In just the past few weeks, I’ve had several experiences that defy explanation—at least the kind of explanation offered by traditional physics. Only metaphysics or the strange world of quantum possibility can even begin to account for them. These aren’t new to me; since my son passed away a decade ago, I’ve had encounters that stretched the boundaries of what I thought possible. Still, the frequency and clarity of these recent events have left me both grounded and in awe. The very idea that something physical can dematerialize before our eyes, only to reappear later in another place, continues to amaze me. It reminds me of Star Trek—“Beam me up, Scotty!”—though I’ve never even considered myself a Star Trek fan.
One evening, not long after finishing a meditation, my nearly twenty-year-old son came to sit with me in my room. He looked pale and worn down, his voice scratchy from a sore throat, his body heavy with fever. We chatted for a few minutes—just the kind of everyday talk that feels ordinary but comforting—before I got ready to leave. By then, he was too exhausted to move, so he simply crashed, curled onto my bed, and drifted quickly into sleep.
A little while later, I peeked in to check on him. He had fallen deeper into sleep, sprawled face-first across the blankets, his glasses still crooked on his face. I winced at the sight—delicate frames pressed into the mattress, just waiting to be bent out of shape. With as much gentleness as I could manage, I slid them off and placed them carefully on the bedside table where he could easily find them when he woke. Then I tiptoed out again, leaving him to rest.
An hour or so later, he wandered into the kitchen, still bleary-eyed and coughing, asking for something to soothe his throat. I made him tea with honey, and as he cradled the mug, he suddenly asked,
“Where are my glasses?”
“On the bedside table,” I said without hesitation, and together we walked back to my room. But when I gestured to the table, it was empty. I blinked, confused. “I swear to God, they were right here. I took them off your face myself so they wouldn’t get mangled.” We both began to search—the surface of the table, the floor underneath, even the small spaces behind it. Nothing. The glasses were simply gone.
This wasn’t the first time I had seen something like this, so instead of panicking, I did what I’ve learned to do: I reached out inwardly to my spirit guides. Quietly, in thought, I asked them if they had taken the glasses. The response was immediate and unmistakable: “Yes.” Calmly, I asked when he might get them back. Their answer was gentle and steady: “Be patient. He’ll get them back.”
Later that day, I returned to his room to ask him something—though what I wanted, I no longer remember. What I do remember is the shock of seeing him bent over his desk, studying, with his glasses perched squarely on his face.
“Hey! You have your glasses on!” I blurted out, the words tumbling out louder than I meant. “Where did you find them?”
He looked up, almost puzzled by my surprise. “On my desk,” he said simply, as if they had been there all along.
These unusual events began years ago, not long after my other son—his brother—died. He was only ten at the time, young enough to still believe in mystery but old enough to feel loss deeply. At first, I kept my experiences quiet, unsure how to explain what I was seeing and feeling. But eventually, when he was closer to twelve, I began to share them with him. By then, I had accepted these miracles as part of my reality, and to my relief, he listened with an open heart. He accepted what I told him, not with skepticism, but with the trust only a child can give.
Of course, adolescence came, and with it the sharp edge of doubt. He grew skeptical, even dismissive, rolling his eyes at the very mention of the spirit world. He denied our connection to his brother, Shawheen, and rejected every form of religion or spirituality as if distancing himself from belief would make him stronger. It hurt to see him close that door, but I also knew it was part of his journey. Questioning, denying, pushing back—it was all part of growing up.
Yet despite his resistance, over the years, he has witnessed too much to ignore. He has been beside me when I asked the skies to hold back the rain, and watched clouds part so we could finish a hike in December without getting soaked. He has seen objects disappear only to return in places that made no logical sense, sometimes even in spots that seemed better suited than where they began. Slowly, almost reluctantly, he is beginning to admit that there is more to this world than what science alone can measure. He is opening up to the idea of other dimensions, other possibilities. And as his heart softens to this truth, I hope yours might as well.