12 Security Guards and One Miracle

“Excuse me, sir.”

Tight smile, cropped hair—his neck straining the white of his collar as he leans into the row.

Even with the tie, he carries the coiled calm of a soldier.

“Would you be willing to step out and speak with us for a moment?”

His breath smells faintly of mint and danger.

Two other men, both larger, stand a row below—eyes trained, unblinking.

It’s Sunday morning, 10:15. The Tabernacle Choir at Temple Square—what many still remember as the Mormon Tabernacle Choir—sings:

“I will go where you want me to go, Dear Lord.”

The lyric lands large. Perfect. Eerie.

I almost laugh.

“I will say what you want me to say, Dear Lord.”

“Sure.”

I unfold my legs from lotus.

As I rise, realization rises with me — this moment didn’t begin here.

Two weeks earlier on Martha’s Vineyard, the invitation arrived.

My intuitive answer was already yes.

A reason followed: just being in the room with that massive organ would be blessing enough on its own.

I had seen and felt it through video.

I didn’t know how potent that summons would be.

“I will be who you want me to be, Dear Lord.”

I slide on my shoes. Fear hums at the edge of my calm.

My right heel catches.

Pause. Breathe.

No need to hurry; they can wait.

We are at the bottom of the balcony, hanging—floating—in space, with an unobstructed view of the choir:

women in cerulean gowns on the left, men on the right, teal ties rising like exclamation points from their chests.

Behind us, hundreds of velvet seats hold the hearts of Saints, and countless watchful eyes fix now on my shaved head.

I sling my bag over my shoulder; the movement tugs the symmetry from my navy-and-indigo shawl—pure Peruvian alpaca from the trip my daughter and I took three years ago.

I want to right it — to show its beauty.

I’m wearing my Sunday Best, though not the usual LDS garb.

I let it stay discombobulated and choose motion instead — the long ascent.

They’re waiting.

I walk behind the one; the other two fall in behind me.

My heart rate rises, and it’s not just from the steps.

This is the miracle I called for.

The unseen hand of God.

This is persecution.

It’s also annoying.

Part of me wants to glance side to side; surely some Saints see a dangerous criminal being removed — someone who doesn’t belong.

I want to meet their gaze defiantly.

After all, I was invited. I am a member.

In my bag, beside my Hawaii driver’s license, lies my temple recommend—a silent reminder.

More importantly, God had said to me:

Come closer to me, my son.

I also desire to meet the stares of fear with loving understanding, with the peace that might melt and soften and soothe.

Yet the aisle is narrow.

The stairs steep.

Safety dictates; eyes down.

Stumbling would make this worse.

At the top, he waits.

Beside him, I realize that we’re the same height.

He gestures to his left.

“Let’s step out into the hall.”

As eager as I am to dispel their concerns, I don’t want this to end—

or even deescalate.

Part of me wants to go back to my seat.

And yet…

I tingle with the certainty that this is the miracle I called for.

Only I know the prayer that set it in motion — the story embedded in this mystery.

It’s the crest of a long unravelling.

I am less than a week from the end of this five-month journey—part pilgrimage, part sabbatical, part ritual.

I’d given up my home and possessions on Maui, where I’d lived the past eight years.

My priority had been caring for my daughter as she traversed her last years of childhood — ten through eighteen.

Just before her eighteenth birthday, as we were talking about what came next, she said:

“Papa, no offense, but I don’t want to live with you anymore.”

She smiled. I laughed.

My desire to keep us under one roof was eclipsed by love —

for her, for the confidence she carried.

A few days later, Spirit directed me clearly:

“You are to insert a buffer between what has been and your next chapter.

Go to Martha’s Vineyard again.

Commemorate the thirtieth anniversary of the moment I shook you awake to Me.

Use this time to write your next book.

Raise the $45,000 to finally hire your mentor.”

Hinduism would call that previous chapter the householder phase of life.

The morning my daughter drove me to the Maui airport, I sold my car and shaved my head.

