Finally, The Spirit Moves Me

Last week I was talking with a dear friend about religion. We said we were atheists/agnostics. But I heard a silent question mark in our voices. Were we wondering the same thing? That there may or may not be a supreme being, but there may, in fact, be something? How else could we explain certain coincidences we were both describing?

Last year, I went to church. Being Jewish, I was confused about the proceedings. Without my asking, a woman continuously showed me what to do, when to stand, where to find the hymns.

In the pews were people of varied life stages – from wheelchair-bound to robust healthy folks. From women wearing diamonds to those appearing impoverished. But everyone had the same expression. Serenity. Then I began to think that most religions basically propose the same themes: love, peace and communion with others. If that’s what spirituality is about, I could sure use more of it.

I’m finding that many people are rekindling the religious beliefs they once (under their parents’ jurisdiction) rejected. And some feel that spirituality is not necessarily found in a supreme being.

In the woods, where my husband Bob walks our dog, a large oak tree fell. This made Bob sad. Months later, he called from his cell phone to say there were sprouts on the trunk of that tree. This is Bob’s sense of spirituality – the continuation of life from death.

Until now, I’ve rejected the concept of miracles. But I’ve learned that, like the relative nature of religion, so it goes with miracles. They don’t necessarily have to mean something impossible. Miracles can be found in the smallest of gestures. It was a miracle that a woman “instinctively” took me under her wing in church and showed me the way - in many respects.

And so, I look for miracles every day. They’ve been there all along but I haven’t noticed. There’s a miracle in my smiling dog’s face as she crazily shoves her toy into my hand so we’ll play.

Lots of us have stories about seemingly impossible coincidences. It’s a miracle when my beloved long-distance friend Sara, whom I only speak with every few months, calls at nearly the very same time I’ve picked up the phone to call her. The day I began writing this column, she called! We hadn’t spoken since Christmas.

Recently Bob and I took a carriage tour in Plymouth, Massachusetts. At the end, the buggy driver gave me a framed drawing of Mother Teresa. My cynical self assumed he had lots of them and gave them in expectation of a tip. But he had no other drawings to give, and when Bob tried to give him money, he refused. Was that a spiritual gesture? I think so now.

Two years ago, I became disabled. Twenty-three years ago, Bob made me a beautiful walking stick for our long hikes. He spent weeks polishing it and carved my initials and the year in Roman numerals on the handle. Is it possible that in his soul, he “knew” I couldn’t get around without a walking stick now – 23 years after he made it?

This past January, four neurologists told me I will never get better. Should I take their words as Gospel? Well, that is a very tough declaration to fight. But maybe if I look at my goofy dog’s expectant face, the tiny green sprouts on the oak, the kindnesses offered unexpectedly from strangers, the “coincidences” my pal and I discussed, I’ll find the strength to fight it. No. There’s no “maybe” involved. From this moment on, I am determined to prove those doctors wrong. Because I know  . . .  that miracles can happen.

And now, I’ll call Sara to tell her of my newfound resolve – unless she gets to the phone first.