On Enchantment

One summer day, when I was perhaps six, I went out to the side yard where my dad and I had planted flowers that spring to do my own gardening. I dug the holes like he had shown me, and in them I planted lollipops — yes, the candy. Our flowers were doing quite well, so what better way to get more lollipops without having to ask for them? I was certain the earth herself would deliver the bounty to me with the help of some sun and rain to make the magic.

It was a brutal lesson to learn that the earth was not as enchanted as I thought.

Have you ever considered how we feed children living, breathing fantasies as they are growing up — the Tooth Fairy, the Easter Bunny, Santa Claus? We read them myth and fairy tale, stories full of magic and wonder. We invite them to believe, perhaps because they have the capacity to do so, perhaps because we ourselves want to remember a time when we believed. Even kids who aren’t explicitly taught that these fantastical characters populate our lives believe that magical things can happen simply because they haven’t yet fully constructed a Newtonian universe in their minds or erected the rational framework of Western thinking. Over the course of their childhood, they lose the magic, just as we did.

But what if children know something that we have forgotten?

The first time I knew that God was tapping on my shoulder was an evening in college when I was out with my friends, walking around Chicago’s Near North Side. Something happened that was so wildly coincidental that it made no sense, and I knew right then what God was saying: “This is no accident. You are not lost, and you are not invisible to me.” I didn’t hear these words, I just sensed them.

I was primed to hear that message, however, because earlier in the year the writer Frederick Buechner had visited our college campus to speak at chapel, and he told a story that captivated me. He said that one time while he was waiting for a flight, he noticed a pair of cufflinks directly in front of where he had sat down at the airport bar. When he looked closely, he saw that they were his initials: FB. Buechner told us that experience made him acutely aware that God was out and about in the world, sending messages to those who were listening. He said the cufflinks reassured him that he was where he was supposed to be, doing what he was meant to be doing, and he was right on time.

Buechner told another story in chapel that day. He said that he and his wife had recently been to visit the widow of a friend of theirs. They stayed overnight, and that night he dreamed his friend visited him. In the dream, his friend assured him he was really there; to prove it, he handed him a red thread. Buechner woke with a start. The following morning, he found a red thread on the floor.

These stories breathed life back into my belief in an enchanted universe. I didn’t start planting lollipops again, but after that, I did hope to encounter this enchantment in my regular everyday life. Soon after, my hope was rewarded, and decades later, I am convinced more than ever in the magic that imbues our lives.

Last month I hoped to tell a story at the Moth about this enchantment, a story about how someone I love who died in April of 2024 found a way to communicate with me — with great clarity. My name didn’t get pulled from the bag that night, so I didn’t get to tell my story, but someday I’ll tell it. It’s such a personal story that part of me wonders why I want to tell it on stage, but I’m trying not to judge myself. I think I want to tell it because I want others to know that their loved ones who no longer breathe on this earth are still alive in another place. I want people to know that not everything is easily explained or explained at all by our rational minds. There is more here than meets the eye.

I have discovered that it is so much easier to tell a story to a few hundred strangers than to almost any individual person. One on one, someone might try to argue me out of my own experience, but if I’m up on stage, no one can say a thing. The listeners can think their thoughts — they can judge or disbelieve — and I never have to know about any of that.

A few months ago, during my last gasp of effort in the dating arena, the man I was out with asked me about the wren tattooed on the inside of my wrist. Oddly enough, some people are able to perceive that this particular tattoo is not just any tattoo. I’m not saying this man was perceiving that, but, regardless, I was pleased with myself for telling him I wasn’t prepared to tell that story that day. Even as I said it, I kind of marveled at my ability to maintain my boundaries and not give away something I didn’t want to give. That’s a muscle I’m still building. But I also thought about the fact that I’d told the story of my tattoo at the Moth several months earlier, and though it’s a hard story, it wasn’t hard to tell to strangers. I’m tempted to say this makes no sense, but I also know it makes all the sense in the world. I’ll tell you what, if I could stop doing something, I’d stop overexplaining and justifying myself — even if the only one I’m overexplaining and justifying myself to is me.

To recap:

1. Believe it or not, this world is enchanted. I’m pretty sure that if you’re inclined to believe it, you are more likely to see the magic in it. Last night over 6,800,000 birds migrated over the state of Maryland. I didn’t see any of them, but just because I didn’t see them doesn’t mean it’s not true. The enchantment is real. The veil between us and those who have left us is both gauzy and impenetrable. I can’t explain it, and I won’t try. Also, God speaks to us. My only explanation for that is that he’s our biggest fan. Don’t you love to talk to your kids? Even if you think he’s never talked to you before, even if you aren’t sure you believe in God, you can still ask him to talk to you. Trust me. Just ask.

2. We own our stories, and we get to tell them. We also get to not tell them. What’s yours is yours, and that goes for your boundaries too.

3. I’m an overexplainer, and I’m working on it. If anything kills magic, it’s explanation, and maybe overexplaining kills the enchantment that is me. I’m going to trust my gut, stop justifying myself, and let the chips fall.

4. I’ve quit dating because for the past nine months, trying to date has felt really really bad. I surrender, and I reserve the right to change my mind without spending time justifying myself to me. In the meantime, you’ll find me holed up with a pile of novels.

Got it?