My understanding of theology is pretty simplistic: I believe in God, I believe that Jesus died for us, and I believe that the Holy Spirit is around to intercede on our behalf. See? That’s some “Jesus Loves Me” level stuff. I can’t quote you the Scripture to answer your big philosophical questions, and I’m not going to go toe-to-toe with anyone on Why I’m A Christian. Because “faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen,” and there’s no logic in that but I kind of think that’s the point. (Like I said, though: Simplistic Understanding, so I could be wrong about that.)

The Spiritual has been on my mind since Sunday, when our pastor started a series on the Holy Spirit’s presence. I’ve always had a hard time with the Holy Spirit. It’s the wording; “spirit” and “ghost” just sound so mystical and supernatural. Even so, if I were to try to carve out a slightly more concrete reason for my belief it would be that intervention. You might call it coincidence or happy accidents, but I believe there’s more to it than that. There are times when the Holy Spirit puts something or someone in your path right when you need it. It might be as simple as a friend calling right when you were thinking about her, or finding a 10-dollar bill on the ground on a day when you really needed a 10-dollar bill, or a guy with a guitar and a little time left on a parking meter. But sometimes it’s more elaborate than that.

In June 2004, Wilco released “A Ghost is Born.” There were songs on that album that spoke to me so directly that sometimes I still have a hard time listening to them. It isn’t an upbeat album — “I looked like someone I used to know” … “I will always die so you can remember me” … “I’m an ocean, an abyss in motion” — but I was especially broken by this:

Remember to remember me: Standing still in your past, floating fast like a hummingbird.

In June 2004, Rockford and I were expecting our first child. We were young, elated and naive. It was early summer, the birds were in full song, the sky was so vibrant and I never in a million years did I think we’d walk out of that doctor’s office without hearing a heartbeat. I was completely blindsided and crushed, and that sort of news shouldn’t be followed up with blue skies and birdsong.

It was the first time I truly understood wanting the clocks stopped and the stars put out.

We weren’t alone. People at our church prayed for us and visited and sent their condolences. Friends brought us fried chicken and didn’t ask us to talk. Rockford and I weren’t alone, but we weren’t all that together either. We cradled our anger and sadness and became a little more brittle every day.

I had an aversion to beautiful days for a long time.

I kept hauling that hurt around with me until one day when I was walking into work and a hummingbird darted in front of me. It stopped a few feet in front of my face. I froze, and it hovered there for a few seconds, and when it sped away the bitterness started to crack. I wasn’t whole yet, but I could see the sun again, and I wasn’t alone. I would be alright, and I wasn’t alone.