Spiritual Journey #1
Alex proved to me quickly he could still reach me. But my spiritual journey didn’t start there. It started way before, in the sticky Texas heat of my childhood, sneaking sticky-glazed donuts off the church bus and losing myself in the colorful chaos of my grandma and pawpaw’s Illustrated Children’s Bible.
I wasn’t raised in starched collars and Sunday sermons. Church was a holiday highlight—Easter egg hunts with cousins in Georgia, where the rest of our family lived, and going to church with them was amazing. One summer in Texas, I’d flag down the church bus from our rundown apartment complex—the white beast rumbling up with its vinyl seats hot as a skillet, air thick with the scent of cheap air freshener and fresh-baked donuts. I’d scramble on, giggling, and dive straight for the donut bag before the driver could say “Good Morning”. Powdered sugar on my fingers, crumbs in my lap—I’d rather munch than memorize verses.
My grandma and pawpaw’s house in Georgia was my real sanctuary. I’d visit every chance I got—and for one full school year, I lived with them. That’s when I fell in love with their massive, dog-eared Children’s Bible—pages yellowed like old tea stains, illustrations bursting with color: David slinging stones at Goliath’s forehead, Noah’s ark bobbing on wild waves, Jesus walking on water with waves crashing like thunder. I’d sprawl on their plastic-covered couch, the kind that stuck to your legs in summer, and devour it, visit after visit. The stories wrapped around me like a warm quilt—Jonah swallowed by a whale’s slimy throat, Daniel in the lions’ den with fangs glinting in torchlight. I memorized every twist, every book in order, every answer before the Sunday school teacher could blink. And prayers? They were my nightly ritual, whispered under threadbare sheets: “No bad dreams, God—keep Mommy safe, let me have a puppy, make tomorrow sunny.” I believed with a child’s fierce, unshakeable fire. I was all in, a little magnet pulling light from the pages.
Then life got complicated. By 10, church faded. I’d forgotten the faith I’d known. Pregnant at 16, Lacie born when I was 17—tiny fists waving like she owned the world. Alex arrived at 19. Married his dad—10 years my senior, from a rock-solid Mormon family—right before I turned 20, the ceremony a blur of white lace and borrowed vows. I knew nothing about Mormonism—only the Baptist echoes from childhood, potlucks and potluck prayers. But early marriage, I dove in. Joined the church, taught Primary—those wide-eyed kids in their little ties and dresses, singing “I Am a Child of God” off-key but with everything they had. I loved the rhythm, the potlucks, the way it wove a safety net around my babies. The people were amazing—so kind, so supportive, always showing up with casseroles and helping hands. It was a good experience in so many ways. But Joseph Smith? The golden plates glowing in some ancient vision? The Book of Mormon’s pages whispering truths I couldn’t hear? I prayed for years—kneeling on scratchy carpet, eyes squeezed shut, begging for that inner spark. Never came. Lacie and Alex felt it too, although we didn’t talk about it until years later. They soaked up the morals like sponges (kindness, honesty, service etched deep), but the conviction? It slipped through like sand.
The divorce was ugly but settled out of court. I tried Baptist again, a little brick church with creaky pews and stained glass that glowed like fireflies. Alex and I got baptized together—he was 12, water lapping at his chin, eyes wide with that teenage mix of defiance and hope; I was 31, holding my breath against the chill. We lasted less than a year, singing hymns that tasted like ash. No more organized religion. We’d gather for dinner —plates steaming with spaghetti, elbows bumping—and talk beliefs like old friends. Everyone had their take: Lacie’s quiet faith in nature, Alex’s questions about suffering, Faith’s wide-open wonder. Different opinions, no fights. Just love, messy and real.
Then, summer 2020, the world tilted. Alex’s best friend—like a daughter to me, a sister to him—overdosed. She’d crashed at our house for months, her laugh filling the rooms like sunlight. Spirituality roared back. For the first time in years, we talked afterlife during late-night conversations of grief and sadness, voices low and raw. Services, what we wanted if the unthinkable happened. Alex leaned in, eyes serious: “Mom, no suits, no preaching or sad songs. Play my music. Let people laugh, remember the good.” I nodded, throat tight, filing it away like a promise. I had no clue I’d be the one choosing the playlist weeks later.
October 6, 2020—home from work at 4 PM. Found him. That night, in his room—his favorite hoodie slung over the chair like he’d just stepped out for a smoke—I lost it. The next morning I fell to my knees on the hard floor, screaming, “Find the light, baby! Don’t get stuck!” The bathroom bulb outside his door popped—sharp as a gunshot, shards tinkling inside like broken promises. That sound? It was the crack in my world letting the light in.
Five years later? I’ve devoured it all—books stacked like towers (near-death tales that leave me breathless, quantum physics blurring the lines between here and there, mediumship guides with voices from the veil). Podcasts on endless loop in the car, voices weaving through the rain on my windshield. Journaled every feather that drifts down, every 2:22 that stops me cold, every feeling that swells like a wave. I’ve cried in bathtubs until the water ran cold, screamed in the car until my throat ached, whispered to the stars until dawn. My truth now: We don’t die. We’re energy—vibrant, unbreakable—and energy only shifts, like light bending through a prism. You can’t destroy it. You can’t kill a soul. My beliefs keep unfolding—world events shaking the foundations, politics forcing hard looks at what’s “true,” ancient texts and science whispering the same secrets. But this core? I know it in my bones, feel it like Alex’s hand on my shoulder.
I’m still digging—deeper, dirtier, more alive. Come with me. Let’s uncover what’s waiting.
Your Turn What cracked your spiritual world wide open? A book? A loss? A whisper? Comment below—I read every single one.
Next: “The Two Eagles – Alex’s First Hello the Day He Left” #LiveMoreLikeAlex #SpiritualJourney #EnergyBeings #AfterlifeTruth #GriefAwakening #SoulEnergy