Into The Mystic

An invitation into the first part of this seeker’s story of doubt, despair, discovery — and finding the Love beyond all loves

Dear friends

I have struggled with writing many of the posts I have shared here, wondering if I would ever arrive at the point I believed I was meant to find and bring into the open. Today’s post has been the most difficult of all — I have struggled with it for weeks now — though not for the same reason.

This time, I am not struggling to find the point. I know it, and know it well. I have known it for over twenty years.

Throughout those years I have carried this story, entrusted to me for the time now unfolding. I knew that when the time came, it would help keep us steady and prepare the ground for what must follow, and so I have kept it close, endeavouring to patiently wait.

Through those years, there have been several occasions when circumstances in the world have concerned me sufficiently to ask, “Now Lord? “ But each time the answer has been: Not yet— hold. Hold.

But now the time has come to share it, I have found myself facing a new kind of difficulty. Because although this story is mine and should be the simplest to tell, I have felt overwhelmed by the task. I wondered whether I could do justice to the truth within it. Whether I could shape my words wide enough to convey what it holds. And — most importantly — whether I could find the words to truly let its hope be felt. I have asked myself: what if I can’t express its lessons as they deserve?

I could see no possible outcome other than that I fall far short — I am not, in any way, equipped for this. And the age old question rose in me repeatedly: Who am I, Lord?

Who am I, indeed.

But today, I am striking out in faith — as ever, following the steps I am guided to take. Because last night, I laid it on the altar of my heart saying only “I can’t do it. Please do it through me.” Today I am reminded: I will not let you carry more than you can bear. Not the exact words of 1 Corinthians 10:13, I know, but the words that were given to me.

This is the story of my spiritual journey, of how it turned on its head my most fundamental beliefs. About God. About what Jesus came to teach us. And about the very nature of our existence, here on earth.

At its heart, this is a love story. Not love as we usually describe it — the meeting of one person with another, the weaving of lives together. This is the love of the seeker for the Beloved, and the staggering discovery of being met in return by an ever-present, all-encompassing love that holds, surrounds, and sustains. A love so vast and steady that all other loves we know feel like echoes of its source.

It is also a story of living under relentless stress, without the strength, resources or guidance to overcome it. And of how that all-encompassing love not only removed the strain, but transformed my life with astonishing and inexplicable events that unfolded in my favour.

We call these events “miracles” — extraordinary happenings that cannot be explained by natural or scientific laws. I’m called to share them as this story unfolds, because we are living through something larger than the crises we have faced before, and in such a time the reminder that miracles did not end in Christ’s day may be a lifeline for many of us.

I know that telling this may come at a cost to me — that my credibility, perhaps even my motives, could be questioned. If you find yourself doubting, please know that I understand. This is, in the truest sense, an incredible story. Parts of it are too improbable, too extraordinary to believe. And if you judge me for that, I will understand.

You already know that my own mind works on provable facts and science, so if I were reading this written by another, I might well judge it too. Yet this is also my undeniable experience — one I have spent the last twenty years applying my mind to, testing and seeking to understand. I write about it now because, at last, the pieces have come together.

Even so, I am braced for judgement to sting. But equally, I am held by the reminder: I will not let you carry more than you can bear.

---

I have been a spiritual seeker since a young age. I was born in Kenya to missionary parents, so God has always been front and centre in our lives.

One night after we had returned to Scotland, we drove past a sign that read, “Christ died for our sins.” When we got home, I asked my mum who Christ was, and why he had died. The next morning, I came down to breakfast and told her that I had gone under the covers and asked Jesus into my heart. I was four when I made that choice.

But that was only an outward sign of what was stirring on the inside. By “spiritual seeker,” I mean that I have yearned to know God for as long as I can remember. I can still picture myself at ten years old, sitting up in bed with my arms outstretched and tears streaming down my face, begging God to show his face to me. But as with so many seekers, there was only silence in return.

And just when they began to matter, the biblical promises I had been raised on began to fail me. At eleven I started menstruating, and the pain was so severe I thought I was dying. Each month thereafter I fainted and missed school from it, with painkillers doing nothing to touch the edges. No matter how I prayed, no matter how fervently I believed, the healing that came in Jesus’s time did not come to me.

I moved into my teenage years feeling like a fish out of water, unable to connect with the values of the world in which I lived, but finding little to root myself to beyond that. By fifteen I had become angry with God.

None of the things I had been taught from the Bible seemed true or reliable, and yet I was being asked to live by a set of beliefs and guidelines that were — frankly — unnatural. And the only time I would know if these choices had been worthwhile was after I was dead? Why would anyone make that choice when all the evidence pointed the other way?

I was fifteen! I wasn’t interested in the hereafter; I wanted to understand how to navigate the here and now.

I decided that the fundamental premise of Christianity — that Christ had died for my sins so that after I was dead, I could be reconciled to God — simply wasn’t worth the cost of living that life, when none of the other promises held up. In my eyes, Christianity was a hoax, a crutch to help weak people get through life, and I sure wasn’t going to fall for it, or waste my life living for fake promises.

And then came the kind of trials that would stretch me to my limits.

My degree course had a placement year, during which I managed to secure the best-paid job available. I decided I would use the income from that year to get a mortgage for a three-bedroom flat, in a somewhat run-down area where other students lived. My plan was to rent out two of the rooms to fellow students and use the income to support myself through the rest of my studies.

