I’m a Catholic Christian, a wife, and the author of The Grace Crasher. I was raised nominally Catholic, years later became a non-denominational Evangelical Christian, then returned to the Catholic Church. But I have much love and respect for my Evangelical friends. I know we all love the same Jesus.
True story: About 12 years ago, around three a.m. on a Monday morning, I was crying and obsessing about some now-forgotten thing. Although I had already turned my will and life over to Jesus months before that, I got on my knees and said, “God, if you are truly real, please let me know. Give me a sign.”
(Technically, I don’t think we are supposed to tell God to give us a sign like that.)
But at that moment, in the dark night, a church bell rang out. Dong! Dong! Dong! Dong! At least four times, it rang out into the silence. There may have been an unrelated reason, but it felt like an answer to my plea to God. I said, “Okay, God, thank you,” went back to bed, and slept peacefully.
In those days, I lived within a few blocks of three beautiful churches, one Methodist, one Evangelical Christian, and one Catholic. They were so close to each other that I still have no idea which one of those churches rang the bell—or why.
I kind of like not knowing.