As impractical as it was to give away my prized possessions, I trusted the truth: the more I released, the greater the velocity of my destiny.

And now that current carried me straight into this hallway.

Moments ago it bustled with the excitement of Saints.

Now it echoes, eerily silent.

The brightness blinds — a stark contrast to the dim auditorium, whose doors now close softly behind us.

He faces me.

“My name is Nate Greer, head of security.”

My hand meets his.

“Daniel Aaron.”

“I understand the metal detector went off when you came in this morning?”

Behind him, wisps of white clouds wrap the towering temple.

The gray of its granite glows against the sky, and the black bars of construction scaffolding imprison it in earthliness.

“Yes.”

Of course I knew what he was really asking—

whether I was a threat, whether I belonged—

at least on the surface.

“And… there was something about a drink?”

He shaped a bottle with his hands.

“Yes. Would you like me to explain?”

“I would.”

He glances down the hall; the escalator’s faint clicking hum drifts back to us.

“And we’re going to need you to go back through the metal detector—”

His lips — and the soft white-pink skin around them — contract like an aperture, a flicker of apology.

“So let’s talk as we walk.”

We move, and I start telling him what I think he wants to hear.

I don’t tell him about the miracle.

I’d planned to wire my mentor the $45,000 weeks earlier, but the funds hadn’t materialized.

The plan was to go to his Phoenix office directly after Salt Lake City for my first coaching session.

That morning I’d asked — of God, of myself — whether to abandon the plan or create the money now.

One new private client would be well over the amount I needed.

However, I was not here at the conference to create a client. I was here to commune—with Saints and with Spirit.

And yet, anything is possible. The response to my own question was clear and immediate: we do not abandon the plan; we do create the money.

My mind screamed back: How is that possible? I don’t see a way.

Shhhh.

What is not clear: how it’s going to come about.

What is: being removed from the conference must be part of it.

I don’t say any of that to Nate. That’s not what he’s concerned about.

“The metal detector went off because of my phone charger.”

“Okay… and what was it about the drink?”

“Yeah, I thought a glass jar was fine — just not metal.”

“No, only empty containers are allowed.”

I shrug. Obviously I know that now.

We stand side by side on the same corrugated step, our eyes level as the escalator carries us down.

“Where are you from?”

He’s changed gears — friendly now, filling the silence.

That question.

I smile inwardly, remembering a conversation with my coach the day before. I’d been seeking a better response — one that honored both the geography of my travels and the deeper spiritual reality of my life.

I’d been on Martha’s Vineyard for four months, then a few weeks traveling. Next was my mentor in Mesa, Arizona. After that, Maui again—I’d committed to care for a friend’s place there for two months. Beyond that, nothing was known.

So where am I from — really?

That question had been chasing me for months.

A few days after my daughter told me she was ready to live on her own, I told a friend I was moving into the empty-nest phase of life.

I didn’t like how it felt in my mouth, so I started telling people I was entering a season of soaring.

God made it clear that this season would require agility and flexibility.

Some commitments remain — to my mission of creating a world of freedom, love, and vibrancy — and to my clients.

Now, though, geographic commitments are brief.

No leases. No mortgages.

Given the blossoming Christ energy rising in my life lately, my coach suggested:

“You could say what Jesus did: ‘The son of man has no place to lay his head.’”

I remember that now and smile — fully aware Nate might not appreciate it.

“Or… the simplest: ‘I am at home wherever I am.’”

This is my first chance to respond to ‘Where are you from?’ since that conversation.

I look him in the eye and smile.

“I am at home wherever I am.”

My right hand automatically goes to my heart.

A beat passes — a tiny opening.

“Well, you look like you’re well taken care of.”

I receive his words first as a compliment and smile at the irony. I care for myself better than anyone I know. I think of my cacao superfood smoothie that had caused such scandal at the security table this morning; it contains more nutrition than most people get in a week.

I’d woken at 4 a.m. — time enough to journal, speak my Supreme Self Manifesto, and practice yoga before Uber brought me to the conference.

