Bedtime Stories
Three stories about divine guidance, judgment and consciousness, and friendship and character
How Hannibal Lecter Saved My Life
Last night we had guests over and stayed up talking far later than planned. After they left, I turned on the television to unwind, and The Silence of the Lambs happened to be playing. It brought back a memory I rarely speak about.
Almost ten years ago, I returned from a holiday in Paris to Sydney after one of the greatest setbacks of my life. I stepped back into my work with young people in out-of-home care, many carrying complex trauma and challenging behaviours. The work was demanding and, at times, dangerous. At the same time, my personal life felt as though it were coming apart in quiet, persistent ways.
When things became especially heavy, my mind would drift back to Paris, most often to the Louvre, and to my favourite sculpture, the Nike of Samothrace. I have always loved that piece even more than the works of Camille Claudel. For me, it held something steady and elevating, a reminder that movement and victory can exist even after a fall.
A few days after my return, I was assigned a new client, a nineteen-year-old girl. The government risk assessment identified no concerns, so I attended alone.
The first time I entered, two black cats moved quietly through the rooms. The client was not home, although I had the key and was expected to wait. While standing there, I noticed a poster above the cats’ bowls. It was the Nike of Samothrace.
I felt goosebumps immediately.
Something in that space felt wrong in a way I could not logically explain. The client did not return, and I eventually left.
Later, I reviewed her file again. No drugs, no alcohol, no criminal record, which was unusual for many of my clients at the time, yet the unease stayed with me.
I returned three more times in the evenings. Each time she assured me over the phone that she would be there, and each time she did not appear. During every visit, I found myself staring at that poster, almost as if I were trying to let it pull me back to Paris, away from the heaviness of that apartment.
The day before the fourth visit, I left directly from home instead of the office. I turned on the television while getting ready, and The Silence of the Lambs was playing. The scene I caught was the one in which Hannibal Lecter kills the police officer and arranges the body in a pose reminiscent of the Nike of Samothrace.
A knot tightened in my stomach, but I still drove to the building.
I parked outside, yet the image from the movie would not leave my mind. A strong sense of danger settled over me. Then, very clearly, I heard an inner voice say, “Don’t go there.”
I obeyed.
I drove home and took the day off.
A day or two later, I saw my client’s face for the first time, not in person, but on the news. At the very time I had been sitting in my car, two men had been inside that apartment committing a violent crime. Had I gone upstairs, my face may have appeared in the news as well.
I have returned to that moment many times since with quiet gratitude and sadness. Divine guidance rarely arrives loudly. Sometimes it appears as a repeated symbol, a tightening in the body, or a simple, unmistakable knowing that asks us to pause.
What We Look For, We Find
The Creator has an amazing sense of humour.
There is a person I know who is deeply judgmental. Many times, I have heard him gossip about others, criticising and mocking them when they try to change their lives or create something meaningful. Anything that challenges his view of life is judged, dismissed, and rejected. He is also overly pedantic, constantly searching for flaws and focusing on insignificant details, as though they give him a sense of control.
One day, we had a guest from another agency join us for lunch, and he was there. The guest approached things in a very practical way, completely at odds with his values. As soon as she left, he began gossiping about her and making harsh judgments. I also knew he had spoken the same way about me.
I became curious and wanted to see whether my assumptions about his life were correct. I started getting to know him better, and eventually he revealed something I had only suspected. He was involved in a bizarre and illogical court process that was draining thousands of dollars and consuming a huge amount of his energy.
He told me that despite having a lawyer, the case consumed an enormous amount of his time and energy. Much of it revolved around paperwork, with the other side scrutinizing and challenging every small detail.
As he spoke, I felt sincere sorrow for him.
In that moment, I saw the Creator at work.
“For with what judgement you judge, you will be judged; and with what measure you measure, it will be measured to you.”
Reality operates through spiritual laws of cause and effect. When a person judges others harshly, they activate that same frequency of judgement in their own life. The energy we emit becomes the lens through which we experience reality.
Every moment offers a choice. We can act from mercy and compassion, or we can choose judgement, criticism, and humiliation. What we strengthen becomes what shows up in our own experience, and we often end up living inside the consciousness we repeatedly cultivate.
When we judge others, life may place us in environments where we feel judged or misunderstood. Our inner world may become harsher, and opportunities will arise that challenge us to develop empathy and restraint. Reality mirrors our energy back to us until awareness awakens.
In his case, judgment became literal. It unfolded before the court.
Not Depth of Conversation, but Depth of Character
Many times, I hear people who have undergone deep psychological and spiritual transformations say that they need people who can sit with them after everything they have been through and have conversations that go beyond gossip and shallow stories.
They often find that they have outgrown people from their past and do not want to return to old connections.
This is normal.
For people who have changed dramatically, the past often feels irrelevant. They do not maintain relationships out of nostalgia. Shared history alone is rarely enough reason to stay connected.
Those people often say they are looking for deep conversations, and they believe they are. But let’s not forget this: a person can discuss meaning, values, loss, vulnerabilities, spirituality, psychology, and philosophy and still be jealous, bitter, judgmental, emotionally immature, and dishonest. Another person may never talk about any of those things yet possess generosity, gratitude, humility, and joy. Most people eventually discover that the second person is the better friend.
Maybe that is because deep conversations are not the goal in themselves. More often, they are a byproduct of something deeper.
Deep conversations often emerge naturally from people with depth of character, but the reverse is not always true.
My friends do not need to be interested in spirituality or psychology the way I am, nor do they need to share every detail of their inner world or their past.
Give me people who are genuinely happy for other people’s successes. People who do not gossip. People who are secure enough not to compete or compare. People who respect boundaries. People who have an abundant mindset. People who are full of joy, genuinely enjoy their own lives, and are committed to growth. People I can laugh with and travel with.
Looking back, the people who have enriched my life the most were never those who could talk about profound topics. They were people whose character made deep conversations worth having.