God's Hands

 This is truth. Abundant truth.

I have powerful testimony that proves this simple statement.

We are going back to 2010. I was at possibly the lowest point of my life. Nothing was going right. So much turmoil. So much sadness.

I had been away from church for about 15 years. No more Christadelphian meetings, no praying, nothing. I didn't stop believing in God and yet...I started questioning everything about him. The personal crisis that started in 2009 had crescendoed to a feverish state of mind.

After a year of intense sorrow, the hubby & I started talking about, of all things, going back to church.

No one was more shocked than me.

Now - we love the city of Boston. It is one of our favorite places anywhere and we try to get there several times each year. In early 2010 we planned a mini-break holiday in that great place. Bougie hotel, great meals, lots of walking and people watching.

And a visit to St. Leonard's Church in the North End of the city. We went there every time we went to Boston to light a candle for Heather Smith. She was the daughter of old friends and she perished on Flight 11 on 9/11/01. Despite not being particularly religious during those years we honored Heather and her parents.

So we went to St. Leonard's during our weekend away. I was more curious about this Catholic church than any time in the past given that we were thinking about going back to church. And the Christadelphian faith was definitely not on the list.

Growing up in a non-aesthetic Christian faith I had no familiarity with Saints. I knew nothing about them and certainly never saw any physical representations of them.

St. Leonard's in Boston is a classic 19th century Italianate church. Built entirely by the Italian immigrants living in the North End, it is lavish with coffered ceilings, gold leaf everywhere, and elaborate statuary all around the church. So many saint statues that they stood, literally, shoulder-to-shoulder.

I had never explored them before but this time, March 2010, I felt compelled to walk up to each one. I felt one of those saints calling to me. One of them had something important to tell me, I could feel it in my bones.

So I began walking around the church, stopping in front of each statue and asking - are you the one? I'd wait a minute or so, then move on when I felt nothing.

Until I came to a distinctly unique statue. Tall, wearing armor and holding a pennant***. Like all the others, I paused and asked - are you the one?

The next few moments are burned into my memory. I can see this like it is happening right in front of me at this moment.

I was pushed - literally - to kneel in front of this statue. There is no doubt in my mind that the hand of God gently forced me to the cushioned kneeler. If there wasn't a kneeler, I'm sure I'd have gone prostrate on the floor.

I prayed as I never have in my entire life. And cried - I didn't know a human being could cry that much in one place at one time.

I have no recollection how much time passed. Hubby just let me do what I needed to do. He stayed near me but didn't speak to me. He respected what was happening to me. He was then, and remains today, my steady loving rock.

Eventually I stood back up, dried my messy face, and sat in the church for a good long time. Just sat there - quietly praying some more.

On the ride home from Boston that evening we talked about what happened. What it felt like physically. And emotionally.

I was exhausted in every way possible. Overwhelmed by the experience and reeling from the very clear message. From God himself.

Go back to church my child. You need me. I need you.

Startling to say the least. The following weekend was Easter. And as we were in our driveway on Easter Sunday, prepared to drive an hour to hubby's parents, we clearly heard church bells. We'd never heard them before in the 20+ years we'd live in our home.

Saints. Kneeling. God's voice. Church bells.

You just don't ignore all that. The weekend after Easter we started going back to church. Our plan was to try the "Big 3" in our country town - Lutheran, Catholic, Episcopal. We started with the Catholic Church for 2 reasons: 1) hubby was born Catholic and 2) God told me to go back to church while I was in a Catholic church.

And so our faith journey began. Because God laid his hands on me.

And it's true - I haven't ever been the same since.

Amen.

*** There is an amusing side-story to this saint statue. In my heightened emotional state I saw this statue with the armor and spear as - female. Research immediately after that visit told me it was - Joan of Arc. Now I knew her story but not the details. So I read everything I could find about her. And ultimately selected her as my Patron Saint when I joined the Catholic Church. Fast forward another couple of years and in speaking with one of hubby's Aunts - discovered that the saint statue I knelt before was distinctly male - The Archangel Michael.

I based my conversion to Catholicism, in part, on the misidentification of a saint statue. To this day it makes me smile at the private joke I feel God had for me. I'm not sure I would have responded so viscerally if I'd recognized the statue as St. Michael. Yet upon a revisit some years later it was so obvious the statue is male...abs under the armor, well-defined legs...and that pennant? It was a spear, going thru the heart of a demon at St. Michael's feet.

Just writing all that - makes me laugh.