Faith in God :
one man's remarkable story of finding faith in God
"Most of the trouble comes when you forget who’s looking out for you, who’s running the show, and who has seen, like a champion chess player, the next hundred moves ahead, while you’re mentally fumbling about and wondering whose turn it is to move next.
Every action, thought, intention, or desire one succumbs to within a specific paradigm wholly supports and reinforces the authenticity of that graven perspective. Habit and belief then become the cement which binds the brick-walls of the paradigm together. One must then act counter to the paradigm in order to test its reality. If it stands it belongs to life, if it falls, it never really existed.
Doubt will castrate the flow out of life. Doubt in God, doubt in yourself, doubt in the magic and miracle of all that is, is not, was, or never will be. Doesn’t matter which. The trick is to believe in life- your life- and don’t give a hoot if it all doesn’t fit together nice and reasonably. Nothing is reasonable. Nothing is expectable, imaginable, or proper. We’re inside a mad dance of homeless spirits, and no one is going to give a hot damn if you stand up and make it obvious. I couldn’t help myself, because I didn’t know why life is the way it is, and I could do nothing at the time but shout at the heavens and try to go the distance and back again.
One August, some years back, while still living in the world, I dreamt a dream suggesting that I go on an overseas trip later that year, and when I awoke there was no question within me as to whether I would choose to go or not. I would go, of course; I had been following my dreams for quite a while by then, ever since I first realized that they were communicating important things to me, and they always led me to where I should be, to the people I should meet and share with, and to the experiences I would need to serve my vision, or to fill out the missing aspects of my growing being. The question remaining after this dream, however, was how I would acquire the thousands of dollars necessary to take the directed journey. My penury had reached a pauper’s level, and I knew it would be tough to save enough dough for the trip by working in the city, with its never ending expenses, but still the first thought that crossed my mind was to head back into Gomorrah and work at the Co-op and scrimp and save, and beyond that I thought no further. The next night, however, another dream came with the message that edible, wild mushroom-picking would be the most promising route to take that autumn, if I were to bank the coin required. So that was that and again there was no question about what avenue I would choose. The last issue remaining, however, was how to get up to the Charlottes- where a great deal of the wild, commercially viable Chanterelle mushrooms grow- as cheaply as possible, so as not to cut into my earnings before I earned them.
Whenever I had owned a vehicle in the past I would generally take a few extra days to travel up to the islands in a round-about route northward, visiting friends at certain points along my human ‘trap-line’, as a perspicacious acquaintance once referred to my incremental visitations of dear ones located in sporadic communities along the way. But at this moment I had neither car nor time to make my rounds, so the only answer left, of course, was hitchhiking. This was a method of travel I had used to move about quite regularly in the past, although I always did it begrudgingly, disdainfully standing like a contemptful beggar beside the road, as the affronting legions of motorists sped past me in polished and sealed comfort and indifference. And yet I had nonetheless gotten around all over the world this way, and so I accepted my fate that what must be done must be done and the less whining the better.
So early that September I found myself on the outskirts of Vancouver with my thumb out, and my impatience tucked under, anticipating the long and agonizing process of waiting, then receiving a ride a certain distance up the road, then waiting again, then another ride, and so on, slowly leap-frogging the sixteen-hundred kilometres northward to my distant goal.
And to be sure the same pattern as all other times began unfolding on this trip- there were periods of extended waiting, periods of futility and despair as I weighed the disastrous possibility that the next ride would never come. But what happened this time was that the rides which did come, and they did, somehow seemed to apply to my very existence; that is, it seemed that everyone who picked me up had something to say uniquely relating to me, that there was a common ground of experience or understanding which brought us together in a form of transient communion very quickly, and we’d have our pleasant dialogue over whatever it was that we had instantly ascertained was our point of contact, and then we’d come to a fork in our road and I’d be dropped off to stand and idle, and then a similar event would happen, in that the next ride I got was seemingly the ride I was supposed to get- it was the ride designed for me, by The chess player.
This went on all day long until sometime around sunset I was left off in William’s Lake where I decided to call it a day, and walked into a nearby park, put my sleeping bag down and eased off into the joy of slumber. It was during that night that something must have clicked within me- some recognition bubbled up from the omniscient subconscious into the density of my consciousness, awakening a smouldering realization within me- because the next morning, bright and early, I was out on the road and a young man stopped to pick me up who said he was only going about fifteen minutes out of town, but did I want a lift anyway. Normally I would be loath to accept a ride which terminated out in the middle of nowhere, out where you could get caught for days without getting picked up, and where the alternative possibility of hopping on a Greyhound, when the waiting had finally become intolerable, didn’t exist, because there was no bus stop, and so being stranded for an indefinite duration was a real possibility, which I avoided at all costs, often turning down rides that were not going on to at least the next small town. But as I said, something had clicked inside of me that night, because of the chain of seemingly destined rides which had brought me that far the day before, something which whispered- “The ride you are supposed to have will stop and pick you up, you need not worry but only have patience, and confidence, and ...faith, because God is directing the show and what should be, is what will be.” And so I took the ride, was dropped off in the middle of nowhere, as the young man headed down a side-road, and then stood there, thumb out, as per usual. But before I could fall into the state of impatience which I habitually came to at such times, a voice came to me again which said- “God is choosing your rides.” And so I relaxed, and stopped caring if the cars whizzed inhumanely past me, and I eased into the fabulous acceptance of ...faith. And not five minutes later an eighteen-wheeler flew past me, jammed on its breaks and came to a halt fifty metres or so up the road, and I ran up and climbed on and we were off, and the three-hundred pound trucker began inquisitively interrogating me for the first few minutes and then turned his head to me, looked me right in the eyes, and said: “I picked you up because God told me to.” And I said, “I know.” And this trucker, George I believe was his name, went on for the next two hours with stories and anecdotes about how and when God had entered his life, how he listened for and heard God’s directives, and what was to become of the world during and after the apocalypse. And I shared my own views on all of it, and we had some good old biblical style communion, and then he let me off in the middle of nowhere, again. And not but a few minutes of faithful waiting later did I get a ride from a wonderful, long-haired Christian fellow who was homesteading in the area and who took me to his favourite restaurant for breakfast so as to introduce me to his wife. And when he and I were done eating and conversing, we said our goodbyes, and I walked out onto the highway and was soon picked up by a man headed to my final destination, and who was a professional mushroom picker with all sorts of advice for me, to boot. Check mate.
The world becomes a different place when you realize God pervades the whole flippin’ shmeer, that there is divine design throughout, and that nothing is made that is not made by the Maker.
God does it all, both inside and out. What the ego assumes it is feeling, or thinking, or doing, is being done to it. Make no mistake about it. No one is immune from the divine monopoly.
This makes it tough to keep on striving, or writing, for example, because everything ever written or waiting to be written is summed up in one word- God. There it is. There is no more
In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. Contradiction exists only in those parts which are seemingly separated from the whole; once the part is re-assimilated into the rest, and the self dissolves in the Self, all duality and strife are over.
As I said, this complicates the task for the writer, because instead of describing the world or an experience, you now realize that all you’re doing is describing a compartmentalized aspect of the uncompartmentalizeable, indescribable God. And yet God hides within God’s own creation, as the story goes, and books are one of the multifarious, mischievous ways God goes about in concealment, by inventing a hiding place and then hiding in you while you’re searching through it. It’s one hell of a good trick, to be sure. ..."
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