It usually takes much less time for me to receive a response to my wishful thoughts.  This always amazes me, because I'm very specific in my mental vision when it comes to what I need.

The bench outside the barbershop where I worked always threw my back out of alignment when I sat there between haircuts.  I considered a straight-backed rocking-chair to be the solution to my problem -- something small enough to be easily moved behind a locked door at the end of the day.  Knowing I could never afford such a luxury, I brushed away the idea and forgot about it.

Two weeks later, on the way to work, I saw my chair was at the side of the road -- in some trash!  Nature had spotlighted the item in a beam of sunlight; the honey-colored wood gleamed like gold.  Astonished, I pulled over to see if the piece of furniture was as good as it looked.  A dainty, perfect little "Jenny Lind" was canted to the side, attached to its rockers by one inappropriate bolt.  Legs upended and placed in the can, the only heavy wear appeared to be where the feet had touched the ground.

Wally (being part genius and all carpenter) reconstructed Miss Jenny to a better than factory-original strength, saying he doubted she would ever bear up under commercial use.  I gave her a loving rubdown with a scratch-cover polish anyway, and off to work she went.  The first day out, a passerby wanted to buy her; I've had many such offers since then.  Everyone who sees her loves her and reminisces over her; people go out of their way to sit on her any chance they get.  Her form is still as strong as her determination to serve, after years of adoring use.

Form being function, and function being life -- that rocker had been needlessly condemned to an early grave.  I wondered:  had Miss Jenny cried out in indignation over her fate?  Judging from the feelings of pride and gladness I seemed to receive from her when I saved her life, two purposes were served by our prearranged, alchemical meeting.

 

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Not long after I brought home the chair, I also rescued a used computer table to set my sewing-machine on.  The hardware for the keyboard shelf was gone, to me making the item perfect.  What I needed was something slender that took up little space, was long enough to hold books and a lamp, and could be folded up and stored behind the couch if necessary.  With the little shelf detached, a seat could be snuggled almost under the table and out of the already insufficient walking space.  Like new (except for the holes for the hardware), this was exactly what I had envisioned two weeks earlier.

When Wally saw my sewing center all set up he asked, "Now what have you dragged home?"  I explained that this was the table I had wished for.  Running his fingers over the holes on the top, my other half wanted to know, "Can't you wish for something new?"

Considering the way God answers my desires, and the fact that no sewing-machine table had ever been manufactured in the design I required, I had to shake my head and smile.  Better than new to me, the Universal Mind had produced an object custom-made to my specifications; one man's trash had become another woman's treasure.  Feeling humble, I explained that it just doesn't work that way.  Since his question had been making tender fun of me anyway, he lovingly replied, "I know, I know..."  

What neither one of us was aware of was that a couple of months later, my new table would be supporting a Compaq instead of a Kenmore!  This especially came as a shock to me, because I felt I was too prehistoric to comprehend computers and so had turned down a couple of offers of machines from my customers who knew I had begun to write.  I didn't want to interrupt my creative flow long enough to master the language of artificial intelligence.  Even an electric typewriter seemed like it would be too much of a handful, so I toyed with the idea of an old manual model instead.  Ignoring the fact that the world had passed me by, I was content to scribble away with my pencil and wait for what I wanted.

My treasure table, on the other hand, was upset at being reduced to a sewing servant.  With each item I unpacked and set into place, I received a distinct mental picture of what was supposed to be ( or used to be) sitting there instead.  After I finished organizing my work space, I proudly stood back and asked the table what it thought, expecting to feel the joy and gratitude I had felt from Miss Jenny.

What came through the universal translator was a clear picture of my old black Lab, Wyn (wearing a pink ballet tutu, a silver, star-sparkled shawl held around her shoulders by a brooch with two-thirds of the stones missing, a long rope of fake pearls gracing her neck, and a crumpled old Easter hat placed jauntily on her head), dressed up for a "beauty pageant" by my stepdaughters.  She loved to play with the girls, so she had sat with the patience of Job as they stripped her of her canine dignity and replaced it with glad-rags and tarnished baubles.  When I told Wynny that she indeed looked beautiful and was certain to win (which she did), she had given me an embarrassed grin, begun to pant, and rolled her eyes at me. "The things I do for love...," she had said.  The jogging of this ancient and forgotten memory got the point across.  Apparently -- grateful for a new lease on life -- my table would serve, although reluctantly.  Satisfied with this response, I spent the next few weeks industriously mending all of our clothes.  

When there was nothing left to sew, I pushed my Kenmore aside and began to use the table as a writing desk.  My manuscript was becoming hard to proofread for flow because of all of the additions and changes I had made.  It occurred to me that I was going to have to break down and start typing a rough draft of what I had finished so far.  This was not good; I was a slow and terrible typist, and I could not afford even a used machine.  All I could do was throw the thought out the window (and into the Mind of Higher Power), every time it surfaced.

A few weeks later a friend asked me if I would like to have her husband's old electric typewriter.  With a prayer of thanks, I gave her a big hug and enthusiastically accepted her offer.  I even did a mental victory dance, I was so excited.  Then later that very afternoon, a customer of mine offered me his old computer!  He said it was a top-of-the-line machine and in perfect shape, just too old and slow for his needs.

What was God up to?  This had never happened before; the rule was: one item per customer.  Now I sat with two keyboards in front of me (neither of which I really wanted), and I had to make a choice because I only had room for one.  Since I was already prepared to take the plunge with an electric typewriter (eeek!), I decided I might as well jump in over my head and take the computer instead (glug, glug, glug).  Obviously (in my opinion) I was out of my mind.   There was absolutely no logic in my bringing home something I didn't want, need, know how to use, want to learn how to use, think I was capable of using, and could not afford -- and that I was absolutely terrified of!  But there were other factors to the equation to consider, that made more sense than I ever could.

This was the third time that the Mind of Higher Power had tried to deliver me a computer.  It would have been most disrespectful to disregard and show disdain for such a display of intimate attention, affection, and generosity, let alone such a valuable offering!  In this light, the message behind the double gifting became very clear: "Here's the machine you think you want, and here's the machine I know you will need."

What a zing I got when I realized that God might have a special plan for me and that computer, one I had not foreseen!  From that moment on, I vowed to act as if I had no fear or reservations in my dealings with computers, and to learn as quickly as I could so I could get back to work on my book.  Somehow the two seemed to be connected, and if the Powers that Be had that much confidence in my abilities, then I would be the best little computer geek I could be!  

Treasure table was, of course, ecstatic as soon as the monitor and keyboard were in place.  (I've often wondered if that adopted piece of furniture hadn't pushed the issue a bit and sent a message of its own.  Every week after that, for four weeks straight, I saw at least one PC sitting at the curb in the trash -- something I had never seen before.)  Within two years I had become a computer whiz-kid with a new machine and two websites -- one of which contains this project with its very special messages from Life (which I assume is what God had intended for my book).  As far as I can tell, all the parties involved in the alchemical process are tickled pink with the outcome of my fearless leap of faith, and hopefully my online readers are as well.

The fact that my needs and desires are fulfilled in this manner on an almost daily basis does not dim my feelings of wonder and thankfulness.  As a mere speck of dust in the Macrocosm, I often wonder, "Who am I that the Universal Mind should take such a personal, intimate interest in me?"  The answer to this question is in the alchemy itself.  Every iota of existence is part of a greater, connected wholeness that moves towards one common goal -- Life.  Whether you are an atom, a star, a sparrow, or a raindrop, you are no less important to the unfolding of this One Great Thing.