The First Time I Met God

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This is the story about the first time I met God.

I was twenty-eight years old. I’d been having crushing migraines for two years. I had come to a last resort. Sinus surgery. A doctor would cut open my face and, hopefully, fix me.

I was looking forward to the surgery. I needed the pain to stop.

About a week before the surgery, however, I had received a vexing diagnosis. It seemed that I had, somehow, contracted (yet another) skin infection, a result of my weakened immune system.

On the day of the surgery, as my eyes grew heavy from the anesthesia, worried thoughts bombarded my brain. Even if this sinus surgery was successful, I still had many painful skin treatments ahead of me, where another doctor would use acid to burn away the skin infection. Probably more antibiotics, too.

On the day of the surgery, my husband held my hand, and all I could do was pray for was a miracle. This pain needed to stop. I needed to live again.

The prayer I said wasn’t even an explicit prayer, actually. I didn’t stop to say “Dear God” or “please, angels.” No. The prayer I said wasn’t even with words, and I didn’t even pause to do it. The prayer was continuous and bottomless…like an animal cry from my heart. The prayer was a spark, a plea, a wordless scream that seemed to mean please please, I just can’t take it anymore.

I am having surgery.

And I am suddenly not in my body.

One moment, I am looking at the surgeon hovering over me, relaxing into the anesthesia—and the next moment, I’m a disembodied soul, floating free in the Universe.

Galaxies spinning and swirling around me. Great bursts of color: red, purple, green, blue, orange… Stars. I am weightless. Such splendor, all around me! Such bliss!

And, there are angels. Countless angels—singing! Great songs of inexplicable beauty. Language cannot come close to describing this beauty.

At some point during this experience, a voice comes. A soft yet strong voice. The voice seems to harmonize my body into its own vibration. The voice can be felt inside of me, rippling through every inch of me, and also throughout everywhere—because my Being also touches every other Being, too.

The voice is female. She sounds older, like a grandmother. The most caring, compassionate, patient, wise grandmother. She says, “Child, my dear child. Do Reiki on yourself for thirty days.”

Although she doesn’t say it, I know in an instant what she means. I know that she is instructing me to use Reiki as the healing tool for the skin infection. I know she is giving me the confidence to dive into the practice that I’d just been initiated into only a few weeks prior.

And although she doesn’t say it, I know she is God. I knew she is Source. I know that I have left my body, have returned to the place that I have been, so many times before.

This place is so familiar. Waves of ecstasy. Waves of bliss. Pure knowing. Pure love. Beyond comprehension, beyond the mind. Only love.

I don’t know how long I am in this place. Maybe ten seconds? Ten lifetimes? I don’t know.

I begin to hear people talking around me, and slowly, I come back into my body. I see a nurse bending before me. I smile at her, and begin to softly laugh. I see my husband enter the room. He guides me into a wheelchair.

I know that everything is going to be okay. I know my sinuses are healed and I know that my skin infection will soon be healed.

I feel a total freedom from fear.

The Love that met me that day can hardly be summarized into language, and yet I try. I so want to share it with you.

Sometimes when life gets really tough, and I become worried or sad, I close my eyes, and I bring myself back to that place. Being weightless out in our vast Universe, hearing the voice of Love.

I look forward to returning to that place again, upon my death. But now is the time for human life. Now is the time for action and movement in the body, and to guide others to what they know but might have forgotten.

The first time I met God, she came as a grandmother.

Now, God comes to me more simply, quietly, each morning, when I place my feet on the carpet and take my first few slow breaths of the day. God comes to me when I brush my teeth, and the glistening water catapults from the faucet—a miracle of human ingenuity and love.

God comes to me when I type these words on the keyboard to you. Each clicking key sounds like her voice. I pause, look out the window, see a bird. A squirrel. Blue sky.

What a wonder, this life.

What a wonder.

 

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