crystal thought Remy had drifted away. Remy thought Crystal never wanted to see him again.

They were both wrong.

They began attending Celebrate Recovery meetings together. They dated for three months, then got married.

Today they co-lead a Celebrate Recovery group in Austin. They attend Church of the New Covenant, just as Pastor White had promised. Crystal’s kids live with them, and they’ve celebrated their three-year wedding anniversary. As their divine match maker knew they would be one day, they’d both been ready at last.

The post How These Heaven-Sent Lovers Found Each Other appeared first on Guideposts.

Prayer is the cornerstone of a robust spiritual life. But it can look very different from person to person. Some people pray every day. Others, have a special spot where they go to pray. There are many who pray in their car, while stuck in traffic on the way home from work.

But what do we mean by prayer? What is prayer? And what does it mean to us?

Here a collection of thoughts from authors, theologians and philosophers, all seeking to answer that question: What is prayer?

The post The Big Question: What Is Prayer? appeared first on Guideposts.

The fog of depression had begun to descend in late 2008. When the economy failed, so did my business. My media company tanked almost overnight, taking with it every
penny I’d saved. Then my wife filed for divorce. It had been a long time coming, but I was still devastated. Everything had converged like a multicar pileup on the highway. In
just a few weeks, I’d gone from a respected communications entrepreneur and married man to an unemployed divorcé, drifting along without direction or purpose.

Now, six months after my divorce, I’d reached rock bottom. I hadn’t been able to find any work since shuttering my business. I was hopeless, and I was down on myself. God seemed to be teaching me a harsh lesson for every mistake I had ever made. Showing me that I should’ve been a better husband, a better businessman—a better man. How could he possibly love a man like me? Sometimes the cruel thoughts became so overpowering that I would consider the ways I could leave this earth altogether and, maybe, kill the pain. Sleep had become the best escape from my torment, and it didn’t come often. However, that Friday, I was exhausted by the afternoon. I lay down in bed and closed my eyes. Unusually peaceful, with no tossing or turning, I drifted off.

What happened next wasn’t a dream.

I was in another realm—unearthly but calming. I found myself in a man’s arms. He was seated on a big rock, holding me as if I were a child. There was no verbal exchange, for
none was necessary. We were completely at peace together. He rocked me gently and stroked my arm. I’d never felt so content.

Finally, some rest, I thought. It felt so good to not be sad. Then there was an abrupt but calming revelation. It’s Jesus. This man is Jesus.

There was no time, space or dimension to this place. My focus shifted as Jesus reached down to the ground and picked up a large, flat object. I recognized it as a piece of natural slate, one that might be written on with a stick of chalk.

With his palm and forearm, Jesus reached to one side of the slate and made a slow, smooth, purposeful motion across it, as if he were wiping it clean. Still, no words, just complete tranquility. I understood.

A clean slate. Forgiven.

All the cruel thoughts I had had about myself. All the shame I had felt over my failed business, the debts that remained to be paid. All of my shortcomings that had led to the failure of my marriage. None of it made me less redeemable in the eyes of God. I could leave the weight of the past behind and start anew.

I’d lost sight of that truth, but here it was, presented to me with utter clarity.

I woke up. And while the image of Jesus faded, the feeling didn’t. I was at peace, a peace I’d never before experienced. It was as if something inside me—something that had been cracked and broken—had been repaired.

Although my circumstances didn’t change overnight, my outlook on life did. The depression eased. Over time, as I contemplated the experience, the boulder of shame was lifted from my shoulders. I reclaimed my identity and sense of purpose in life. I forged a new path in my career and repaid my debts.

It took me five years to tell anyone about what I had experienced in my dream that Friday afternoon. It had been so genuine and so authentic that I felt it might be diminished if I shared it. I didn’t know how I could find the words—they all seemed so inadequate. So it took even longer to put the experience down on paper. Even if I’m not able to completely describe what happened, mine is a story that must be shared. Because it’s a reminder that God loves us unconditionally—even when we aren’t able to love ourselves.

