When the voice spoke to me--at precisely 2 a.m. on December 26, 1987--I was barely aware of my inner turmoil, had forgotten my plea for divine intervention and upon its arrival did not believe it was real. By then a free-lance journalist, director of a peace group and single mother of two strong-willed daughters, I was a busy, Type A personality and liked to be that way.

I was proud of how much I could handle all at once, because it proved how capable and competent I was, and this night was no exception. Despite the late hour and holiday exhaustion, I was wide awake and elated about a personality profile I'd just written. It was on a social justice advocate who was making a difference in the world and why, and I knew that it would touch the hearts of readers.

I shut down my computer, lay back upon my bed to rest and thought about how beautifully the story had come together, almost as if it had written itself. Something indefinable crossed my mind, and in that pleasant haze of quiet relaxation I picked up pen and paper, listened, and wrote down the words that came to me, hardly wondering why I felt the urge to do so or was doing it.

The writing began with a childlike whimper, "Nobody knows how much I hurt so deep inside," and then changed midstream to the kindly tone of an advisor. I was surprised by the inner lament, since I'd felt so good just before, and astonished by the insights in this brief paragraph. I'd been racking my brain for months, searching for ways to reach my runaway teenage daughter, but I was scared, worried and frustrated to the point of anger, and my ideas were none too loving. Yet here was some excellent guidance coming from who-knew-where!

I was awed by the sensible advice in this "writing," but mostly by its goodness, which went far beyond my own. It was as if a window had opened up and a breath of fresh, clean air had blown in. I hadn't realized that I'd been gasping for breath, but I had.

Where had the insights come from? I fell asleep with that question in mind and it persisted for years.

At four o'clock the next morning, I put the finishing touches on another story of human compassion and once again felt an urge to be still and listen. I sat on my bed, quieted my thoughts and recorded what I heard. This time, the message was longer and when the words stopped coming, I put down my pen and read, aghast, "The time has come, my child, for something strange that is within your grasp." The voice went on to speak of the "thought of man that in time there will be a Savior" and said that this time is upon us. There would be "weeping and gnashing of teeth" and upheaval of some kind, but I need not be afraid. I should think of the motions and wave-cycles of nature and go to Medjugorje to be "sanctified." This place, the message said, was "real like no other real thing on Earth" and the lessons I took from it would be a function of my own mind's greatness.

The writing was ridiculously Biblical and rubbed me all the wrong ways. I did not believe in the historical Jesus, much less his second coming, scoffed at the idea of earth changes, seriously doubted the existence of God and despised organized religion--all of which made the whole thing absurd to me.

I was disappointed, though, since the first night's advice had been so sensibly helpful and comforting. Now I could only conclude that my deceptive ego was trying to make me feel special, as if something divine were reaching out to me for some special purpose. I knew I couldn't trust myself, given the trail of broken marriages lying behind me and their damage to my daughters, but this was entirely new territory. I must be crazier than I'd thought!

Later on that day, I remembered a snatch of conversation about the Virgin Mary supposedly appearing to six children in a Yugoslav village. It would have been a fascinating story to cover, but was halfway around the world, so I'd forgotten about it. Recalling this brought the second message into serious question; I'd already known about this place. So by all rights, I should have walked away and not looked back.

Instead, I returned to the strange writing in the quiet of night and was intrigued by its kindly tone of voice. There was something vaguely familiar, extraordinary and wonderful in it. In spite of its egotistical claims, I felt as if it came from the depths of my being and was speaking utter truth, yet was not me.

Indeed, that was the only way I'd have paid any attention to it at all. What did I know? Every decision I'd made had proved to be wrong. Every time I trusted in something, it turned out to be different from what I judged it to be. There was absolutely no way that I could trust anything which came out of me.

But had it? I didn't know, so I studied it and a passage caught my eye:

I repeated this phrase to myself: "We cannot perceive more than we are." In this single sentence was a world of intriguing ideas. We cannot, of course, grasp more than we are prepared to comprehend, and that would depend on our knowledge and experience as well as our openness and receptivity to learning something new. Each person would bring a particular bias or perhaps a lack of it to Medjugorje and anyplace else, so that would be right: some people would scoff and others would be renewed by what might be found there.

More interesting was this: I had always searched for absolute truth, but this passage claimed that each person perceives differently and therefore has a truth that is different from everyone else's. This was an entirely new idea to me, as I'd always believed that any reasonable group of people, given the exact same information, would draw from it pretty much the same conclusions. The writing said no, and I knew instinctively that it was right. Essentially, it explained in very few words that the expansion of human consciousness depends upon one's ability and willingness to perceive what is not already known. I was very open-minded, so this felt like a challenge.

I wondered if other insights might be found in the writing, within a territory never before explored by me. I peered closer to see what else it might reveal.

The word "sanctified" sounded self-righteous and arrogant, but was it really? I leafed through the delicate pages of my grandfather's big, unabridged dictionary, my prized possession, and was surprised to find that the word meant only "purified." Certainly, I needed that. Who didn't?

What I did not need--and what really raised my hackles--was religious balderdash. I could ignore it, though, for the moment, because of the beauty in this archaic voice and the comfort and sense of peace that it evoked in me. So despite the religious content, I returned to pen and paper in the quiet hours between midnight and dawn to listen, record and read what I heard.