“Nine years ago,” he said, “my wife, my daughter, and I came to your festival. I bought a Bhagavad-gita that day — not for me, but for my daughter, who was only nine at that time. Knowing she was much too young to understand it, I kept it in our attic until her eighteenth birthday, just three days ago. I wrapped it in beautiful paper and ribbon and gave it to her. When she opened it, her eyes lit up. ‘Daddy,’ she said, ‘this is something I really want to read.’”
“And the one you’re holding now?” I asked.
He smiled. “This one is for me,” he said.
That same evening another man approached me with a confident air. “I know the Bhagavad-gita well,” he declared.
“Then you’ve read it before?” I asked.
“Not exactly,” he admitted. “I’ve collected over a thousand different editions in many languages. It’s my hobby, you see. I usually just browse them. But when I learned ISKCON had sold over 23 million copies, I knew I had to get one. The commentaries of your teacher convinced me. When I heard you were in town, I came straight here to get my own copy.”
Later on as I was watching the festival stage show, a middle-aged woman approached me.
“Do you remember me?” she asked.
“I must confess that I don’t,” I said apologetically. “I meet so many people in my travels!”
“I met you thirty years ago when I was thirteen,” she said. “Your festival touched me deeply. From that day on, I have prayed to Jesus every night to protect you. I’ve traveled widely, and whenever I see Hare Krishna devotees, I feel a kinship. But finding your festival again today feels like coming home.”
Encounters like these feel miraculous because they show me that the seeds we plant can lie dormant for years—sometimes even decades—before taking root, often in ways we could never predict.
In the same way that miracles are unpredictable, so too are the challenges. One such challenge occurred on the evening of our festival in Mielno, a “rough and ready” town famous for its bars and nightclubs. Stepping onto the stage to begin my talk, I noticed a group of young men in leather jackets and heavy boots watching me with open disdain.
We have had incidents in Mielno before, so as I approached the microphone stand, I glanced around for our security team. But they were nowhere in sight.
With some apprehension, I began my lecture. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the group slowly making their way toward the stage.
“Five against one,” I thought. “Not the best odds.”
Sure enough, one of them — clearly the leader — walked straight up in front of the stage. Looking up at me with narrowed eyes, he began to hurl insults.
Then an idea flashed in my mind.
Without breaking my train of thought, I fixed my gaze on him and, summoning all the power in my voice, I commanded, “Shush up!”
The words boomed from the two massive speakers in front of him, reverberating across the entire festival site.
Startled, he jumped back, blinking in confusion. Still dazed, he turned on his heel, muttered something under his breath, and walked back to his friends. Within moments, the whole group of them left the festival grounds without a backward glance.
The crowd erupted in applause. I smiled and picked up exactly where I had left off. Used in the service of the Lord, the power of sound can silence even the loudest opposition.
Fifteen minutes later, rain began to pour down. The audience scattered, except for one determined woman who ushered twenty children to the shelter of our nearby restaurant tent. She then returned alone to listen to the rest of my talk. A devotee came and stood beside her, holding an umbrella over her head.
