By 
Laurie Collister, author of A Different Kind of Vow: Rewriting My Happily After
My spiritual journey began when I was ten years old. Every Sunday, my parents dropped off my brother, Peter, and me at an austere, white-steepled church on the banks of the Chagrin River, in our hometown of Gates Mills, Ohio. Mom and Dad believed that children should be exposed to religion, even if they themselves did not subscribe to it. In Sunday school, held in the church’s cold basement, I won a roll of Lifesavers for correctly reciting the chapters of the New Testament. But when I painted Jesus pea green on a church banner, my teacher reprimanded me. “Jesus isn’t green,” she explained, trying to hide her anger.
Peter, an altar boy at the 11 a.m. service, told me what the pastor wore under his ministerial robes. After each service, the reverend yanked his gown over his head to reveal bright white tennis shorts and polo shirt. Considering the minister’s pedestrian sermon and perfunctory handshakes with parishioners, Peter and I agreed that his afternoon tennis match, at the country club across the street, served as the real highlight of his Sunday.
My spiritual journey had gotten off to a slow start, to be sure. The first leg revealed more of the comical than the transcendent side of church. It gave no clue about how to connect with God.
In my twenties, I began experimenting with a different denomination every Sunday. One week, a pretty blonde charismatic led a congregation so large, she hosted Sunday morning services at a convention hall in downtown San Diego. The hall marquis read: Make a Touchdown for God. True to the sign, her sermon sounded like a locker-room pep talk prior to an NFL game. The choir sang, “Smile, smile, smile,” while a slideshow featured smiling faces. At the end of the service, we all held hands and wished our seat partners, “the best week of your life.” Video cameras whirled on all sides, capturing the sermon in case you wanted to buy a VHS tape in the lobby after the service.
When I hit thirty, I decided a Zen temple might suit me better. In a quieter venue, I stood a better chance of looking within. My girlfriend, Suzanne, and I arrived just as the Zen master hit the gong signaling the start of a two-hour meditation. We wore matching over-the-knee boots that had to be left at the door. As Suzanne loudly unzipped her right boot, I pressed my index finger to my lips. “Shh, Suzanne, come on!” But it was too late. The zipping echoed through the silent foyer. We fell to the floor in gales of giggles. The Zen master appeared, shoved us out the back door and, for good measure, threw our boots after us. We retrieved our boots scattered on the lawn and headed to our car in silence. We’d failed as Buddhist devotees before we’d even entered the temple chambers.
A more traditional denomination, like Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, I figured, might be more welcoming. But after the service, five ushers in black suits surrounded me and escorted me to the back office. “Who are you?” they demanded. I was obviously not a member of the fold. I suspected I had to be born into the church. I couldn’t just show up as a hopeful stranger.
After several more years of experimentation and a move to Los Angeles, I finally found the perfect place to worship. The church held its Sunday services in a tiny chapel on the banks of a stream. The international Hindu organization didn’t just talk about God, as many denominations did, it taught its members how to directly experience the calm and ecstasy of God’s presence, through such techniques as Kriya yoga.
But a new job at the organization’s headquarters took my spiritual development to a whole new level. As a writer in the public affairs department, rubbing elbows on a daily basis with Hindu nuns, I felt as though I’d fallen into this secret, privileged club. The monastics spent a considerable time “on the other side,” experiencing the love of God. As a result, their company felt like a contact high. I could breathe in their divine communion all day long. After work, I’d return home in an altered state, experiencing a centeredness, depth and calm ebullience I’d never felt before. For once, religion delivered what I’d always hoped it would – a visceral transcendence, which allowed me to love and be loved without impediment.
A little known tenet of Hinduism is its view of journaling as a powerful tool for sadhana (spiritual practice). Prominent Hindu teachers, such as Swami Sivanando and Paramahamsa Yogananda, highly recommend keeping a diary. They view a journal as “a silent master” that can be used to record spiritual insights, correct mistakes and accelerate spiritual growth.
Indeed, journaling became a significant element of my spiritual path. Especially helpful was rereading past journals to find “aha” moments and common themes. Through this “excavation,” I was able to clarify what the medical intuitive Carolyn Myss describes as one’s “sacred contract,” the reason I was born. Identifying and following God’s will became the next logical step in my spiritual journey. This “vow” – how I found it and how I’ve pursued it – is the subject of my memoir, A Different Kind of Vow, to be published by She Writes Press, on April 7, 2026. I hope it will serve as an example for others who might wish to identify and follow their own vow and spiritual journey!
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Laurie Collister is a counselor, journalist, and debut memoirist. After graduating from Kenyon College, she worked as a litigation paralegal, market analyst, investigative journalist, and, most recently, as a counselor on LA’s skid row. In this checkerboard of professions, she learned how to harvest the hidden – key to penning A Different Kind of Vow: Rewriting My Happily After, due out in April 2026, as well as The Last Home on the Left, about her fourteen years working on skid row, to be published in May 2027. Laurie lives with her extended family and dog Bella on a cul-de-sac in Los Angeles.