I turn to him again. “I am well taken care of— and I’m curious what prompted you to say that.”

I still hadn’t gotten it.

He studies me, eyes lingering on the fresh shave of my head.

The conversation had drifted from spirit to surface.

His next words made that clear.

“You’re well groomed.”

Then his gaze travels downward, clinical and curious.

“Your clothes are clean… and you don’t smell.”

He half-laughs, half-checks with a mock-sniff.

“At least not that I can detect.”

And then I realize — he thinks I’m homeless.

“No.”

I shake my head.

“Not like that. I’m not homeless.”

Inwardly I cringe; what I just said isn’t even linguistically accurate.

I do not own or rent a home; I am homeless—intentionally.

Later that day, I’d check into a new Airbnb.

He grins, unconvinced.

Okay… where did you sleep last night, then?

His question is a test.

“At my friend’s house in Orem.”

My lips tighten as soon as they close.

That it’s a luxury house, that my friend is wealthy — none of that matters.

He hadn’t even taken in my answer.

Suddenly I’m angry at myself—I’ve fallen into the trap he set.

I’m pissed—at his gibe—and more at myself for letting it rankle me.

I do not want to lose the love that’s been so full in my heart all day.

We step onto solid ground, turn a corner, and descend on the next escalator.

My own tension bothers me—

“Look.”

I shake my palm to soften the clench in my shoulder.

“I know you’re just doing your job. Security is important.”

“It is.” He nods.

I think of the assassination of Charlie Kirk last week, and the LDS church in Michigan that was shot up.

Finally, we reach the ground floor and move toward the main entrance.

We pass a fifteen-foot-high image of Jesus, the white stone luminescent, his outstretched hands alive, inviting.

‘Come unto me,’ carved so deeply into the base a finger could sink in.

Relief rises in me; the rancor drains away.

Elder Holland’s deep rasp rolls through the hallway speakers:

“…all of this the sightless man obediently did, and came forth seeing…”

He’s quoting scripture — the healing of the blind man at the pool of Siloam.

The ground floor widens before us, broader than the upstairs hall.

I glance back — following us are eleven more men, each with wires in their ears and guns at their hips.

All this for me?

How odd: me — a man who has never been in a fist fight.

Not as a boy.

Not in years of martial arts.

Do I really seem so dangerous?

I walk through the metal detector again.

No sound.

The phone charger — again — the only physical thing that draws attention.

They photograph me, then my driver’s license.

Finally, I raise my eyebrows at Nate.

“Are we done?”

“We are.”

He smiles, a touch too self-satisfied. “What would you like to do now?”

I furrow my brow.

He continues, “Do you want to go back in and enjoy the conference?”

“As opposed to what?”

“As opposed to leaving?”

Again, peace slips.

My puzzlement sharpens into a peppery annoyance.

A few days ago a friend drove me to the ferry terminal on Martha’s Vineyard.

A ferry carried me across the Vineyard Sound.

A bus brought me to Logan Airport in Boston.

Then a flight to Chicago.

Then another to Salt Lake City.

A little over a year ago I followed God’s prompting, was baptized, and joined this church.

I came a long way — why would I leave?

“Nate, look, this is not required…”

I take a breath, steadying myself, ensuring my request isn’t a demand.

“…and it would be nice if you offered me an apology.”

Inside his head, he shuffles from one foot to the other.

He looks back at me.

“You said yourself we’re just doing our job. That security is important.”

“Yes. I did. It is.”

Another breath. I level my testiness.

“And for the last half hour, a whole bunch of you have treated me as if I’d done something wrong.”

His team leans in, listening.

“…so while not necessary, an apology would be kind.”

Now the foot-shuffling turns to hand-wringing.

His face reddens.

“We didn’t mean to offend you.”

I’m not offended.

That’s not an apology.

And still — it’s the best he can do.

“Thank you for your kindness.”

I turn and begin the long walk back to my seat.

I don’t look back now.

I know who I am.

Elder Holland’s voice rumbles through the hall:

“What if the answers to our prayers come in convoluted ways?”

