Divine Itinerary

One of the many benefits of being a spiritually attuned person is recognizing the presence of spirit. Those signs, symbols and synchronous events that let us know our divine team is guiding, protecting, and adding a touch of magic to our lives. Our guardians work hard on our behalf, and to receive their blessings all we must do is be aware, act upon and acknowledge their deeds. Which makes it challenging to watch someone we know being oblivious to the messages from their divine team.

I have a friend and colleague named Janie who is funny, smart, and loving, but she is a staunch skeptic. Knowing this, I’ve never shared my true spiritual identity with her, as it would only make us both uncomfortable. Our relationship is based on the things we do have in common and I enjoy spending time with her—especially when our jobs require that we travel. We always have fun adventures.

Last fall we were in Thailand and had a rare few hours for site-seeing. Janie knew exactly what she wanted to do: visit a Buddhist temple. She’d even researched one not too far from our Bangkok hotel. I was delighted, but this was the last thing I thought my card-carrying Catholic pal would be into. However, when we went to the concierge for directions, he had bad news.

“You’ll never get there this time of day. The traffic is just too bad.”

"Is there a temple closer?” Janie asked.

“Not any Buddhist temples, but a Hindu temple is just up the road.”

Before long we were standing in front of the walled entrance to a tall, elaborate temple with several ornate spires. Every surface was covered with brightly colored tiles in elaborate designs that glistened in the late afternoon sun. We could see that the inside wall created a corridor that encircled the inner rooms of the temple. A steady stream of people were entering and we could hear bells and drums being played inside.

“Let’s go in,” Janie said. “This looks interesting.”

No sooner had we taken a dozen steps inside, when we were confronted by four intimidating Thai women, yammering at us all at once. We didn’t have to speak Thai to know we were in over our heads. But before we could turn around and leave, one woman knelt down, abruptly removed our sandals and placed them under a bench. Another backed us up against the temple wall where we stood, frozen. The women then took their places against the opposite wall and continued to scold us. They seemed to be particularly annoyed with blond-haired, blue-eyed Janie. Blonds may at times have more fun, but brunettes like me have the edge in Asian temples.

Thankfully the sound of the approaching drums and bells caused all eyes to look to the right as a monk wearing a gold robe rounded the corner, bearing a large leaf and a piece of fruit the size of a football. Several monks followed behind him, with burning incense and bowls of fruit; others carried an ornately decorated ceremonial platform adorned with garlands of golden flowers. In the center was a statue of a woman, covered by a spinning umbrella. The first monk stopped right in front of us, put the large fruit on top of the leaf and laid it at our feet. He spoke a few forceful sounding words before continuing down the corridor.

“Just try to fit in until we can get out of here,” Janie whispered to me.

I nodded, but as I looked around I knew that fitting in wasn’t going to be easy. The dirt corridor was packed with barefoot Asian women dressed in red from head to toe, each with a thumbprint sized red dot on her forehead. As the only non-Asians in the temple, the only thing we had in common with them was our bare feet and that Janie happened to be wearing a red blouse.

The final monk in the entourage carried a large sabre and as he approached, the women clasped their hands together chest-high and began to bow their heads repeatedly, chanting in unison.

Janie’s eyes were now wide with fear. I knew enough about Hinduism to be confident that we weren’t to be human sacrifices, but this was more than my Midwestern Catholic friend could take. Fortunately, Hindus and Catholics clasp their hands similarly in prayer, and Janie’s recitation of the Lord’s Prayer went undetected by all but me.

The monk rose his sabre high in the air. He paused and then swiftly brought it down on the fruit, chopping it in half at our feet. He then followed the others down the corridor and the entourage moved into the inner chambers of the temple. The women stopped chanting. I cautiously glanced over at our confronters who were still fixated on Janie, when one of the women smiled and pointed to the sleeve of Janie’s red blouse.

“This is getting too weird for me,” Janie said, her hands still clasped chest high in prayer. “I think they want my blouse.”

Slowly she motioned with her head towards the exit. I furtively snatched our sandals and away we ran. Once safely outside we burst into hysterics, laughing all the way back to our hotel, just in time for happy hour. Janie ordered a double martini and I googled the Hindu temple.

“Get this,” I said. “It looks like we coincidentally arrived at the temple at the exact date and time for their fall festival.” But what I didn’t share was that I don’t believe in coincidences. There had to be a reason we’d been led there, but I couldn’t figure out what it was.

“What were all those women praying for?” she asked.

“According to this, rain and healing of skin conditions.”

“You’re kidding,” she said, pulling up her shirt sleeve to reveal several painful-looking lesions on her right forearm. “I’ve been trying to clear this up for over two weeks. My dermatologist can’t figure it out.”

I realized the women had been able to see something I had not—Janie’s nagging skin problem. This combined with her wearing red had transformed her from a western interloper to a fellow worshiper.

“Maybe we should have stayed at the temple,” I said.

“I’d rather suffer.”

And suffer she did. For the next seven days, Janie’s skin condition grew worse.

“It’s driving me nuts,” she said, as she applied yet another dose of prescription cream.

Of course, I suspected that our accidental attendance at the festival had been orchestrated by her guides to heal her skin. My theory was proven, at least to me, on the airplane as we flew from Thailand to China. The flight was almost over when the passenger to my left struck up a conversation.

“Pardon me,” he said, “you are from America?”

“Yes, we are.”

“I am a Chinese medical doctor and I have invented a skin balm to treat skin conditions for a Japanese health company. Is this something that people in America would like?”

Immediately my mind went to Janie’s arm. “Will it treat other skin problems, like…skin sores?”

“Yes, even cuts. In Japan they are using it successfully for all of this. Even diaper rash!”

I turned to Janie, seated on my right. She gave me the look and turned away. Later she told me plainly that she had no interest in anything this Chinese “doctor” – she said, using her fingers to make quotation marks – had to say. “I don’t believe in that crap.”

Her Angels had done the best they could. They had given Janie two opportunities to heal her skin and she had thwarted them both in favor of a traditional medical treatment she knew wasn’t working. It was hard to watch. I felt badly for her and her ever-loving spirit allies. How many times had she ignored her guides’ messages and what lengths would they have to go to get her attention?

It never ceases to amaze me how persistent and ingenious our Divine team is. Janie had missed one opportunity, so they had arranged another. What were the chances of her attending a once-a-year festival for the healing of skin conditions and then being offered healing balms from a Chinese doctor on an airplane?

Another blessing of being a good spirit partner is reaping the benefits of our guides’ omniscient powers to intervene on our behalf. Life can be a series of miraculous adventures if we are open, aware, and appreciative of our Divine team. Hopefully, when we travel again this fall, Janie will have already awakened to her spirit entourage. No miracle is too big to ask for.

© Maria Hart 2017

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