Needn't A Title

My big brother and I were taught that we should do the right things because they were morally correct, not because a religion demanded we do so. As a result, I grew up with what I deemed an agnostic viewpoint on god(s). This belief later evolved into one of atheism, completing my pendulum swing from a naive and unquestioning child to a suspicious and un-trusting adult.

My experience on the agnostic side of the fence showed me that divine definitions tended to cause tension. They even caused wars. I saw that the dangerous actions of a handful of extremists with a certain affiliation could cause millions of people to apply sweeping generalizations toward all others with the same affiliation.

One of my best friends in high school was Muslim. His family cooked delicious Lebanese food and did some intriguing fasting thing once per year where they didn’t eat from sun up to sun down for roughly a month. Aside from that and their naturally tanned skin, they were just like my family. Yet, when this friend worked at a restaurant in Marietta, Georgia, elderly ladies would call him a “handsome terrorist.” Instead of tips, he’d often be left with Have You Found Jesus? cards. This was appalling to me.

An ex-boyfriend of mine nearly died of Crohn’s disease as a child because his highly religious mother believed his stomach issues were due to his poor church attendance. The damage done to that child’s digestive system and psyche were still in full effect, two decades later. Would her god not have been forgiving if she had stayed home to tend to her son, who was bleeding from both ends?

Due to these and other uninviting encounters with supposed holy people, I found myself looking down on them. If these people’s view of god was correct, then I wanted nothing to do with it. I called them closed-minded. Clueless. Brain-washed.

Meanwhile… What did that make me? I did not have a belief system built through personal discoveries. I had no belief system at all. My distaste toward organized religion was a result of having viewed select emotionally-heightened situations containing extreme and opinionated people, and was no making of my own. I, too, was making sweeping generalizations about something foreign to me.

On the afternoon of March 29th, 2014, the sound of a lullaby and a little kid’s voice awakened me from a nap. I lived alone in a 575 square foot apartment and was surrounded by other single people in their tiny apartments. Hearing anything related to children was far from normal. Yet, this eerily comforting lullaby was coming from my room.

As I let my eyes adjust to the waking world, I saw a figure sitting on top of my dresser. It was see-through and had wavy edges, like a mirage. This figure was a child. Suddenly, the mirage-child darted out of my bedroom. After a rapid allowance of inner turmoil, I followed it.

I walked into the living room, squinting to get a glimpse of the mirage waves again. I heard a loud BOOIIING noise behind me from across the room. I sprung around to see my computer monitor lighting up from its normal state of darkness.

“Do… You want me to write?” I asked aloud. An 8½ x 11” sheet of paper fell from its home on the wall above my desk as if it had been batted down. It was one of the motivational pieces I kept up in an effort to convince myself to write.

I took this as a yes.

I began writing.

I quickly fell into what I now know as a trance state. I wobbled back and forth as I typed nonstop for 27 pages. I felt as though the words were coming through me rather than from me. When I went back through and read what I’d typed, I was shocked. The pages consisted of a back and forth dialogue between me and a being who referred to itself as Archangel Michael. Prior to this point, I in no way believed in angels, nor did I know (or care) what an archangel was.

As I read the rest of the conversation, I was flooded with information that was consciously foreign but familiar on a deeper level. This supposed archangel explained soul families, why I’d chosen my parents for this incarnation, and told me what my soul purpose was. I was instructed to stop numbing with drugs and alcohol. I was told to write.

A week later, I had my last drink of alcohol. It was a swig of Grey Goose directly out of the bottle and occurred at 9:30 AM on April 5th, 2014.

Since that date, my life has completely transformed. I now pray first thing in the morning and last thing at night. I meditate daily. I regularly communicate with archangels, angels, and nature. I channel a group of high-vibrational spirit guides called The Rebels, and my primary source of income is through animal communication.

I know there is a power greater than me because there is NO way I could have come up with this plot twist. Two years ago, I was a high-strung, left-brained workaholic and addict who thought spiritual people just didn’t get it. Now I’m a heart-centered animal communicator who knows that high-strung, left-brained workaholics just don’t get it.

Talk about a paradigm shift.

One of the many definitions of religion is “an interest, a belief, or an activity that is very important to a person or group.” In that case, kindness is my religion. Love is my religion. Forgiveness is my religion. Being the best human I can be in service to others is my religion. But I needn’t wear it on my sleeve. Even though I believe in a power greater than me, I needn’t a title to define my relationship to this higher power. The moment I apply words to it, I limit its boundlessness.

#JenButler #April