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How I Found the Urantia Book—LAWRENCE GWYNN (1978) 

I WAS STANDING on the pier on St. Simons Island off the coast of Georgia, gazing at the lights dancing on the choppy ocean waters. I was alone and depressed—no, desperate. I was broke mentally and financially, my brain bleeding from self-castigation. I had searched for many years through the mystic strains of every major religion, searching—for what?

Nothing made sense. I had spent sixteen years as a journalist, raising two daughters together with my wife. That was now shattered. After twenty years of marriage I was divorced and separated from my family. I had no job and no prospects. I had to begin all over again. I didn’t think I could do it. At 42, my life was without worth.

The lights danced. Then the lights moved towards me. Through teary eyes I watched as the lights came before me. Then the lights moved into me. Yep. Right inside. I was enthralled. All my molecules were rearranged. That night, standing in the mist at the end of the pier, what looked like an upright white halo the size of a man appeared in front of me out over the water. An undeniable thought surged through me: “This is a promise that in time all will become clear. You do not need to understand it all at once.”

Leaving the pier, I stopped at a Kentucky Fried Chicken place on the mainland to dodge the rain. Looking out from the portico towards the island, I saw a rainbow begin to form, framing the island. Then a double rainbow. Then large green and red bands between the rainbows. Then . . . edges of the rainbow on the right began creeping down through the trees, the telephone lines, the asphalt street. I noted the left edge was also moving down, until they linked and formed a perfect circle at my feet. I was transfixed. My thought was: “Oh, so that’s where the pot of gold is!”

These phenomena can be explained scientifically. What was remarkable was their timing and the feelings I attached to them.

The next morning I found work on the back deck of a wooden shrimp boat that was leaving for the Tortugas, off Key West. That first night on the boat, far off the coast in the Gulf, I was trying to get used to the rigors of wet, rock ‘n’ roll, physically dangerous work. In the galley, an old high-spirited guy with strange eyes and a thick Swedish accent pulled a big blue book out of his duffel bag. I glanced over his shoulder, reached over and took the book. He smiled at me curiously, as if he knew something I didn’t. I looked at the titles. He never got the book back. I was home.

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