The post This Mysterious Dream Brought Clarity and Comforting Peace appeared first on Guideposts.

How did you become interested in NDEs?
When I was doing my residency training for radiation oncology, I read a short piece in The Journal of the American Medical Association about something they were calling near-death experiences. I was fascinated because there was no medical explanation for the reason these events should happen.

You can’t be clinically dead and yet retain consciousness. My cancer patients were confronting death, but it wasn’t a subject I felt comfortable talking to them about, certainly not
the possibility of life after death. So the article stuck with me, but I didn’t see any application to my medical practice.

A few years later, I was having dinner with a friend and his wife. She told me how she’d had an allergic reaction while under anesthesia during surgery and then coded. I had an odd feeling that there was more to her story. So I asked her: “Were you aware of anything after your heart stopped?”

“Well yes,” she said, surprised at my question. She described being completely aware of the panic in the operating room. “I left my body and was transported through a tunnel to a place that felt like heaven. I saw a review of my entire life and met with these beings who gave me a choice of staying or going back to earth. I didn’t want to leave, but I ultimately made a choice to return. It was the strangest thing.”

“I think you had a near-death experience,” I said and told her of the article I’d read. Neither of us really knew what to make of it, but it made me want to study these events from a medical perspective. I was curious but highly skeptical. I wanted to understand these events by hearing from the people who had experienced them. That was my reason for starting the NDERF website in 1998.

What was your biggest finding from your research?
After analyzing thousands of experiences, I can say conclusively that NDEs are real and, more important, are evidence that there is life after death.

What highlights this for me is the overwhelming consistency we’ve seen in these accounts regardless of where in the world they’ve occurred. We have received accounts of
NDEs translated from over 30 languages, and they are strikingly similar, whether the person is Christian, Muslim, Hindu, Jewish or atheist. There’s no pattern of prior beliefs or
life experience that would explain what is happening—which tells me these are indeed real and otherworldly experiences.

Can you explain the process you use to analyze near-death experience accounts for NDERF?
Back in 1998, I created the NDERF website, which features a scientifically valid survey of more than 60 questions, asking people to share their NDEs. The questions ask things like whether they went through a tunnel or saw a bright light, whether they were met by deceased loved ones, if they interacted with a godlike figure, and the emotions they experienced. I ask about their religious beliefs before and after the experience, etc. In addition, I ask them to write about the experience in their own words. I was looking to see if there were similarities to the experiences that would be further evidence for their validity. I wanted to know if what occurred during NDEs was perhaps shaped by prior beliefs. I also wanted to see if there was a medical explanation for the experience, or something else that might discredit it.

According to the accounts you’ve gathered, what are the hallmarks of a typical NDE?
For nearly everyone, they are overwhelmingly positive experiences. Many report seeing a bright light they might identify as a divine presence, as well as being surrounded by an all-encompassing feeling of love, beyond anything they’ve experienced on earth. Upwards of 75 percent want to stay in the afterlife because of the love and joy they feel. As a result, nearly 100 percent no longer fear death. That’s one of the most significant outcomes, an assurance that there is life after death.

Do people ever experience negative NDEs?
The number of people who have reported negative NDEs is so small that some researchers question whether they are actually NDEs. But even in these cases, while the experience is not pleasant in the moment, it often inspires positive change once they return to life and still leaves them with a belief that death was not the end.

Do people experience being in an actual physical place that feels like heaven?
Experiences vary. More than half report seeing an actual realm that could be described as heavenly. Perhaps a quarter are surrounded by light or mist and never see a clearly defined realm. Others never enter what could be called a heavenly realm.

When people do see a heavenly realm, many understand it to be a kind of preview, not the actual heaven. The feeling is often that much of the reality of the afterlife is beyond our ability to comprehend, so what they do experience is something they can more easily relate to.

