SIGNS

I’m big on asking for signs. Real big. Maybe because I know my prayers are heard (yours are, too.) And lately I’ve asked for a lot. Because I have big stuff happening, and I’ve been real nervous. Antsy. Second guessing every decision, wondering if I’m really on the right path because nothing seems to go according to plan.

Who’s plan? chimes the Greek chorus.
Erm . . . my plan.

Right. Therein lies the rub. Sometimes neurotic, controlling, hypersensitive writer people need cosmic reminding they’re not really in charge. I mean, not ultimately.

You must know by now I wrote a book. It’s called MINDER, and Kindle sales far exceeded my expectation. And now it’s coming out in paperback. I’ll publicly admit I hired an astrologer to help determine the perfect date for its paperback release. These things are important. If you’re skeptical about the stars affect on your personal life, just recall last month. June was wacky for just about everyone I know. Things broke. Stopped working. Plans fell thru. People lost wedding rings. Contracts. People went back on their word.

. . . releasing a book during Mercury Retrograde would be demented at best, so I wanted a professional opinion. We poured over charts and graphs. (It’s complicated stuff!) And YES. The stars, planets pointed to a particular day indeed. July 7th.

“July 7th!” I exclaimed, “Hot diggity dog, that’s Ringo’s Birthday!” I mean, if that’s not auspicious I don’t know what is!

But as time wore on, my ego lit a cigarette and blew smoke on my faith. Who releases a book on a MONDAY, she sneered, all raspy. And after 8 years of self-doubt and CONSTANT need for reassurance that not just my mom, Grandma, and best friend are gonna buy copies, here at the final hour, I sank to my knees.

Am I doing this right? I asked. Please let me know you’re all over this, God. Please give me a sign. Then I asked Grandpa, who makes his heavenly presence known fairly often, to please make it obvious.

I got my signs.

So Christopher decided to take a sledge hammer to our library this week. “Perfect time to be stirring up Spirit, honey,” I huffed. “Looks like Hobson’s lair up in here!”
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I walked by this particular pile, feeling VERY compelled to pick up a book.

Which one? I asked silently. That one, I felt, eyes resting on an old dusty blue one. There were many like it. It was one of the Harvard Classics: French and English Philosophers. Copyright 1910.

I picked it up. It was covered with dust. I opened it. Smelled like stale cigarettes. Grandpa. It probably hadn’t been opened in 30 years. But then I noticed something. A note, barely sticking out one of the pages. I opened it to J.J. Rousseau’s Profession of Faith of a Savoyard Vicar. Don’t ask me what that means, I don’t know. But to my surprise, the note said: Jennifer, and @ 10:30 scribbled at the bottom. I then noticed something else. A highlighted passage on the page with my name.

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Here’s what it said:

“I meditate on the order of the universe, not indeed with a view to explain it by vain systems, but to admire it perpetually and to adore its all wise Creator, whose features I trace in his workmanship . . . Shall I, who ought love and admire above all things that order which is established by his wisdom and maintained by his providence, desire that such order should be broken for me? No! such rash petition would rather merit punishment than acceptance. Not can I pray to him for the power of acting aright:for why should I petition for what he hath already given me?”

Okay, I’m no 18th century French Philosophical enthusiast. But I had chills. I read the old words and felt the modern day translation, LOUD AND CLEAR: Chill, Jennifer. Look at this earth. Look who made it. Look at that seed. It will rise from the dirt as a beautiful flower, in its own time, with no requirements of you. Things happen in accordance to Divine Timing. HIS time. Not yours.

And just to drive the message home, I then passed a box of memorabilia, previously tucked on the top shelf of an old storage closet, now in a pile alongside everything else on the floor. I picked up and unfolded the paper on top, scanned through it, and about fell over.

Three years ago, I had a tarot reading by a little 82 year old Mexican lady in Austin. Arguably the best reading I’ve ever had. I scribbled notes as she talked. Notes I’d forgotten about. Notes that were now in my hand. I read thru my reading, stunned at her accuracy. Then got to the last page. I recall at the end of my reading she started telling me my lucky days and numbers. “Write this down,” she said, divining one date in particular:
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Love,
Jennifer Kabay
Paperback Writer.

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