As previously confessed, I am an overthinker. I suspect it’s a byproduct of devoting many years to the legal profession. Through countless clients’ experiences, I’ve been reminded that every point is viewed through the individual perspective and, as such, there is no one absolute truth; whatever truth exists often lies somewhere between.
Spiritually, I have occupied that same mental space, classifying myself as not religious but spiritual, with great belief in, and love and reverence for, the vast Source of all. “Spiritually eclectic” is the hat I have long worn. Under that hat is a mind that has struggled with the concept of Jesus being the *only* way to Heaven (whatever, wherever that may be) and the mediator to God. The struggle has been real.
In late 2018, I faced a new inner conflict, this time a sense of vulnerability looming on the golden horizon of life. Getting older was proving to be in-your-face real. With a solid history of feeling sound and self-confident, this unfamiliar territory brought me to feel unsettled, unsteady, unsure.
Then in early 2019, a line was cast. At first, it obscurely floated on the surface, a subtle glisten occasionally catching my attention. Music, the salve that can soothe a troubled soul, periodically reassured me It Is Well and I was Gonna Be OK, that I just needed to Be Still because Fear Is A Liar. The lyrics helped to temporarily tame the tormenting notions that polluted my thoughts.
Through time and circumstances, I spent more quiet moments with myself and nature. Along the way, I found greater comfort in the reminder that God is always near. The more present I allowed myself to be, the more obvious the beckoning became. Over the next year, Source’s invisible hand sprinkled a few spontaneous choices and serendipitous moments before me, like chum, to feed an even deeper awareness and connection.
Drained by the endless ebb and flow of anxious thoughts, I decided it was time to find someone to help me tend to my inner wounds. Looking online, I found one clinic nearby, but my eyes quickly locked on the mention of “Christian counselors.” Fearing their “mission” went beyond the stated mental and emotional counseling, my overthinking, reasoning self shifted into resistance mode. “Nope. They’ll just try to fill my head with a bunch of Jesus stuff.” Yet, reading on, I still felt compelled to call.
Surrendering to the modest tug, I dialed but got their voicemail. I knew it; I wasn’t supposed to be doing this, and now here I was facing Choice #2: I could hang up, or I could be brave (or maybe foolish) and leave a message. Thinking about it one second too long, the beep put me on notice that hanging up was no longer an option. I left my name and number, all the while thinking, “If they don’t call me back, then it’s a sign I’m supposed to call someplace else.” The next day they called, and my first appointment was made.
A few days later and with a new type of anxiousness, I headed to my first session. As I turned the car on, the radio magically morphed into a spiritual GPS, with Lauren Daigle’s “You Say,” the latest song in my arsenal, reminding me I was loved, I was strong, I belonged, and most importantly, I was not alone. Tears spontaneously flowed at this gift of reassurance, and at that moment, I sensed I was on my way to being okay.
That first session and the ones that followed proved relatively painless, mostly providing me the benefit of a trained but impartial outside perspective. We talked about life and its challenges, family and profession, my ever-shifting focus on the visions for tomorrow, my spiritual struggles, and, last but not least, the losses that left holes in my soul. Occasionally she asked questions that left me feeling like an infant in the dark, crawling toward a sliver of light that was pointing the way to the door.
As that weekly talk-and-explore sequence played out, a second layer of mending began to form. I had come to realize my still-developing home-based business was diminishing both my sense of purpose and my connection to the outside world. (And, of course, all that time alone left my mind free to engage in self-doubting chatter.) I polished up my resume and applied for a range of positions, with a primary desire of avoiding the stress of a longer commute. Any income and any interaction would be a win.
I soon found myself deliberating the pros and cons of a part-time cashier position at a nearby family-owned grocery store. While I appreciated the offer, this was the kind of job I envisioned for retirement, and I wasn’t ready to put myself out to professional pasture. But, on the flip side, it would get me out of the house, provide a steady paycheck, and still allow me to work my own business. After some thought, I decided why not! I was certainly ready for something different.
As a cashier, I enjoyed meeting people from my subdivision and beyond, many of whom were older with health issues. Over time, customers brought me far more than groceries to check out — there were stories of surgeries, heart attacks, cancer, and more. Some days cashiering seemed to compete with hairdressers on the confidant front. But shadowing each story’s struggles was the strength, victories, and resilience of the soul. The purposeful role these near-strangers played in my life was not lost on me.