I want to hear the rest of his talk, yet I don’t hurry.

I have passed a test—if not quite aced it.

I wonder:

How is this experience an answer to my prayers?

How does this create the miracle I called for?

A few steps further and walking is working the charge out of my system.

Striding across marble, alone in the hall’s spotless purity, I remember:

On the escalator down, Nate had asked if I had a ticket to the conference. I did.

As much as I wanted to tell someone how cleverly I’d gotten that ticket at 9 a.m., this time I managed prudence and curbed my tongue. He was not likely to appreciate the story or its layers.

Without saying it outright, he was asking if I belonged — a theme threading through the day. Who decides it? Who truly issues the ticket to enter?

The first time I ever felt like I belonged was in the parking lot before my first Grateful Dead concert.

Marijuana, patchouli, and the skillet-scent of grilled cheese drifted through the air.

Tie-dye whirled.

A Deadhead in full Uncle Sam regalia stomped past.

And there I stood — my belly tight with the ache of a lifetime of not fitting in, yet softening into a sense of home among the most diverse misfits I had ever seen.

The next week I dropped pre-law and declared a double major in Philosophy/Religion and English.

Every concert included at least a few Heads at the gate with wide eyes and an upward-pointing index finger.

By sign or half-whispered plea, they parroted the famous lyric: “I need a miracle…”

It meant they had no ticket and no money — only longing.

And more often than not, a stranger handed them their hope.

What if miracles come in convoluted ways?

LDS conference tickets have no financial cost.

They’re distributed to members worldwide, each region receiving an allotment.

If someone is willing to travel to Salt Lake City, chances are high they can get a ticket to at least one of the five sessions.

My mentor told me how he and his wife had brought a new member to the previous conference and—unusually—they had received tickets to every session.

As in many faiths, favor often leans toward the newest to the fold.

I could have watched the Sunday morning session via livestream from my friend’s sofa and saved the $75 ride.

I could have watched on the big screen with other Saints across the street in the Tabernacle, where the conferences used to be held.

When they told me I couldn’t enter with my smoothie, my first impulse was to go to the Tabernacle. That drink was my food for the whole day.

Tony Robbins used to say,

“Proximity is power.”

After my first endowment rituals in the LDS temple just weeks earlier, I’d described it as a vibrational adjustment.

So I sacrificed the smoothie and fasted for the day in order to attend the Sunday morning session in person—

in the room where it happens.

Just as I complete the long walk back to the tall doors of Balcony Entrance, I reach for the golden handle.

The door whispers welcome on its well-oiled swivel—

when behind me I hear an out-of-breath,

“Sir, hold on. Sorry to bother you again…”

Turning, I see a guard, one I hadn’t seen before — young, with dark wavy hair, jogging up.

What now?

“We were thinking it might be better if you didn’t go back to your same seat.”

I flash on arriving an hour early that morning so I could sit as close to the front as possible.

I think of that unobstructed view to the organ, the choir, the leaders I’d been taking in only a half hour earlier.

“Why?”

“We were thinking you might not be comfortable there now.”

“That I might not be comfortable?”

“Yes.”

I pause — more skeptical now, more guarded, the sheen of the Saints slightly sullied — trying to gauge whether his words are sincere, whether this is really what’s going on.

I smile, concluding that his motive really is for my benefit now.

“Thank you.”

I breathe, considering.

“Well, unless you’ve got a better seat for me…”

I chuckle. “I’ll go back to the same one I was in before.”

I tap my fist once against my chest.

“And if I have any discomfort, that’s mine to work with.”

Back in my original seat, I fold my legs back into lotus.

The lotus blooms from mud — and as I settle, something in me rises.

A current pulls me upstream toward those who were ridiculed, reviled, or worse.

I think of David Goggins, listening on repeat to recordings of people viciously criticizing him—alchemizing their ferocity into fuel, criticism into confidence.

Then my hero Martin Luther King Jr. steps forward in my mind — the man who knew he would be assassinated for speaking against poverty, hatred, and violence… and spoke anyway.

