I find it interesting that so many others who have an interest in spiritual and metaphysical study seem to have such astounding experiences that encourage them along their way. So many others report having profound visions during meditation, an ability to connect directly with loved ones who have passed and beings from other dimensions, or witness paranormal activity with their own eyes.
Me? Not so much.
I, it seems, am a very tough case! Sure, I believe in many things I can’t see. I believe in many of the accounts others share of otherworldly beings and contacts. I believe that many other forms of intelligent and energetic life exist even beyond the farthest reaches of our Cosmos and our understanding. I believe that our consciousness lives beyond the grave—and that we are eternal souls. But without actual firsthand proof of these things, it seems I only have my faith in the accounts of others to go on.
Then there are days like today. I experience yet another synchronicity that subtly suggests that many worlds exist beyond ours—and that spiritual energies help nudge us along to the exact places we are supposed to go.
Before I share my account of today’s rather mystical events, I suppose I must explain that my paternal grandmother was a very spiritual person. She considered all religions as valid and wonderful pathways to personal discovery. Although raised under the umbrella of Western Christianity, she studied and deeply appreciated other religious paths, particularly those which touched the Eastern philosophies of Buddhism, Taoism, and Hinduism. She meditated quite often (although she often told us she was “just resting her eyes”) and spent much of her life in deep contemplation of Source, Our Universe, and our place within the Unity.
I was born and raised for most of my younger years in San Francisco and, since my grandmother lived not far from us, she spent a great deal of time exploring the city with me in tow. No matter where we went, whenever she spied a church or house of worship of nearly any kind, she would be drawn to it, much as a moth to a flame.
“Oh,” she’d exclaim, “what a lovely little church! We simply must go inside for a visit.”
Even at five or six years of age, I must have rolled my eyes and grinned—much as I do now when I recall those precious moments.
“Yes, Grandma…” I’d sigh with resignation. But I really didn’t mind. Our visits to these old churches, with their heavy wooden doors; cool, dark, and echoing interiors, and peaceful energy, left me feeling happy and at peace with myself. We’d go in, sometimes light a votive candle or two, and sit for a few moments on the smooth wooden pews. Grandma usually wasn’t much on ritual, but she’d sometimes make the sign of the cross and close her eyes in meditative prayer. I’d do the same, but instead of making a connection with Spirit, I’d pretend to pray and sneak peeks at the beautifully crafted statues and stained glass windows instead. I’ll always remember how beautiful my grandmother looked at those times—her wrinkled hands resting peacefully upon her lap and her softly lined face a perfect reflection of heavenly bliss.
When my grandmother was here in the physical, she loved butterflies. Well, she loved butterflies and ladybugs, but butterflies were her favorite. Especially the Monarch Butterfly, with its bright orange and black wings. She’d always point them out excitedly, every time she saw one. In the many years following her passing, I’ve come to understand that butterflies are “Heaven’s Messengers”. A great many psychic mediums have identified these delicate, colorful creatures as being used to convey messages from the spirit world to us, in our dense 3D-ness. I’ve even noticed myself that, many times, shortly after thinking of my grandmother, either a butterfly will flutter by very closely or a ladybug will land on my arm. To my mind, the frequency that this occurs is far beyond the statistical margins of “chance”.
But I digress.
Since today was one of the last few days before my teenage son starts school, I had offered to take him and his lovely girlfriend on a jaunt to Chinatown for lunch. They agreed, so we headed into the city from the suburbs. We hopped off the train, trekked through the downtown financial district, and found ourselves seemingly in another part of the world. If you haven’t seen it, San Francisco’s Chinatown is a mystical feast for the senses. Established in 1848, it is known as the largest Chinatown outside of Asia and the oldest in North America. Handsome, multi-story brick buildings line the street and strings of brightly colored lanterns, banners, and even drying laundry hang from balconies and light poles. Large glass windows offer expansive views into quaint, old-fashioned storefronts. Bright, colorful wares are often stacked floor to ceiling—and some goods even spill out onto the sidewalks to beckon the throngs of shoppers in.
As we walked down the street, smelling the wonderful aromas of incense and food being cooked in nearby restaurants, I noticed a tall, brick church that looked familiar. The sign in front read, “St. Mary’s Church” and I remembered it as one that my grandmother and I had visited nearly fifty years ago. I grinned at my son, mentioned that she and I had once been there, and suggested that we go inside “for a visit”. He wasn’t really interested—in fact, he and his girlfriend wanted to go play “Pokemon Go” on their phones at a park, just across the street instead.
I was somewhat disappointed at their not joining me, but as a parent, I get it—after all, who would want to go in some old boring building with your dad when there are lots of wild virtual creatures to catch with your girlfriend, outside, in a bustling city?
So we parted ways momentarily and I disappeared into the nearly empty church. Just as my grandmother and I had done so many years ago, I lit a candle, found a quiet pew, and sat for a few moments. Now, much older, I did meditate for a few moments—but some things haven’t changed. I must admit that I stole a few glances at the stained glass and the familiar figures in alcoves along the walls. I thought about my grandmother, somehow just trusting she was there with me, and wondered if I would ever really feel her presence as I have done on a few very rare occasions.
Sadly, not feeling anything in particular, I shrugged my shoulders and got up to leave. I walked out of the church into the sunshine and walked across the street to the little park where my traveling companions waited. I found them on a bench and, much as I had expected, they were deeply engrossed in their technological adventures.
“C’mon guys…” I encouraged. “Let’s visit a couple of more shops and head to lunch. The place where my grandma and I once ate is right across the street and the food is fantastic!”
As they got up and we turned to leave, something caught my attention. There, out of the corner of my eye and behind some trees, I had noticed a brightly painted mural on the bottom floor of a very old apartment building. Once can scarcely imagine my surprise when I saw, much larger than life, two monarch butterflies painted on a garage door!
Now it didn’t escape me that, because of the position of this mural, there is absolutely no way I could have seen it from the front stairs of the church. The only way I could have seen it is to walk over to this park…and if my son hadn’t wanted to play his game there, I wouldn’t have seen it at all.
I laughed aloud, pointed out the mural, and told them both why seeing the butterflies meant so much to me. Although they may be young and somewhat skeptical, I don’t think the significance of the finding was entirely lost on them. My son’s girlfriend even mentioned that sometimes her family has seen what they too interpret as “signs from above”. She and her family have noticed on several occasions that, just when they are thinking or talking about her grandparents, lights or other electrical appliances will turn on for no logical reason.
So, once again, Spirit has sent me a “sign” that we and our loved ones are never truly gone. And once again, all I have is a wispy “inkling” in the place of rock-solid proof. But that’s OK. I suppose it’s much more fun that way…when Spirit plays a mystical game of “hide and seek” with us incarnated human beings.
One day, when my son has a family of his own, I hope he returns to Chinatown and recounts the story of the day his dad received a sign from Spirit. Perhaps then, if I’ve moved on to other realms, it’ll be my turn to send him a sign of his own. And I’ll just bet he’ll be awake and aware enough to notice it.
Hey, it’s now 5:55 as I’m writing this!
That just reminded me of what comedian Jeff Foxworthy used to always say in his show…“There’s your sign!”
What signs have you received from Spirit or your loved ones?
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