One of my favorite conversion books is Night’s Bright Darkness, by Sally Read, and in it she talks of the true believers she met when she moved to Rome. Some, she claimed, would make a miracle out of anything: the bus being on time, a lucky catch of a falling egg in the kitchen, or a best friend wearing the same blouse at a meeting for lunch. I agree. These are neat experiences, but they do not meet the standards of Carl Jung, who labeled truly special events of this nature “synchronicities” or “meaningful coincidences.” That is, he posited that coincidences have to have some sort of meaning to them, some sort of relationship before they merit the label “special.”
Deciding what is special and what is not might at times be easier said than done. However, I believe I recently experienced “meaningful coincidences” on a fairly large scale – AND I believe I know from whom they came.
It was to be a very special event. My two best friends from high school, both still living in New England, along with a brother of one were to fly out to the UP to spend five days in my family cabin to see the sights of Pictured Rocks National Lakeshore, and to endlessly engage in BS at night. Well-oiled by a few or many frosty ones, it was to be a gathering to be remembered. My job was to meet them at the airport that lies about an hour and a half away from the cabin and bring them back to the wilderness.
This did pose some problems, as communications up there are spotty at best, but I did finally manage to get a map of the area en-route to the airport before I could get lost. With cell phone reception returned, I also got a note from one of the high school friends, “Phil,” telling me that he was boarding the connection in Detroit at that minute, ALONE. Alone? I thought that I must have gotten the flight plans wrong. I had thought that they were all to take the same flight out of Logan Int. in Boston. Would I have to go twice to the airport now, or wait for hours in the tiny boarding area in this airport embedded in the North Woods?
No, I would not. The other friend and his brother had missed the flight, caught in the snarl of Boston traffic. They could not get a guaranteed flight later that day, and so were giving up. I couldn’t believe that they were throwing in the towel so easily, but so they were. It would be Phil and I alone. That would not be a problem except for one thing: Phil was a recovering alcoholic. There probably would be no late-night BS sessions.
There weren’t. It was good for me in that I never drank enough for even a slight hangover, but otherwise evenings were short and not very social. After a long day hiking, we would eat and then Phil would settle in to read – and read, and read. This was not as I had planned, but in a way it worked out. I had brought interesting books on spirituality with me for him and whoever, and with all that time in the darkness of the woods, Phil eagerly dug into the one I had wanted to share most: The Message, by Wayne Weible.
Before writing this book, Wayne Weible had been a reporter and business man with very little interest in religion, instead focusing on the things of the world. He had been very casually raised a Lutheran, and had no affinity with the Virgin Mary until a series of “meaningful coincidences” brought him to visit Medjugorje, and from there he became the leading proponent of the Marion apparitions in this village, which started in 1981 and continue to this day. This was particularly apt for Phil, who was raised Protestant and had the normal disregard for religion that people of his education usually have.
But let us go back to the airport. After recognizing him as he came off the terminal – with seven years since I had last seen him I was not sure I would – we went to my beaten old Jeep in the parking lot. We stashed his gear, took our seats, and I pressed the break and button to start the car remotely from the fob. Nothing happened. Even the break peddle was as frozen as winter ice. I tried again, and the car’s screen told me, “Replace battery.” Crap. Usually it gives a warning way in advance, and I had just replaced it the year before. Why now? I tried again and again, and then thought about using the key buried within the fob, something I had tried to do years before. It had not worked then and did not work now. So I pressed the start button one more time, and then jumped in alarm as the panic horn started blaring. Crap again. I pushed the panic button again, then again, and after almost giving up and disconnecting the battery, the horn finally stopped. Peace.
Thinking something might have unfrozen, I tried again, and sure enough, it started right up, good as new. With that, the radio also started up, playing a recording from Amy Winehouse. I had only heard this raunchy, booze-addled song of hers on her album, “Addicted,” from a recording on my wife’s cell phone. We often said the Rosary from her cell on Blue Tooth, and this song always played briefly beforehand because it was the first thing alphabetically on her cell recordings. I was in my car now, however, with no access to her cell whatsoever. Odd. Impossible.
