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Near Misses

Near Misses

Have you ever had a near miss? A time when the difference of a few inches or minutes was all tht separated you from tragedy? Friday evening, my car wouldn’t start. I was frustrated because I needed to go to church and set up the Sunday school lesson, but I wasn’t going anywhere. An online forum, of which I have been a member for more than 20 years has a  “rant” page where we can air our frustrations. So I posted about my vehicle and another member said, “Perhaps God wanted you to stay home.”

A near miss? I haven’t heard of anything untoward, at least not more than usual, happening in my town. But that comment and a question posted on the online page of my home town got me thinking about near misses. Two immediately came to mind.

In the urban neighborhood where I grew up, my block had mixed zoning. Businesses graced both the north and south corners of the block with residential housing in the middle. On the north corner was a Red Cross drugstore. Our family were frequent customers. Plus, I had gotten to know the pharmacist’s daughter when she and I shared a hospital room when we were eleven. So, at the age of twelve, I frequently hung out at the drugstore until closing at 9:00 on pleasant Friday evenings and Mr. Perlberg didn’t object. One Friday night, at about 8:30, it was just after dark and I ducked into the drugstore. I noticed, but did not pay much attention to two men who were lounging against the north wall of the store. At about 8:50, I said goodnight to Mr. Perlberg and headed home. The two men were still outside. The next morning as we ate breakfast and listened to the radio, which was always on, we heard the shocking news that the drugstore had been robbed. When Mr. Perlberg had not returned home by midnight, his wife had called the police who found him bound and gagged in the storeroom. Money and drugs were missing. He told the police two men had forced their way in as he was locking up, pulled a gun, and tied him up. Two men. And what if I had stayed just five more minutes until Mr. Perlberg was locking the door as I had so many times before? It was a near miss. And my father laid down the law that I was never to visit the drugstore after dark ever again.

The next event happened a few years later. I was in high school and had a job as a postal assistant at the  post office downtown. On Friday nights, we teen-age employees worked until the mail truck from Milwaukee picked up all the out-of-town mail, which was 9:00 PM or slightly later. The post office was just a little over a mile from my home and I would walk home after work. My father, who at that time was a cabbie and therefore knew most of the darker parts of the city, had given me strict instructions as to the route I was to follow. I was to head south on Wisconsin Avenue, a brightly lit and well-traveled street, past St. Luke’s Hospital, then turn west on 14th Street, another well-lit and traveled thoroughfare and finally back north a half block to home. But I thought I knew better. Instead, I made the southerly part of my walk along Main Street where I admired the mansions that fronted on Lake Michigan. I turned west on 12th Street then cut diagonally across the St.Luke’s staff parking lot to 13th Street and finally, south a half block on Villa Street to my home. Not only was this route more interesting, it cut a good three blocks off my walk.

So, as my family and I ate our breakfast on another Saturday morning, listening to the radio, we heard horrifying news. A nurse at St. Luke’s Hospital had become ill during her shift. Her supervisor sent her home. The hospital security guard checked her out at 9:15 that night. When she did not show up at her home, her husband called the police. The police found her car in the staff parking lot. The driver’s door was open, her keys on the ground, and her purse on the passenger seat. Later they had found her mutilated body near the 14th Street beach.

My Dad must have read the look on my face. I had walked through that parking lot within minutes either before or after the abduction. When I confessed where I had been, he hit the ceiling, and rightfully so. I had defied his explicit instructions and walked into the vicinity of a horrific crime. He wanted to call the police, but I had neither seen nor heard anything out of the ordinary. I was not a witness. Thereafter, Dad declared I was not to walk home after work in the dark but to take a cab home.

Another near miss.

Yet there have been other times in my life that have not been near misses. The deer that ran in front of my car. (Three of them!) Other car accidents. A tumble down some stairs that on one occasion resulted in a fractured kneecap and on another a dislocated elbow. Still, as I type other near misses come to mind. The ovarian cancer that miraculously was confined within a membrane so that I did not need chemotherapy. The time I was almost dragged off the ground by a runaway theater batten. Or when I was six and hit by a car but suffered only scrapes and a concussion. And I am sure there are others I don’t even know about.

So the question is why? Why God’s hand of protection, even when I was doing something I was not supposed to do, during some events but not others? And yes, I am firmly convinced that God protected me in those neaNear Misses

Have you ever had a near miss? A time when the difference of a few inches or minutes was all tht separated you from tragedy? Friday evening, my car wouldn’t start. I was frustrated because I needed to go to church and set up the Sunday school lesson, but I wasn’t going anywhere. An online forum, of which I have been a member for more than 20 years has a  “rant” page where we can air our frustrations. So I posted about my vehicle and another member said, “Perhaps God wanted you to stay home.”

A near miss? I haven’t heard of anything untoward, at least not more than usual, happening in my town. But that comment and a question posted on the online page of my home town got me thinking about near misses. Two immediately came to mind.

