Innholdsfortegnelse for December 2015 - January 2016 i Mysterious Ways

Have you ever doubted your faith? You should. Just listen to Pope Francis. “If one has the answers to all the questions—that is the proof that God is not with him,” he told a Jesuit journal. “The great leaders of the people of God, like Moses, have always left room for doubt. You must leave room for the Lord, not for our certainties; we must be humble.” Wrestling with God is part of a long religious tradition. The Talmud, the basis for Jewish law, contains pages and pages of rabbis arguing about what, exactly, God wants. In the New Testament, Thomas insists on touching the wounds of the resurrected Jesus to verify they’re real. Being too certain leaves us vulnerable to hoaxes (like the ridiculous prophecies on page 47). Doubt…

The world was a terrifying place for nine-year-old Beth Praed. She was afraid of everything. Worms, spiders, even little roly-poly bugs. Thunderstorms. A car driving slowly by her house in Indianapolis. You name it. The dark scared her the most. She wouldn’t go to bed unless her mother first checked the room, turning on the light in her closet and the one on her nightstand. Her mother would tuck her in and kiss her goodnight, then switch off the light by the bed. “Leave the closet light on,” Beth pleaded. “Yes, dear,” her mother said, and left the closet door open, just a crack. “A little bit more, Mom, a little bit more,” Beth begged. Her hands trembled. “Honey, you don’t need to worry,” her mother would tell her. “Jesus…

Jen Kessel Every summer I visit family in Oklahoma. This year, I went to the Pawnee Bill Ranch, a historic museum near my mom’s town. I noticed a small porcelain black bear in the gift shop, his arms extended for a hug. The bear seemed to be calling out to me, and I finally picked it up. Two months later, a Facebook status from my old friend Mary-Beth caught my eye. She’d just had major surgery and was feeling lonely in the hospital. I hadn’t seen her in years, but I felt compelled to visit. On a whim, I grabbed the little black bear, still wrapped in tissue paper, on my way out the door. Mary-Beth’s eyes widened when she unwrapped the gift. “How did you know I collect bears?”…

December 1974. The road ahead was dark and winding, lined by pine trees. I was 18, on my way home to Wisconsin for the holidays after my first semester at college in Minnesota. Legally I was an adult. Yet thinking of the future I felt like a lost child. Did God have a plan for me? Six months earlier, in a tiny hospital chapel, I’d felt his presence in a way I never had before. A feeling that didn’t go away. But in a busy world of classes, friends, and a career path to figure out, sometimes it was hard to hear his voice. I wanted to be sure I was headed in the right direction. Christmas morning, Mom handed me a book, wrapped with just a thin strip of…

Visitors to an unusual art museum at the Monastery of the Caves in Kiev, Ukraine, won’t see any masterpieces— unless they use a microscope. The teeny-tiny creations of Ukrainian artist Mykola Syadristy—most smaller than a grain of salt—include an electric motor one-twentieth the size of a poppy seed, a chess set on the head of a pin, a rose inside a strand of hair and a camel caravan of gold in the eye of a needle. A former engineer, Mykola works on his art between breaths, between heartbeats, to ensure a steady hand. Each wonder takes about a month to create— and makes a lasting impression. See Mykola Syadristy’s handiwork through the microscope at guideposts.org/tinywonders…

Paris, France Childhood buddies Alek Skarlatos, Spencer Stone and Anthony Sadler were on an Amsterdam-to-Paris train, resting up for the next leg of their trip around Europe. Someone else on board had different plans. An hour outside Paris, loud bangs shattered the quiet. Alek and Spencer, both members of the U.S. military, knew they were gunshots. As passengers fled for their lives, the three friends rushed toward a man with an AK-47. Alek’s dad, Emanuel, told The Oregonian, his home-town paper, that his son saw the gunman pull the trigger, but it didn’t fire. The next weapon in his arsenal, a handgun, didn’t go off either. After the gunman was subdued, the three provided first aid to injured passengers. For their efforts, they were made knights of the Legion of…

My daughter, Sara, was getting married. It had been four years since her father, my husband, Damon, died of leukemia. That he wouldn’t be there to walk her down the aisle made the day bittersweet. One of her friends suggested sewing a piece of fabric from one of Damon’s favorite shirts to the inside of Sara’s wedding dress, close to her heart. We loved the idea. Too bad I didn’t know much about sewing. Damon’s eagle shirt was the obvious choice. He was famously patriotic. Near the end of his life, he had a dream of an eagle carved on his gravestone, and mourners singing “God Bless America.” We’d carved the eagle and sung the song at his funeral. “Take the shirt to a seamstress,” I told Sara. But that…

Who was Mom speaking to? She sat next to me on the overstuffed couch in my sun-drenched living room, phone cradled at her ear, laughing and talking to whoever it was—her caramel skin setting off her big, bright smile. I’d never seen Mom look so happy. The sunlight seemed to get brighter and brighter. “Who is it?” I asked. Mom’s smile grew wider and she looked deep into my eyes. Without a word, she handed the phone to me. I put it to my ear. “Hello?”I said. I woke up gasping, as if the wind had been knocked out of me. I hadn’t heard the voice on the line, but it was obvious who it was. A voice I hadn’t heard in nearly eight years. The last communication of any…

