Proof that God exists

We met in a loud, crowded basement on a Friday night in January. We were college freshmen, still buoyed by the hope of endless possibility as we looked to the years ahead. And still eager to spend Friday nights in a basement eating lukewarm pasta with a crowd full of people. (To be fair, that’s how I spent most of my Friday nights in college, but still. The novelty of that first night was thrilling.) I was spotted as a newcomer immediately by a kind young woman who brought me right over to introduce me to Stacey (“She leads a freshman Bible study! You have to meet her!”) and the girls seated around her. I looked around at their smiling faces and knew I had no hope of remembering their names as they rattled them off in rapid fire.

But somehow, I remembered Meg.

It didn’t take long in the weeks that followed to realize that Meg and I were kindred spirits. I joined that freshman Bible study, threw myself into the Catholic community that had brought us together, and soon Meg and I began to be mistaken for each other at least weekly, which I considered one of the highest compliments I’d ever gotten—and still do. (To make matters worse, we decided to dress as each other the following Halloween. I suppose we didn’t mind perpetuating the confusion.) We shared classes as fellow English majors, enjoyed study sessions and sleepovers and weekend getaways, and reveled in the joy of our blossoming friendship. She braved at least three modes of transportation to come visit me in England from where she was studying abroad in Ireland the same semester, and we shared a room in a little green house the following year.

After graduating, Meg and I both became missionaries and continued our happy twindom just a state apart. A serious dating relationship later brought her to the other side of the country, but still we remained as close as ever, the distance and time difference no match for the years of friendship we had under our belts. She showed me the greatest love and support as I discerned entering the convent and continued to send me frequent letters with updates throughout those two years, even when I couldn’t respond anymore. She just kept loving me.

And she just kept loving me at my poorest. She rushed to my side when my dad died, comforted and cried with me, shouldered the weight of my grief and made it easier to bear. She rejoiced with me in my newfound post-convent freedom and welcomed me back with open arms, yet still with the utmost gentleness and patience as I navigated the overwhelming process of rejoining the world. She shared with me her own burdens as she suffered through a difficult diagnosis for her unborn baby and the challenging pregnancy that ensued.

Last weekend, my husband and I drove the four hours across Pennsylvania to visit Meg and her husband and their darling son, now three years old. I was struck with awe as I saw our growing bumps side by side, tracing the wholly unexpected twists and turns that God has led us both through since our providential basement meeting 14 years ago. We returned to that very spot for Sunday Mass, sitting in pews where we had prayed together many times, this time with husbands and a toddler and babies on the way.

Years before, after she made the move across the country to discern marriage with her now husband, we found ourselves in Denver for a work trip, delighted to reunite after many months apart. I’ll never forget sitting with her on a bench in the woods, hearing of her growing love for this man who had captured her heart. I was struck with the profound sense that we were having a visitation moment of sorts, her bringing to me this growing new life inside her—not in the form of a child, but a new creation nonetheless, a joyous union of two hearts and minds looking toward a future together. Something inside me leapt for joy, overcome with thanksgiving for God’s goodness and for this great blessing He had brought to my beloved friend.

And we had another visitation moment last weekend, mirroring even more closely Mary’s journey to and reunion with her dear cousin. I traveled (if not in haste, at least eagerly) the 200 miles to be by Meg’s side, and it was a weekend replete with God’s grace. My visit was far less generous (and long) than Our Lady’s, yet the glimmer of its parallel to that anointed trip filled me with gratitude. Who am I that God has blessed me so? How could it be that His plans have led to such a glorious outcome? How can I keep from rejoicing at these extravagant gifts—this friendship that fills my heart, the marriage that I dreamed of, the miracle of a baby growing in my womb? I was, and I am, overcome.

And I can’t stop thinking back to something a missionary friend of ours said long ago: Your friendship is proof that God exists.

Proof of God’s extravagance, His thoughtfulness, His careful design and intimate knowledge of our hearts’ greatest longings. Proof of His humor, His delight in His creation, His perfect providence that works all things for good for those who love Him.

Proof that nothing is impossible for God.