How common is it to interact directly with God or Jesus?
This is a relatively uncommon experience. Only about 12 to 14 percent report seeing or speaking with a being they know to be God, and about 7 percent interact with Jesus, but it happens often enough to be statistically significant.

One of my favorite Jesus encounters was this person who was a dyed-in-the-wool atheist. Then he had an NDE and actually talked with Jesus. Jesus was wearing a business
suit, and the man asked him, “Why are you dressed like this?” And Jesus said, “You wouldn’t have believed it was me if I was wearing a robe.” They both had a good laugh about this. I should add that the man is no longer an atheist.

How often do people report seeing deceased loved ones during an NDE?
The percentage of people who encounter deceased loved ones during their NDE is about 20 percent. They may be aware of the presence of a deceased loved one, see them or actively communicate with them.

Another interesting thing to note is, while not common, people also report seeing beloved pets that have passed on before them at a rate of about 2 percent.

Do you have any examples of pets appearing in NDEs?
The story that stands out to me is from a woman named Rebecca. She was a horse trainer, and one day while riding, she was thrown. She landed on her head and was knocked unconscious. Before she was revived, she had an NDE. She saw below her the horse she had been riding running back to the stable (an event she later confirmed).

Then she was met by a beloved horse that had died at a previous date. What’s remarkable here is that she had a very detailed conversation with her horse. The horse had died
traumatically, and Rebecca had felt a huge amount of guilt over the death. The horse was able to reassure her that she had nothing to feel guilty about. This experience was
profoundly comforting for her.

How are people’s lives changed by having a near-death experience?
Many people feel led to do something different with their lives. They may work or volunteer in hospice, or do something where they comfort people grieving the loss of loved ones.

Has your research changed your approach in your everyday work as a radiation oncologist?
Yes, definitely! Before I did this research, I was reluctant to talk with my patients about death and the possibility of an afterlife. Now, if I see that my patients want to talk about it, I have no hesitation. I tell them that based on my research, I’m very confident that there’s a wonderful afterlife for all of us and that we will be reunited with our deceased loved ones. And that’s profoundly reassuring to them. To me it’s a blessing to be able to share that with them.

Why do you think people experience NDEs?
This continues to be a major mystery in the NDE researcher community. We have to keep in mind that only about 10 percent of people who code and are brought back to life report NDEs. And yet there’s nothing that differentiates them from other patients who code and don’t have NDEs.

One of our experiencers, in the midst of her NDE, feeling overwhelmed by love and a sense of peace, asked this question of God directly.

“What made me so special that I was allowed to have this happen to me?” she asked.

“Nothing,” God told her. “Love falls on everyone equally. Everyone is special. This was just something you needed to accomplish your chosen life mission.”

The answer, ultimately, is that only God really knows why some individuals have these experiences and others don’t. But NDEs give every one of us the assurance that God is real and that he’s watching over us, so there’s value even to those of us who don’t have these experiences.

The post A Conversation with a Near-Death Experience Expert appeared first on Guideposts.

The Widow’s Son (1 Kings 17:10–24)

God led Elijah to the home of a widow and her son who kindly gave him the last of their food. Shortly after, the widow’s son grew ill and stopped breathing. She was angry and confused. Why would God take her son after she had helped his prophet? Her fear was short lived. Elijah prayed for the son, and the boy began to breathe again. “Now I know that you are a man of God,” the widow said to Elijah, “and that the word of the Lord from your mouth is the truth.” Even amid doubt, there was healing.

The Leaping Man (Acts 3)

The apostles John and Peter came across a man who was unable to walk. Peter called on the power of Jesus to heal the man and helped him to his feet. Suddenly, the man leapt up and began dancing around, praising God. Those who saw him “were filled with wonder and amazement at what had happened.” This miraculous healing touched not only the man himself but the hearts of the people who witnessed it.

