Note: This post is the fourth in a series. To read it in context, start here.

Coincidences are the holes in the reductive, mechanistic worldview that allow us to catch glimpses of the vast sea of meaning that awaits us on the other side.

—Sharon Hewitt Rawlette

Father Michael and I finally meet after needing to reschedule twice, which is odd since we’ve met so consistently up to this point.

I walk the meandering path through the monks’ residences, past a line of bare persimmon trees, until I reach his gate. I enter and knock on his door and am greeted by a familiar “Come in!” followed by the inevitable “Would you like some tea?”

Before we begin, I briefly explain my intention— to offer my childhood to God. I ask him to kneel with me before the short, small wooden altar in his prayer space. As we settle in, I feel a sudden urge to light candles. I grab a votive candle from a box within arm’s reach, place it on the altar, and light it before reciting the prayer I wrote for the occasion.

My prayer is broken into stages to mirror my childhood. I start with who I was from birth through life in my first adoptive family, up to my second adoption. I speak on behalf of this child that I was, who still lives in me:

Be present with us, Beloved…and especially with this little one, who with great courage reaches out to you, frightened, with trembling hands. From the shielding darkness in which he has hid all these years, he comes to you in terrible anguish and longing, to offer himself to you, that he may be known in love as your child. Gather him up, these nine long years, from my mother’s womb to my second adoption. Gather him up in all his brokenness and resplendent beauty. Gather him up in your sure arms and hold him to your bosom with a love and tenderness that surpasses all that he’s longed for but could not receive…

I light another candle, and then another, as the prayer continues to unfold through my childhood.

This child, whose ability to trust and to experience dignity in himself has been so eroded—come to him where he is. Come to him in the warm intimacy that you’ve established with us. Come to his fear with gentleness. Come to his rage and hatred with assuring love. Come to his pain with compassion and healing. Come to his despair with joy…

Another candle, and another, and another, until Michael’s altar is nearly covered with them.

May your Holy Wisdom be with us. May She grace our hearts, minds, and speech that the fullness of your will be done today.

I pause and breathe deeply. My heart is full and throbbing with a kaleidoscope of emotions—ache and sadness, hope and trepidation, longing and fear. Michael remains silent next to me. I motion for us to move to the chairs by the window overlooking his garden and the ocean beyond it.

We take our seats, and I recall how, in Catholic theology, a priest is sometimes thought of as “the hem of Christ’s garment.” While I don’t take this special status literally, as a metaphor it is intensely meaningful to me right now. Since I suffer from ruptured relationships, I need to come to God in relationship. I need to be witnessed and affirmed in my self-offering, heard and felt by another human being. This is a sacred moment, sacred space, and I want to believe that, here with Michael, I have unique access to the healing power of the Divine.  

I take another deep breath as I arrange the pages I intend to read, a mosaic of stories and reflections meant to convey my childhood to Michael, and through him, to God. Behind him, the candles continue to burn brightly on the altar. Michael still hasn’t said a word, but I know by the concentrated stillness of his posture and steady gaze that I have his full and unbroken attention.

I read aloud, and as I do, I feel as if I am giving birth. As if I am bringing something that has been contained in the dark recesses of my body for over thirty years into the world. Time distorts. I am all ages in all the times and places that I’ve lived. I am someplace else. I am nowhere. I am here now. All is a swirling vortex in an unbounded here and now.

I finish, and I feel such waves of fatigue and vulnerability that I want to sink into the cushions of the chair, surrender to gravity and disappear. I become aware of the room again—the diffuse light streaming through the window, the flickering candles on the altar, and Michael still silent and attentive across from me. I wait for a word from him, but he remains silent with a pensive expression, still holding me in his gaze as if pondering some weighty mystery. Then he speaks.

“Do you know what day it is?”

I am taken aback, taken out of the weight of the moment. These are not the words I was expecting.

“Saturday?”

“Yes, but that’s not what I mean. Do you know what day it is on the liturgical calendar?”

“No.”

Another pregnant pause. Then he continues.

“Sometimes God speaks to us through meaningful coincidences. Do you believe this?”

“Of course. You know I do. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t,” I reply.

“Alright, well, keep that in mind. Today is the Feast of the Presentation. It is the day when we celebrate Joseph and Mary dedicating the child Jesus to God in the Temple.”

He gives me a moment to let his words sink in. And as they do, a flash of wonder shimmers through my fatigue.

“And, if you would have attended Vigils this morning, you would have processed with us into the chapel with lit candles, which we each placed at the altar.” Gesturing toward his own altar for emphasis, “If you would have prayed with us this morning, you would have seen a blaze of candles before the altar. This is the only day of the year that we do this. Somehow, intuitively, you were moved to mirror this ritual, on the one day of the year that we celebrate God receiving the Christ-child, who is all of us.”

I remain held in his gaze for another full minute, speechless. Then I turn toward the candles I lit a short time ago, as wonder gives way to awe.