Unfortunately, I soon learned that an ever-changing work schedule disrupted my sleep patterns and often left home life in a hi-bye volley — at times greetings and partings the extent of conversation with my husband. Once again, anxiety showed its ugly face with the increased isolation I now knew at home. The job had served its purpose by reinforcing that I was not meant to work alone and from home, so back to the stream of job postings I went.
With perfect timing, the line was again cast when the write-up for a legal assistant position at an estate planning firm lured me in. Estate planning was not an area of law with which I’d had much experience, but I was familiar with all the software the firm used, and the job seemed perfect for this phase of life. I applied on a Thursday, received an email for a phone interview the following day, with an in-person interview less than 48 hours later. All the while, I felt as though there was some greater energy pulling me in. Two weeks later, I was working a new job in a role I hoped would take me through to retirement.
It was a small four-female firm with two attorneys, a paralegal, and myself. Although I was not familiar with the estate planning process, I quickly learned the value of making and having a plan. The stories and life experiences of those I came in contact with every day once again reminded me that life is sometimes too short and always precious. My anxious side was also, again, reassured that the body and soul can be resilient, even when faced with uncertainty or unexpected loss.
Over time and through conversation, I came to see the younger attorney as a kindred spirit. A few months in, serendipity again appeared when a mention of my spiritual hunger brought her to say, “You should check out my church! I searched for months, and this one really feels like home.”
A few weeks later, on January 25, 2020, she and I met at the church. I was apprehensive, as it had been decades since I’d last attended any worship service. It was a large building, larger than any church I’d ever entered. Its long hallways pointed the way to the center auditorium and felt like invisible hands offering a loving, protective embrace. Once inside, an unexplainable emotion, topped with a giddy delight, overcame me. Blinking back tears, I felt that, finally, here was a place where my soul could breathe.
The following week my co-worker was out of town, so I, totally out of character, exercised braveness and went on my own. After services, I waited in line to speak with the pastor, all the while again bewildered at my newfound courage. The conversation was brief and far from timid, as I expressed my resistance at God being a “He” and alluded to my concerns for potential rigidity in their beliefs. He then introduced me to Dale, an associate pastor, to arrange for a deeper-dive conversation with her a couple of weeks later.
The next week, again going solo, I felt a bit more insecure and conspicuously alone. As I wandered in and through the multitude of people exiting the auditorium after the first of two services, my gaze drifted left. Almost like magic, there was Dale, walking in my direction. As soon as she noticed me, her face lit up with a smile and her hands reached for mine, leaving no doubt I was both recognized and welcome. That happenstance meeting felt like an intention of the Universe to help seal the deal.
Over the next few weeks, I continued to exercise my new spiritual independence, with one more church meet-up with my friend in the latter part of February. She was right; seven weeks straight, and this church really did feel like it could be home.
And then COVID hit.
Thankfully, the church offered online services, allowing me to continue my weekly workouts with God from the comforts of home. With more time on my hands and growing interest, I recalled the classes Dale had recommended. Soon I was signed up for a six-week session with others in a deeper dive on Christianity, exploring whatever areas of uncertainty we were comfortable enough to raise.
The second week of class led me to Easter, a low-key day spent at home, yet one of mysterious wonder like none I’d ever experienced. My relationship with the Divine was undeniably feeling more personal; there even were times when “He” was a personification that, even for me, now made absolute sense. I was living the concept of being pursued by God.
I signed up for another group class on the challenges and rewards of heartful day-to-day relationships with family, friends, co-workers, and other church members. I even made an appointment with another associate pastor to see if my views on God and Jesus would keep me from fully committing to my spiritual quest through baptism. The earnest search for divine truth was now full-on, as it continues to be.
So as I now take a moment to look back and ponder, there’s little doubt a series of seemingly unrelated experiences lured me into a Plan. Here I am, heart deep in the river, looking to be more fully submerged, when months prior I stood on the bank vowing to remain on firm, dry land. Yes, the Universe determined it was time to put out its “Gone Fishing” sign, and I, thank God, moved in and took the bait.
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