Back at the cabin, Phil fell into Weible’s book with unrelenting fervor, so much so that he had the whole thing read by the second night. He made several remarks about the miracles portrayed in the books and asked me many questions about Medjugorje, as I had been there twice. Phil had always been keenly cynical – as I had been back in high school days – and I could not be sure if he was being on the level with me now. Was he secretly laughing at me as I proclaimed my genuine belief in the miracles and the messages? It was not a matter of personal pride because my belief in this type of thing was based on personal experience, but I had to think – had something actually turned within him? If it had, it might become the greatest miracle that I have ever witnessed.
The next day we headed out for a long hike along the beaches and cliffs of the western end of the park. After about the first mile, I became acutely aware that my left big toenail had caught in my sandals and had been ripped partly off. It was painful and bloody and I needed something, any kind of tape to tie the nail down so it would not rip to the cuticle. As I wondered about this, two attractive women around age twenty came walking from the other direction. They had full backpacks and had obviously been camping. Surely, I thought, they had brought some Band-Aids with them. Sure enough, they had, along with scissors to cut off the ripped portion of the nail, and alcohol for the wound. By accident, the one with the medical kit had given me two bandages, and when I went to give one back, she told me, “Keep it. You might need it later.”
Miles later, just before we reached our final destination, a jovial man passed us from the other direction, asking as he walked where we had started from. He told us his starting point and then asked, “Say, I have a blister on my little toe. Would you happen to have a Band-Aid?” Surely we did, but we wondered later: why would he ask two guys with one small daypack if they had a bandage? What was the likelihood? Even Phil seemed to see this as some kind of sign.
A single coincidence such as this might not meet Jung’s standards, but surely combined with this one other fact it would: after several smaller coincidences over the next few days, we finally started the drive back to the airport. When we came within phone range, he read out-loud a startling message from the other friend who had missed the flight. “Damn,” said the text, “wish I could have made it. I just finished this book on Medjugorje, and I wanted to ask Fred about it at the cabin.” The book, Phil noted, was the very same one by Wayne Weible that he had just read. There had been no coordination on any of our parts for this. Meaningful coincidence, yes indeed, bringing in the other, or so it seems.
One other thing happened, and another became clear during this time. First: I started reading another of Wayne Weible’s books just after returning to Wisconsin from the cabin, and I marveled at the clarity of his God-driven purpose. Why not me, I thought? What I am doing for work now – writing – does not seem to be going anywhere. Maybe that is because, I thought, I am on the wrong path. So I asked for some sign that writing WAS the right path, or if it wasn’t, for some sign of what I should be doing.
The answer came quickly. While still up north just a few days before, I had brought my book, Hurricane River, to a small knick-knack store in Grand Marais. Since the novel takes place in that area, I reasoned with the owner that maybe it would sell. She agreed, and took the four copies I had brought up with me. Back at home, and just a day after I had asked for clarity of purpose, I got a text from the owner asking for ten more books, and pronto. The four I had given her had sold almost instantly! That proved to be a coincidence of great meaning, at least to me.
The second issue concerns that strange case of the car going crazy when Phil first showed up. I realized a day or so after coming home again that the playing of the song, “Addicted,” might not have been a simple freakish oddity. First, it should not have played (as far as I know) from a technical standpoint. Second, my friend Phil was addicted. Then he had read of the miracles at Medjugorje and seemed to be impressed. Could it be that his problem was first loudly stated from the radio, and then the solution was quietly given in Wayne’s book? Could this have signaled a progression, addressing his problem and giving the solution?
There is lack of scientific proof here, but it seems that this and the other incidences mentioned were not mere coincidences. Such are the workings of grace. The hand of God often compels and demands a different form of thinking that ultimately demands faith before enlightenment. So it is that we are sometimes taught in a gentle, persistent manner – often by “meaningful coincidences” - that the greater spiritual universe cannot be understood by us in any other way – but that it very much exists.