In the urban neighborhood where I grew up, my block had mixed zoning. Businesses graced both the north and south corners of the block with residential housing in the middle. On the north corner was a Red Cross drugstore. Our family were frequent customers. Plus, I had gotten to know the pharmacist’s daughter when she and I shared a hospital room when we were eleven. So, at the age of twelve, I frequently hung out at the drugstore until closing at 9:00 on pleasant Friday evenings and Mr. Perlberg didn’t object. One Friday night, at about 8:30, it was just after dark and I ducked into the drugstore. I noticed, but did not pay much attention to two men who were lounging against the north wall of the store. At about 8:50, I said goodnight to Mr. Perlberg and headed home. The two men were still outside. The next morning as we ate breakfast and listened to the radio, which was always on, we heard the shocking news that the drugstore had been robbed. When Mr. Perlberg had not returned home by midnight, his wife had called the police who found him bound and gagged in the storeroom. Money and drugs were missing. He told the police two men had forced their way in as he was locking up, pulled a gun, and tied him up. Two men. And what if I had stayed just five more minutes until Mr. Perlberg was locking the door as I had so many times before? It was a near miss. And my father laid down the law that I was never to visit the drugstore after dark ever again.

The next event happened a few years later. I was in high school and had a job as a postal assistant at the  post office downtown. On Friday nights, we teen-age employees worked until the mail truck from Milwaukee picked up all the out-of-town mail, which was 9:00 PM or slightly later. The post office was just a little over a mile from my home and I would walk home after work. My father, who at that time was a cabbie and therefore knew most of the darker parts of the city, had given me strict instructions as to the route I was to follow. I was to head south on Wisconsin Avenue, a brightly lit and well-traveled street, past St. Luke’s Hospital, then turn west on 14th Street, another well-lit and traveled thoroughfare and finally back north a half block to home. But I thought I knew better. Instead, I made the southerly part of my walk along Main Street where I admired the mansions that fronted on Lake Michigan. I turned west on 12th Street then cut diagonally across the St.Luke’s staff parking lot to 13th Street and finally, south a half block on Villa Street to my home. Not only was this route more interesting, it cut a good three blocks off my walk.

So, as my family and I ate our breakfast on another Saturday morning, listening to the radio, we heard horrifying news. A nurse at St. Luke’s Hospital had become ill during her shift. Her supervisor sent her home. The hospital security guard checked her out at 9:15 that night. When she did not show up at her home, her husband called the police. The police found her car in the staff parking lot. The driver’s door was open, her keys on the ground, and her purse on the passenger seat. Later they had found her mutilated body near the 14th Street beach.

My Dad must have read the look on my face. I had walked through that parking lot within minutes either before or after the abduction. When I confessed where I had been, he hit the ceiling, and rightfully so. I had defied his explicit instructions and walked into the vicinity of a horrific crime. He wanted to call the police, but I had neither seen nor heard anything out of the ordinary. I was not a witness. Thereafter, Dad declared I was not to walk home after work in the dark but to take a cab home.

Another near miss.

Yet there have been other times in my life that have not been near misses. The deer that ran in front of my car. (Three of them!) Other car accidents. A tumble down some stairs that on one occasion resulted in a fractured kneecap and on another a dislocated elbow. Still, as I type other near misses come to mind. The ovarian cancer that miraculously was confined within a membrane so that I did not need chemotherapy. The time I was almost dragged off the ground by a runaway theater batten. Or when I was six and hit by a car but suffered only scrapes and a concussion. And I am sure there are others I don’t even know about.

So the question is why? Why God’s hand of protection, even when I was doing something I was not supposed to do, during some events but not others? And yes, I am firmly convinced that God protected me in those near misses. I don’t believe in coincidence. I am grateful for those times of grace and continue to thank Him whenever they come to mind.

Is my car malfunctioning another near miss? I had intended to get a fish dinner at Culver’s on Friday night. Instead, I ate at home. My Sunday school teacher will have to create her own lesson plan this week since I could not set up the lesson. Plus, I missed out on the youth group carwash today.  And I will be relying on a fried to pick up my brother and I to get to church on Sunday.

The truly amazing thing is that I am not fretting. If the car’s battery simply died, a jump start from the mechanic will set things right. If it’s the starter that has gone kaput, well, that will be more expensive but, again, it can be fixed. Maybe this whole scenario is just God’s way of making me stop and remember what He has done for me and to give Him thanks and praise.Near Misses

Have you ever had a near miss? A time when the difference of a few inches or minutes was all tht separated you from tragedy? Friday evening, my car wouldn’t start. I was frustrated because I needed to go to church and set up the Sunday school lesson, but I wasn’t going anywhere. An online forum, of which I have been a member for more than 20 years has a  “rant” page where we can air our frustrations. So I posted about my vehicle and another member said, “Perhaps God wanted you to stay home.”

