I do not recall any significant coincidences in my life.
Boring, I suppose.
I don't know why I have had so many. As I think I already mentioned, I once read that,
A coincidence is Gods way of remaining anonymous. I like this idea. In any event, they are truly a delight to experience. They are divine treatsspiritual magic performed by the greatest magician of them all: God. No two tastes alike, and they are spontaneously full of humor and wonder. But above all, at least from my perspective, a coincidence is a blessing. They are an added surprise in my stocking. I am truly grateful.
Here is one that took place in 1973 in Southern California:
I wanted to take my wife, Patty, on a trip to the beach. We were living near Lucerne Valley, California, overlooking the Mojave Desert. The small mountain cabin we were staying in was nestled under a beautiful pine tree and it was so refreshing to wake up to the sweet desert air and the sounds of chirping birds. We were living there, helping my sister and her husband, Charles Berner, build a spiritual retreat for members of the Institute of Ability.
At the time things were at a lull, so I thought this would be a good excuse to get away for the day, seeing how she had been raised in Colorado and had never seen the ocean. At the end of our outing, preparing to drive back to the desert, I noticed that the gas tank on my truck was about empty. Not being particularly choosy I simply pulled into the nearest station along the highway to fill up. As soon as I stepped to the pavement, out of the blue, a young man came running over to me and wanted to know if I was from Colorado. He must have recognized my license plates.
I told him yes, that we had most recently come from Paonia, Colorado, (pop. 1200) and that we were now living in the desert near Lucerne Valley.
Immediately he lit up like a Christmas tree, declaring that he, too, was from Paonia. Both of us being a little dumbfounded by this unusual coincidence, continued to talk. I told him that a few months back my wife and I had been in Paonia, visiting a good friend of ours, Pat Starrhelping her with some of her heavier chores. Again he lit up, declaring that he and Pat were also good friends.
This was all very strange, meeting this wandering soul, at this particular spot, out of all the millions of people in California. The odds of us meeting at all were incalculable. In addition, if I had stopped at a different gas station or had pulled in five minutes earlier (or five minutes later), chances are we would have never met. But this wasnt a miracle, or anything like thator was it?
I also told him that while working on Pats farm I had repaired the leaky roof on her root cellar. The young man then proceeded to tell me that he was the person who had originally dug Pats root cellar, years ago. After I filled my gas tank and said goodbye, I drove off, trying to explain to my wife what had just happened.