“For my thoughts are not your thoughts, nor are your ways my ways, says the Lord. As high as the heavens are above the earth, so high are my ways above your ways, and my thoughts above your thoughts.” (Isaiah 55: 8-9)
One of my favorite conversion books is Night’s Bright Darkness, by Sally Read, and in it she talks of the true believers she met when she moved to Rome. Some, she claimed, would make a miracle out of anything: the bus being on time, a lucky catch of a falling egg in the kitchen, or a best friend wearing the same blouse at a meeting for lunch. I agree. These are neat experiences, but they do not meet the standards of Carl Jung, who labeled truly special events of this nature “synchronicities” or “meaningful coincidences.” That is, he posited that coincidences have to have some sort of meaning to them, some sort of relationship before they merit the label “special.”
Deciding what is special and what is not might at times be easier said than done. However, I believe I recently experienced “meaningful coincidences” on a fairly large scale – AND I believe I know from whom they came.
It was to be a very special event. My two best friends from high school, both still living in New England, along with a brother of one were to fly out to the UP to spend five days in my family cabin to see the sights of Pictured Rocks National Lakeshore, and to endlessly engage in BS at night. Well-oiled by a few or many frosty ones, it was to be a gathering to be remembered. My job was to meet them at the airport that lies about an hour and a half away from the cabin and bring them back to the wilderness.
This did pose some problems, as communications up there are spotty at best, but I did finally manage to get a map of the area en-route to the airport before I could get lost. With cell phone reception returned, I also got a note from one of the high school friends, “Phil,” telling me that he was boarding the connection in Detroit at that minute, ALONE. Alone? I thought that I must have gotten the flight plans wrong. I had thought that they were all to take the same flight out of Logan Int. in Boston. Would I have to go twice to the airport now, or wait for hours in the tiny boarding area in this airport embedded in the North Woods?
No, I would not. The other friend and his brother had missed the flight, caught in the snarl of Boston traffic. They could not get a guaranteed flight later that day, and so were giving up. I couldn’t believe that they were throwing in the towel so easily, but so they were. It would be Phil and I alone. That would not be a problem except for one thing: Phil was a recovering alcoholic. There probably would be no late-night BS sessions.
There weren’t. It was good for me in that I never drank enough for even a slight hangover, but otherwise evenings were short and not very social. After a long day hiking, we would eat and then Phil would settle in to read – and read, and read. This was not as I had planned, but in a way it worked out. I had brought interesting books on spirituality with me for him and whoever, and with all that time in the darkness of the woods, Phil eagerly dug into the one I had wanted to share most: The Message, by Wayne Weible.
Before writing this book, Wayne Weible had been a reporter and business man with very little interest in religion, instead focusing on the things of the world. He had been very casually raised a Lutheran, and had no affinity with the Virgin Mary until a series of “meaningful coincidences” brought him to visit Medjugorje, and from there he became the leading proponent of the Marion apparitions in this village, which started in 1981 and continue to this day. This was particularly apt for Phil, who was raised Protestant and had the normal disregard for religion that people of his education usually have.
But let us go back to the airport. After recognizing him as he came off the terminal – with seven years since I had last seen him I was not sure I would – we went to my beaten old Jeep in the parking lot. We stashed his gear, took our seats, and I pressed the break and button to start the car remotely from the fob. Nothing happened. Even the break peddle was as frozen as winter ice. I tried again, and the car’s screen told me, “Replace battery.” Crap. Usually it gives a warning way in advance, and I had just replaced it the year before. Why now? I tried again and again, and then thought about using the key buried within the fob, something I had tried to do years before. It had not worked then and did not work now. So I pressed the start button one more time, and then jumped in alarm as the panic horn started blaring. Crap again. I pushed the panic button again, then again, and after almost giving up and disconnecting the battery, the horn finally stopped. Peace.
Thinking something might have unfrozen, I tried again, and sure enough, it started right up, good as new. With that, the radio also started up, playing a recording from Amy Winehouse. I had only heard this raunchy, booze-addled song of hers on her album, “Addicted,” from a recording on my wife’s cell phone. We often said the Rosary from her cell on Blue Tooth, and this song always played briefly beforehand because it was the first thing alphabetically on her cell recordings. I was in my car now, however, with no access to her cell whatsoever. Odd. Impossible.
