Faith in the Inferno

On a sultry summer morning in 1993, a strange spiritual encounter altered my worldview. It was mysterious, sweet, and absolutely shocking when the veil lifted on the spiritual realm. Nothing was ever the same again following that breathtaking morning when the boundary vanished between Heaven and Earth. Wonder and awe filled the dawn of my spiritual awakening, followed by horror and terror in years to come. Spanning two decades, my spiritual trial was wondrously blissful, then severe, robbing me of dear friends, my church, community, peace, and health. I never expected nor saw it coming, which is true for most people experiencing such phenomena. Yes, indeed, the realities in life can be stranger than fiction. “Reality, in fact,” wrote the beloved author C.S. Lewis, “is always something you couldn’t have guessed.” It was a tranquil, cloudy morning in the Thumb area of northern Michigan. On Lake Huron’s sandy shoreline, a heavy mist crept between lofty pines and a colorful row of beach houses. It was the last week of August 1993, the final days of our family vacation. Most of the weekend residents had already pulled boats ashore and closed cottages for the summer. It felt like a little chunk of Heaven, sitting on our screened porch within sight and sound of the great lake. Deep in thought, I stared at the lake, which wraps around Michigan’s thumb like a wet mitten. Squinting to make out the murky horizon, it was hard to tell where the sky ended and the lake began. On sunny days, the lake glimmered between tall trees and a neat row of beach houses. But on this sweltering summer morning, the lake had no sparkle and the sky showed no blue. Everything was quiet, turbid, like primordial soup. Except for the somber cry of a mourning dove, nothing breached the quiescence. It was the third day of overcast skies, and a dismal weather forecast predicted cloud cover all day. This is the last thing we need. Another dreary beach day. I hoped to return from vacation with a dark bronzing and gentle blonding that always boosted my confidence. But with the sky closed in, rolling its dull, gray carpet over land and sea, the day’s prospects seemed vague and disordered. There’s more life and promise when the sun shines. This was the setting, the time and place where my spiritual odyssey began. Belying the still, soft repose of the morning was a spiritual crucible underlying all human lives; yet seldom is it as severe and empirical as it became in mine. I couldn’t have been more shocked by initiation into strange mysteries of the supernatural realm. I had no idea what I was getting into, not a clue that eventually, my life would become unrecognizable, altered by powerful spiritual forces. Barely in my 40s, I was a wife and mother, spiritually naïve, with no imagination or conception of psychological terror. The porch glider was my favorite place to read, write and ruminate about the trivial and consequential. When my children were babes, I rocked them here, talking and singing to them. Jon, the kids, and I would sit on the screened porch at night during thunderstorms, feeling and hearing the wind and the rain, watching brilliant white electrical charges pierce like daggers into the surface of the lake. There were calm nights when thunder rumbled far across the lake—without ever bringing so much as a raindrop. Rain today would be a relief. I had passed up the frog-hunting trek with Jon and our kids that morning. Glancing at a clipboard on a nearby table, I frowned at the task at hand. For three years, I’d been writing a children’s book. I’d changed the book’s imagery numerous times; still, nothing was working. After years of professional writing, I thought it would be a cinch to write this book. Like John Bunyan’s Christian en route to the Celestial City, I was burdened by the unfulfilled task. I needed to finish the book because the stakes were awfully high. I needed to keep a solemn promise made before Brent was born. I needed to publish my children’s book if I wanted to find peace. My gloom waged war against serenity of the morning. In the suffocating silence, I prayed for inspiration. But, like so many prayers, I didn’t expect an answer. Squeak. Whoosh. Only a trifle of air moved on the porch, even with the recurrent motion of the glider. Stillness at the lakefront is a paradox. This is where blustery winds scream and waves crash, displaying the tremendous power of nature. Terrific forces continually and dramatically alter the beach along the western shoreline at the Tip of Michigan’s Thumb. From year to year, the rise and fall of lake levels dramatically rearrange the sandy and shallow freshwater coastline. During years when lake levels are high, gazebos and decks lose ground, collapsing onto the sand beach. In high water, some beaches completely disappear. When lake levels are low, cottagers find their docks on dry land while sandbars and beaches spread everywhere like gigantic, golden playgrounds. Swaying back and forth on the heavy glider, I stared out at the lake, noticing a small patch of blue sky near the beach. A surge of energy hit me when I spotted the blue sky. Weather can change in a flash, here at the lake. Maybe the forecast is wrong. I took the shortcut to the beach, walking between three, sprawling oak trees. As I came nearer, there was more blue sky. Stepping into the clearing, I froze on the spot. Three clouds, directly in front of me, formed exquisitely detailed images of angels. The images were distinct and definitive, like an Italian masterpiece of the High Renaissance. I stared, motionless, mentally, emotionally, and physically overwhelmed by the vision. Staring at a male angel, a female, and a cherub, I was utterly mesmerized, incredulous, and speechless. Time stopped and the images took my breath away.