Archives For Grace Of God

The Mystical Hand of God

January 28, 2013 — 1 Comment

The blending or interweave of dimensions––threads of creation in my view––whether it’s physical (length, breadth and depth), cosmological (time, matter and space), human (physical, mental, spiritual), or experiential (real, imagined or mystical) has always been a source of fascination for me.

ImmaculeeHowever, it’s the mystical aspects of our experience––the realm of miracles––that I find so intriguing. Especially when one enters this realm and a life’s trajectory changes as a result.

First, my definition of miracles. I characterize subtle miracles as the wonders that filter through happenstance––only understood when connected retrospectively. Something that is beyond circumstance and clearly demonstrates God’s touch. The mind-blowing, heaven-rending miracles are for Moses, Padre Pio or the Fatima visionaries. As grand and faith affirming as those are, I’m going to tell you about a subtle miracle. Mine.

Due to a strange compulsion to pick up a book, I never would have begun the necessary introspection to discover and accept the grace of God. Because of one incredible woman’s courage, I did not jump into the void. By virtue of God’s introduction––His mystical hand––I began to turn away from self and look to Him as the source and summit of life.

Inspiration is multi-faceted. It can apply to a muse, to creativity or even blinding revelation. In those dark, God-denying days, as I was falling into terrible hopelessness, God chose a person of faith to inspire me.

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Many Thanksgivings ago, I received a gift. However, it took the guiding grace of God for me to understand it––years later––in the context of a spiritually bankrupt life.

City Lights

Ninety seconds isn’t a lot of time. Nonetheless, an event can grab each second by the scruff of its neck and slow its progression as if one goes from gliding on ice to walking in tar. Such a time warp happened to me.

In a minute and a half over the bustling city of Oakland, California, I was confronted with three possible outcomes: life, death or the harming of innocent souls. The irony is that the best result for me, that I would live, could mean that someone else dies.

When I arrived at my first squadron in Yuma, Arizona, I stood on top of the world. As a young lieutenant, I was cocky, indestructible, pure warrior. Inexperienced yes, but it didn’t matter. I was a Marine Harrier pilot, the chosen one. As training is the constant theme for all Marines, within the first month I departed on a cross-country hop to Naval Air Station Alameda, California. Even though I was a fighter pilot, I was still required to log enough instrument flight hours to keep my rating current.

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