Back at the cabin, Phil fell into Weible’s book with unrelenting fervor, so much so that he had the whole thing read by the second night. He made several remarks about the miracles portrayed in the books and asked me many questions about Medjugorje, as I had been there twice. Phil had always been keenly cynical – as I had been back in high school days – and I could not be sure if he was being on the level with me now. Was he secretly laughing at me as I proclaimed my genuine belief in the miracles and the messages? It was not a matter of personal pride because my belief in this type of thing was based on personal experience, but I had to think – had something actually turned within him? If it had, it might become the greatest miracle that I have ever witnessed.
The next day we headed out for a long hike along the beaches and cliffs of the western end of the park. After about the first mile, I became acutely aware that my left big toenail had caught in my sandals and had been ripped partly off. It was painful and bloody and I needed something, any kind of tape to tie the nail down so it would not rip to the cuticle. As I wondered about this, two attractive women around age twenty came walking from the other direction. They had full backpacks and had obviously been camping. Surely, I thought, they had brought some Band-Aids with them. Sure enough, they had, along with scissors to cut off the ripped portion of the nail, and alcohol for the wound. By accident, the one with the medical kit had given me two bandages, and when I went to give one back, she told me, “Keep it. You might need it later.”
Miles later, just before we reached our final destination, a jovial man passed us from the other direction, asking as he walked where we had started from. He told us his starting point and then asked, “Say, I have a blister on my little toe. Would you happen to have a Band-Aid?” Surely we did, but we wondered later: why would he ask two guys with one small daypack if they had a bandage? What was the likelihood? Even Phil seemed to see this as some kind of sign.
A single coincidence such as this might not meet Jung’s standards, but surely combined with this one other fact it would: after several smaller coincidences over the next few days, we finally started the drive back to the airport. When we came within phone range, he read out-loud a startling message from the other friend who had missed the flight. “Damn,” said the text, “wish I could have made it. I just finished this book on Medjugorje, and I wanted to ask Fred about it at the cabin.” The book, Phil noted, was the very same one by Wayne Weible that he had just read. There had been no coordination on any of our parts for this. Meaningful coincidence, yes indeed, bringing in the other, or so it seems.
One other thing happened, and another became clear during this time. First: I started reading another of Wayne Weible’s books just after returning to Wisconsin from the cabin, and I marveled at the clarity of his God-driven purpose. Why not me, I thought? What I am doing for work now – writing – does not seem to be going anywhere. Maybe that is because, I thought, I am on the wrong path. So I asked for some sign that writing WAS the right path, or if it wasn’t, for some sign of what I should be doing.
The answer came quickly. While still up north just a few days before, I had brought my book, Hurricane River, to a small knick-knack store in Grand Marais. Since the novel takes place in that area, I reasoned with the owner that maybe it would sell. She agreed, and took the four copies I had brought up with me. Back at home, and just a day after I had asked for clarity of purpose, I got a text from the owner asking for ten more books, and pronto. The four I had given her had sold almost instantly! That proved to be a coincidence of great meaning, at least to me.
The second issue concerns that strange case of the car going crazy when Phil first showed up. I realized a day or so after coming home again that the playing of the song, “Addicted,” might not have been a simple freakish oddity. First, it should not have played (as far as I know) from a technical standpoint. Second, my friend Phil was addicted. Then he had read of the miracles at Medjugorje and seemed to be impressed. Could it be that his problem was first loudly stated from the radio, and then the solution was quietly given in Wayne’s book? Could this have signaled a progression, addressing his problem and giving the solution?
There is lack of scientific proof here, but it seems that this and the other incidences mentioned were not mere coincidences. Such are the workings of grace. The hand of God often compels and demands a different form of thinking that ultimately demands faith before enlightenment. So it is that we are sometimes taught in a gentle, persistent manner – often by “meaningful coincidences” - that the greater spiritual universe cannot be understood by us in any other way – but that it very much exists.
“For my thoughts are not your thoughts, nor are your ways my ways, says the Lord. As high as the heavens are above the earth, so high are my ways above your ways, and my thoughts above your thoughts.” (Isaiah 55: 8-9)
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