Except things did not work out that way. When it rained, there was water ingress through the roof into the two rooms at the front. I got a quote for remedial work, and was told the flat had dry rot. The rot was in the commonly owned roof trusses, had spread through my front wall and my neighbour’s, and into the flats below us. In order for remedial work in my flat to be guaranteed, every one of those owners had to agree to repair work in their own flats, and also to share the cost of repairing the common roof with the other four owners. My own repair work alone was going to cost more than £15,000, when I had paid just under £19,000 for the flat. None of us had the money.

With a leaking roof, I could not rent out the rooms, so I had no income to pay my mortgage, even as the mortgage rate climbed to almost 15%. And with dry rot declared, I could not sell the flat. My bank threatened to repossess the property, and at eighteen years old, I was facing bankruptcy.

I asked to meet with the bank manager, and told him I had a plan. At that time I was a student of land economics, with a year’s grounding in property law and management. I would take on the role of factor for the building, track down two absentee owners to secure their permission, and apply for grant aid for the work. I would sue my surveyor for negligence, and I would meet with my bank manager every six weeks to update him on progress. He agreed not to proceed with the repossession.

So I continued my studies with all of this running in the background — alongside period pain now so severe I often fainted with a bowel movement, and an unsteady relationship with a serious boyfriend.

Then things became more stressful still. One night two men — both junkies — kicked in the door to my flat. I was lying down after giving blood, but got up to see what had caused the noise. I had recently completed a course in self-defence, and when I took-in my situation I recalled its most basic teaching — to stay extremely calm.

The men could find no money, but I had recently bought a brand-new hi-fi on credit . I suggested they take that and sell it for cash. They discussed tying me up and putting a bag over my head, but I reasoned with them: the hi-fi was brand new, I still had the packaging, and I would be much more helpful packaging it up for them. That way they could be sure it was in the best condition and would get the maximum money for it.

But as I packaged, I watched and listened.

They took the hi-fi, warning me to stay away from the windows and my neighbours, threatening that if they saw me they would do me harm. I waited at the edge of the window until I saw them leave the stairwell. Then I ran to my downstairs neighbour to use her phone to call the police. I told them the names of the men, what they were wearing, and that they were planning to take a taxi — if the police sent a car out swiftly, the men could be apprehended. They were.

The police officer commented on how uncannily calm I was, especially for my age. I knew I had been fortunate not to be harmed, but the reality of the danger I had faced didn’t truly sink in until a couple of years later, when I was called to testify in court. By then I learned that the men, released on bail after my incident, had gone on to shoot the next person they held up.

Where was my family in all of this? Looking back, I’m not entirely sure. What I do know is that I went through these events largely on my own, without the kind of emotional support that might have made things easier. My parents lived about ninety minutes away, and their lives were full — caring for elderly relatives, serving the church, and, for my mum, travelling regularly in her new role as Scottish Secretary for an American missionary organisation in Africa.

They also hadn’t supported my purchase of the flat, and I remember my dry rot/ bankruptcy crisis being met with a “you made your bed, you lie in it” response. At the time, that hurt deeply, but later, I would hear it repeatedly within church culture.

I developed panic attacks and generalised anxiety, but on the surface I remained highly functioning.

I left college and found work in the investment sector, where I excelled, and after two years of evading bankruptcy, I was finally awarded a grant for the repair work on our flats. Once the work was complete I sold mine, repaid my mortgage arrears, and made a significant financial gain. In time the surveyor also settled, and I received additional compensation for their negligence.

Yet even with those outward reprieves, life felt precarious. My health was deteriorating, and not long after I was diagnosed with stage 4 endometriosis. Dense pelvic adhesions had caused my bladder, colon, and uterosacral ligaments to fuse together, creating the relentless pain I’d been experiencing and undermining my quality of life. Work demands were becoming overwhelming. My personal life had become unstable and unsafe. I felt myself beginning to topple, and knew I needed a change of scene.

I was offered a position in Hong Kong, but by then my dog Abbey had become my closest companion, and I knew that move was not for me.

Instead, Africa beckoned me home — specifically Zimbabwe. Why Zimbabwe? I can give you no logical reason. At the time I was offered my pick of offices in Kenya, Malawi, Zambia, and Botswana, but still I wanted Zimbabwe. I had never been. I had read little about it beyond Victoria Falls and David Livingstone. But my heart knew.

Looking back I believe it was always meant to be — I was being drawn to the place where I would meet God.

© 2025 Lori Corbet Mann

---

I thought I could unpack this whole story in a single post, but I find myself worn from reliving the experiences that led to this change in direction. I need a few days to adjust, before moving forward — and perhaps it is no bad thing to pause here, giving you time to sit with what I have shared so far. I will continue with my journey next Sunday, and I hope you’ll walk with me into what comes next. Meantime, we’ll carry on exploring political stress and burnout during the week.

I publish two newsletters here on Substack, with a chronic medical condition running in the background. So as much as I’d love to join every conversation, sometimes I need to guard my time and focus for writing. Please don’t let that hold you back from commenting — this space is here for readers to connect with one another as well as with the work! I’m deeply grateful for your presence, and for the conversations that carry on even when I can’t add my own voice.

And if you found this piece steadying, please feel free to share it. Meanwhile, I hope you’'ll enjoy Van Morrison singing “Into the Mystic”.