Last month, I had an essay published at Fathom Magazine for their “Transcendence” issue. It tells the story of an even that I initially thought was a coincidence, then came to conclude was a miracle. Here is how it begins:

I decided, too late, that I wanted to go home. It was a cool fall Saturday night in Budapest, where my post-college aimlessness had landed me a job teaching high school English. I lived in an outlying district at the far southern terminus of a metro line, filled with massive postwar concrete apartment buildings lined up one after the other like weary gray dominoes. On this night, though, I was in the bustle and sparkle of the city center with friends. The group had just decided to head up to Buda Castle to enjoy its hilltop views of the Danube and flat Pest, spreading out across the river to the horizon.

But waiting while some in the group purchased wine and chocolate to accompany the views, I decided I wasn’t up for another change in location before making the forty-five-minute trek to my concrete home. Taking my leave and then riding the escalator underground to board the metro, I chastised myself for my slowness. A few minutes before, a friend who taught at my school and lived close to me had made the same decision. Now, having missed the chance to have company on the journey, I just had my own thoughts.

You can read the rest of it here!

• Autobiography