A Man Named Lazarus (John 11:1–44)

When Jesus and his disciples learned that Lazarus was dead, they went to where he was buried. Jesus instructed Lazarus’s sisters to remove the stone of his tomb, but no one there believed that Lazarus would be alive. “Did I not tell you that if you believe, you will see the glory of God?” Jesus said. They removed the stone and Lazarus walked out. God’s promise was fulfilled.

Naaman The Soldier (2 Kings 5)

Naaman, a soldier who had leprosy, went to the prophet Elisha for healing. When Elisha sent a messenger instructing Naaman to bathe in the Jordan River seven times, Naaman considered the request ridiculous. Naaman’s servants implored him to listen, stating, “If the prophet had told you to do some great thing, would you not have done it?” Naaman obeyed the divine message, even though it did not make sense to him. He bathed in the river and was cured.

The Sick Woman (Matthew 9:20-22)

As Jesus walked by, a woman who had been sick for 12 years reached out to touch the hem of his cloak. Could simply being near Jesus finally bring her healing? Jesus turned to her and said, “Take heart, daughter. Your faith has healed you.”The woman had her long awaited answer.

The post 5 Miraculous Healings in The Bible appeared first on Guideposts.

It was the night before Christmas Eve, and all through the house, not a creature was stirring, not even my golden retriever mix, Lucky. She was sleeping peacefully, curled up on the floor. My small artificial Christmas tree was set up on a table in the corner of the room. Its lights twinkled merrily.

The rain was coming down hard outside, creating a soothing melody. I decided to take a cue from Lucky and turn in early. As I drifted off to sleep, visions of sugar plums should’ve been dancing through my head. Instead, I woke to a strange hissing sound.

The first thing I saw was the digital clock on my nightstand. 5 a.m. The next thing I saw was the water. I lived in an old building that used to be a post office. Everything—the living room, kitchen and bedroom—was in one large, open area. From my bed, I could see water rushing in under the front door, turning the beige carpet chocolate brown.

I threw off the covers and jumped out of bed, putting on my fuzzy slippers. I knew I was living in a flood zone, so I’d rehearsed this emergency plan in my head many times. The
water could rise in a matter of minutes, trapping people in their homes or washing them away with the current. I had to hurry. I gathered up my always-packed tote with my essential items, snatched up my keys and pulled on my bathrobe.

I tried the back door—a heavy, steel thing—but it was stuck. That wasn’t part of the plan. My truck was parked in the back, and this was the quickest way to it. I pushed with all
my might, but the door wouldn’t open. The water must be higher than I thought. I grabbed a pair of rubber boots and hurried to the front door. It took some doing, but to my relief, it opened. Now I just had to get Lucky.

I turned around and saw that she’d retreated to higher ground—the couch. She sat there, panting nervously. “Come here, Lucky!” I called out. She didn’t budge. “Come on!” My panic was rising along with the water level. About five inches covered the floor now, with more rushing in through the open door. Lucky knew something was wrong, and the desperation in my voice wasn’t encouraging. It was clear she wasn’t moving. With my hands full, perhaps it would be easier to get my truck, put my things in it, then pull up to the front door and carry Lucky out. “Stay, girl!” I said before stepping outside and closing the door behind me.

The hiss of water became a roar. Steadying myself, I stepped into the water, brown and churning. I couldn’t see my own feet. At one point, I stumbled, falling forward with a splash onto one knee. By the time I made it to the truck, I was soaked through and shivering, my knee bleeding.

I opened the door and climbed inside, praying it would start. The engine came to life. I threw the truck into four-wheel drive and hit the gas, gunning it to the front of the house to pick up Lucky. Halfway up the driveway, the floodwater suddenly surged. A wave washed over the hood of my truck, killing the engine instantly. It was a lost cause. I would
just have to get Lucky and walk to higher ground. Kicking off my ruined slippers, I pulled on my rubber boots. I hopped out, wading through the water toward the front door.