The Grinch struck Lewiston, Idaho, just before Christmas 2007. A convenience-store customer left her wallet—with $600 inside—on the counter. Surveillance footage caught a man slipping it into his pocket. To help police ID the thief, The Lewiston Tribune decided to run a still from the video on its front page, right below a lighter story about a man painting Christmas greetings on storefront windows. The copy editors working on the page spotted something. The thief wore a dark sweatshirt and a blue-and-black-checked jacket. So did the painter. Maybe checked jackets were in that year? But the men also seemed to be the same build. A newspaper employee notified police. Within hours, the painter-thief was arrested. He was sentenced to a year in prison—and ordered to pay back the money he…

Skepticism is vital. If we don’t question easy explanations, we fall for false values. But it gets sticky when we apply our skepticism to faith. What happens when we’re confronted with events that can’t be explained by reason? Is there room for these experiences in even the most skeptical of minds? Author Mark Twain, born Samuel Clemens, was raised Presbyterian in Hannibal, Missouri, but rebelled against church teachings. The Bible, he wrote, “has noble poetry in it; and some clever fables; and some blood-drenched history; and some good morals; and a wealth of obscenity; and upwards of a thousand lies.” Yet despite his skepticism Twain retained a belief in God and heaven, grounded in a singular experience that he had at 23 and spent a lifetime trying to explain. In…

This past year was historic for actress Viola Davis. At age 50, in her first lead TV role—as the law professor and criminal defense attorney Annalise Keating on the hit ABC show How to Get Away With Murder—Viola became the first African-American to win the Emmy for outstanding lead actress in a drama series. She’ll make room beside the two Tonys she’s won for her work in theater. But accolades were only part of the dream she had when she made her Broadway debut two decades ago. What she really wanted was a family. Viola was playing a young woman who’d lost the love of her life. In reality, she’d never loved anyone that deeply. She was in her thirties, single and stressed. She was also losing her hair from…

“Call me home.” That’s what Joe Auer whispered to his 94-year-old wife, Helen, after she died, on the evening of October 15, 2014. They’d been sweethearts for more than 70 years. According to their youngest son, Jerry, they met at a church dance in Cincinnati, Ohio. They were married in 1941, right before Joe went off to World War II. Afterward they raised 10 children. In later years, Joe still wrote Helen love notes signed “your secret admirer.” They rarely left each other’s side. Even, apparently, in death. Twentyeight hours after Helen passed away, Joe died suddenly from an aneurysm. He was 100 years old, but “was as healthy as a horse,” according to Jerry. Was there another cause of death? Could Helen and Joe, so deeply connected here on…

Growing up, my two boys, Chase and Shaun, spent a lot of time with their German grandfather, Opa. He would welcome them to his house with a twinkle in his eye and the prom- ise of adventure. He might take them fishing, hiking, bird-watching—they never knew. “Where are we going today, Opa?” they’d beg to be told. “Buxtehude!” he would practically shout. In real life, Buxtehude is a pretty town that sits on the Este River in northern Germany, but for generations in my family its name has symbolized a kind of wonderland. “Buxtehude is where dogs bark with their tails,” Dad told me when I was little. I pictured a magical place where dogs frolicked and joy abounded. A bit like heaven, I guess, to a little girl. But…

For six weeks, my wife, Veronica, and I drove around the neighborhood, putting up “Lost Dog” posters, calling neighbors and shelters. But Homer, our six-month-old Maltese mix, was nowhere to be found. He’d disappeared on Thanksgiving during a family gathering. Homer was tiny, but he had a big personality that made him the star of the evening for my nieces and nephews. We didn’t realize until after everyone had gone home that he’d slipped out. Have faith, we’ll find him, I told myself. My wife and I led praise for the morning worship service at St. Helen’s Catholic Church, so of course Homer was in our prayers. But after six weeks, I was losing hope. At night, temperatures could drop below freezing. How could our little dog survive? “I can’t…

Yet another cheery holiday tune was playing over the radio at the thrift store. I cringed. “Santa’s on His Way,” by George Strait: “Christmas is always my favorite time of year!” Not mine. Not now. I gripped my empty shopping basket’s red plastic handle in one hand and my gift list in the other and stared at the cracked snow globes and chipped mugs among other castoffs cluttering the shelves. What did I expect to find? This wasn’t Toys “R” Us. It wasn’t even Walmart. This was my last resort. God, I’d prayed on the drive here, give us only what we need. That’s all I ask for Christmas. December 23, and I still didn’t have a single present to put under the tree for my seven-year-old son, Joseph. How…

I drove through Joy’s neighborhood, the last place I wanted to be. But it was the night of the high school semiformal dance and I had to drop my daughter at a friend’s, a few doors down from Joy’s house. I turned up the radio, hoping it would drown out my thoughts. Joy’s funeral had been earlier that day. I’d met her in this same cul-de-sac four years earlier, when my son’s Boy Scout troop had volunteered to clean up her yard. She was in her late sixties, battling emphysema. We became instant friends, despite our age difference. Joy was young at heart. She loved dancing and disco music, especially the Bee Gees. Saturday Night Fever was her all-time favorite movie and sound track. Maybe that’s why the Bee Gees…