For the first thirty-four years of my life, I figured it was just me—too sensitive, too perceptive, too everything. I isolated myself to do everyone a favor.
When I visited Phoenix over spring break in 2012, my brother called because he wanted me to meet a friend. He felt bad that I’d never had a mentor, even though I had mentored so many, so he arranged for Kathy and me to meet each other for coffee.
An hour before I was to meet Kathy, a vomiting migraine pummeled me. But when you’re desperate, even searing pain won’t stop you from getting what you’ve always wanted. I drove to Paradise Bakery with one eye closed and pulled over when necessary to puke.
Once I arrived, Kathy took one look at me, reached over to touch my arm, and prayed healing. The migraine lifted. The puking stopped. She closed her eyes, nodded, and smiled knowingly, and asked me to tell her my story.
I recounted the abuse, the rejection, the silencing; I juxtaposed these with the affirmations, the supernatural, the fight to overcome.
She reached over the table a second time to touch my arm, “You’re a prophet!” She didn’t seem embarrassed by this word or about referring to me—me!—as such. I felt flummoxed, caught in between wondering what she was talking about and knowing she was probably right.
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