And then, I go further back, to the reason for this conference:

Jesus.

Rebel.

Signs, wonders, and miracles.

So many said he didn’t belong.

And yet — I’ve often wondered why he kept his true identity quiet at first.

When I ask people, the most common response is “because the world wasn’t ready.”

That never made sense to me. The world is still not ready for living love and forgiveness.

I believe he was still growing into the ability to stand as love in the face of such misunderstanding, attack, and hate.

Twenty thousand souls listen closely now as the talk turns to refinement.

As the morning session streams onward, I feel as if I’ve just come through rapids.

Yet I’m not resting on the riverbank.

Something moves through this place, through me — smoother now, yet I’m still bobbing in white water.

A man at the pulpit is explaining the word prove.

“To prove something is not simply to test it. It is to increase its strength.

To prove a piece of steel is to place it under strain.

Heat, weight, and pressure are added until its true nature is enhanced and revealed.”

I think again of the earlier reminder: sometimes our prayers are answered in convoluted ways.

I could not have created the sequence of events this morning had I tried.

I sat in the middle of this great sphere of spiritual energy, as if suspended in the air—the vibratory center of twenty thousand souls devoted to the Prince of Peace.

And then I was chosen, as if I needed to prove something.

As if I were a danger.

I wonder: to whom was I proving anything?

The flow of the day, the tempering of my sense of belonging—

all orchestrated by the same unseen hand that gives life, makes miracles.

My mind begs for relief—how does this convoluted morning create the miracle I commanded?

Then I see.

Magic is only magic until we recognize the method behind it.

The how is not my concern.

That’s it. That’s all I need to know of the method.

I command.

We create.

When the woman was healed simply by touching Jesus’s clothing, he asked, “What healed her?”

Faith.

It wasn’t the garment.

It was her certainty.

To the rational mind, faith is folly.

In 1972 Stevie Wonder sang: “When you believe in things that you don’t understand, then you suffer. Superstition ain’t the way.”

He was half right.

Superstition crouches under a God of fear and punishment.

That ain’t the way.

Yet to believe in things you don’t fully understand:

Flip the switch, see the light—electrical knowledge not needed.

The warmth of the sun—stellar fusion’s mechanics not required.

Love—no theory can explain it.

That is the great way.

He was blind when he wrote Superstition.

Maybe blindness taught him what so many forget:

sight is not the source of vision.

He grew to see more and more.

Some say his 1976 album Songs in the Key of Life is the best album ever.

It starts with Love’s In Need of Love

and then goes to Have a Talk With God.

Part of me wants meaning — the storyline, the reason, the resolution.

My ego wants the apology.

My mind wants a map.

Yet faith and certainty need not know the how.

They crave not the cause.

And like them, I can smile and sparkle in the strangeness.

After all, curiosity skilled the cat.

The man offering the benediction prays that we will become better peacekeepers.

The choir moves into their final hymn.

Amazing grace, how sweet the sound.

I wonder about the moment ahead — when I’ll finally look into the eyes that witnessed my removal.

I once was lost, but now I am found.

Was blind, but now I see.

Slowly the Saints stir. Rising, we begin to flow back into the outer world.

I stay seated. Beneath mind and ego, the deeper truth waits.

Rumi knew: there is a field beyond right and wrong.

And Amazing Grace whispers: there is also a path through them.

Through many toils, snares and dangers I have already come.

Another was already waiting for me — just one sunrise away.

I stand.

I turn.

Ready to see.

His grace brought me safe thus far.

I’m at the bottom of the balcony.

Those behind me will file out before I ever meet their eyes.

So I wait.

I will be last.

This season of soaring continues.

The miracle is made.

Life unfolds in majesty and mystery.

My heart is full.

And grace will lead me home.

Soon I will be in Mesa — at home wherever I am.

It is there the miracle will reveal itself: the money was never the point, only the path.

° I wrote this story for the miracle it carried; and also for the mirror it might offer.

What did it reflect back to you?