With the water still rising, the doorknob was now completely under water. Oh no. I tried it anyway. It wouldn’t open. The pressure of the water was keeping it closed. I pulled
and pulled with all my strength, but the door wouldn’t budge. I pulled until the doorknob came off in my hand, sending me backward into the water. As I scrambled to my feet, I
imagined Lucky inside, sitting on the couch as the water continued to rise. I couldn’t leave her! I wouldn’t!

Get out now. It was a voice, clear and strong. The words rang in my head, separate from my own inner dialogue. Get out now, the voice repeated. To save Lucky, you have to
save yourself.

Though I hated to admit it, the heavenly voice was right. I had to get to higher ground to find help for Lucky before it was too late. I turned around and started walking, uphill,
toward the main road. I leaned forward, using all my strength to take each step. The water was above my waist now and still rising, threatening to sweep me away.

I finally reached the main road. My heart raced as I struggled to catch my breath. I still had my tote slung over my shoulder, but—like me—it was absolutely drenched, along with
everything inside it. I tried my phone anyway, but it wouldn’t turn on. I had no way to call for help. Just then, I spotted a glow in the distance. Headlights, fast approaching. I waved down the driver, and he let me borrow his phone so I could call emergency services.

When the fire department and EMTs arrived, I immediately informed them my dog was still inside the house. They told me they couldn’t go in after Lucky due to their policy about not risking human life to save a pet. I understood, but that didn’t stop the tears. Lucky was my baby! But one kind firefighter saw my distress and volunteered to go after Lucky on his own. He set off with a crowbar and a length of rope, one end tied around his waist and the other end to the bumper of the firetruck.

He returned with Lucky in his arms—unharmed and completely dry. He said he’d found her on the kitchen counter. Apparently, she’d avoided the floodwater completely by climbing to higher and higher points in the house. I hugged her tightly as her tail wagged, a steady thump, thump, thump against my side. We were both finally safe.

A few days later, I managed to secure a rental car. The Red Cross had given Lucky and me enough money to put us in a hotel room for a week. When the rain had stopped and the flooding had receded, I went back to the house.

My front lawn was strewn with my belongings, most of them damaged beyond repair and caked with mud. My truck sat in the driveway, totaled. The front door was hanging open. Inside, it was a mess. The water had risen over three feet. I could tell by the stains it had left behind on the wall. The floor was littered with trash and debris. I felt tears gather in my eyes as I surveyed the damage.

Then, I saw it—the twinkling lights. My Christmas tree! Incredibly, my little tabletop Christmas tree was untouched. There it sat, clean and pristine on its table, lights still on, ornaments still sparkling through the gloom. A small Christmas miracle to remind me that God hadn’t just whispered in my ear. He’d been with me and Lucky all along. And he
would remain with us as I rebuilt my life after the flood.

The post How This Christmas Miracle Saved Their Lives During a Flood appeared first on Guideposts.

One day, we went out for coffee to talk about our trip to New York City, which was coming up in a couple weeks. Dad, a proud New Yorker, was so excited to show me his favorite spots. “I want to take you to this diner I used to go to every morning before work,” he said. “I would always get a cup of coffee and a snail.” I couldn’t help but laugh. Like a bear claw, a snail was such a funny name for a pastry. “I can’t wait to share a snail in the city,” I said.

We never got the chance. Just a week later, Dad died of a stroke. I was overcome by grief. I couldn’t even bring myself to find comfort in a bear claw. The thought of eating one without Dad taking the other half made me too sad.

A few months later, I was at the office and went to the kitchen for a cup of coffee. On the counter was a pink bakery box. Out of curiosity more than hunger, I peeked inside. Only a few pastries were left—including a bear claw, cut perfectly down the middle. And next to it was a snail. “Take your half,” I could almost hear Dad say. I did, and I enjoyed every bite.

For more inspiring stories, subscribe to Guideposts magazine.

The post The Bear Claw That Brought Her Comfort appeared first on Guideposts.