A near miss? I haven’t heard of anything untoward, at least not more than usual, happening in my town. But that comment and a question posted on the online page of my home town got me thinking about near misses. Two immediately came to mind.

In the urban neighborhood where I grew up, my block had mixed zoning. Businesses graced both the north and south corners of the block with residential housing in the middle. On the north corner was a Red Cross drugstore. Our family were frequent customers. Plus, I had gotten to know the pharmacist’s daughter when she and I shared a hospital room when we were eleven. So, at the age of twelve, I frequently hung out at the drugstore until closing at 9:00 on pleasant Friday evenings and Mr. Perlberg didn’t object. One Friday night, at about 8:30, it was just after dark and I ducked into the drugstore. I noticed, but did not pay much attention to two men who were lounging against the north wall of the store. At about 8:50, I said goodnight to Mr. Perlberg and headed home. The two men were still outside. The next morning as we ate breakfast and listened to the radio, which was always on, we heard the shocking news that the drugstore had been robbed. When Mr. Perlberg had not returned home by midnight, his wife had called the police who found him bound and gagged in the storeroom. Money and drugs were missing. He told the police two men had forced their way in as he was locking up, pulled a gun, and tied him up. Two men. And what if I had stayed just five more minutes until Mr. Perlberg was locking the door as I had so many times before? It was a near miss. And my father laid down the law that I was never to visit the drugstore after dark ever again.

The next event happened a few years later. I was in high school and had a job as a postal assistant at the  post office downtown. On Friday nights, we teen-age employees worked until the mail truck from Milwaukee picked up all the out-of-town mail, which was 9:00 PM or slightly later. The post office was just a little over a mile from my home and I would walk home after work. My father, who at that time was a cabbie and therefore knew most of the darker parts of the city, had given me strict instructions as to the route I was to follow. I was to head south on Wisconsin Avenue, a brightly lit and well-traveled street, past St. Luke’s Hospital, then turn west on 14th Street, another well-lit and traveled thoroughfare and finally back north a half block to home. But I thought I knew better. Instead, I made the southerly part of my walk along Main Street where I admired the mansions that fronted on Lake Michigan. I turned west on 12th Street then cut diagonally across the St.Luke’s staff parking lot to 13th Street and finally, south a half block on Villa Street to my home. Not only was this route more interesting, it cut a good three blocks off my walk.

So, as my family and I ate our breakfast on another Saturday morning, listening to the radio, we heard horrifying news. A nurse at St. Luke’s Hospital had become ill during her shift. Her supervisor sent her home. The hospital security guard checked her out at 9:15 that night. When she did not show up at her home, her husband called the police. The police found her car in the staff parking lot. The driver’s door was open, her keys on the ground, and her purse on the passenger seat. Later they had found her mutilated body near the 14th Street beach.

My Dad must have read the look on my face. I had walked through that parking lot within minutes either before or after the abduction. When I confessed where I had been, he hit the ceiling, and rightfully so. I had defied his explicit instructions and walked into the vicinity of a horrific crime. He wanted to call the police, but I had neither seen nor heard anything out of the ordinary. I was not a witness. Thereafter, Dad declared I was not to walk home after work in the dark but to take a cab home.

Another near miss.

Yet there have been other times in my life that have not been near misses. The deer that ran in front of my car. (Three of them!) Other car accidents. A tumble down some stairs that on one occasion resulted in a fractured kneecap and on another a dislocated elbow. Still, as I type other near misses come to mind. The ovarian cancer that miraculously was confined within a membrane so that I did not need chemotherapy. The time I was almost dragged off the ground by a runaway theater batten. Or when I was six and hit by a car but suffered only scrapes and a concussion. And I am sure there are others I don’t even know about.

So the question is why? Why God’s hand of protection, even when I was doing something I was not supposed to do, during some events but not others? And yes, I am firmly convinced that God protected me in those near misses. I don’t believe in coincidence. I am grateful for those times of grace and continue to thank Him whenever they come to mind.

Is my car malfunctioning another near miss? I had intended to get a fish dinner at Culver’s on Friday night. Instead, I ate at home. My Sunday school teacher will have to create her own lesson plan this week since I could not set up the lesson. Plus, I missed out on the youth group carwash today.  And I will be relying on a fried to pick up my brother and I to get to church on Sunday.

The truly amazing thing is that I am not fretting. If the car’s battery simply died, a jump start from the mechanic will set things right. If it’s the starter that has gone kaput, well, that will be more expensive but, again, it can be fixed. Maybe this whole scenario is just God’s way of making me stop and remember what He has done for me and to give Him thanks and praise.r misses. I don’t believe in coincidence. I am grateful for those times of grace and continue to thank Him whenever they come to mind.

Is my car malfunctioning another near miss? I had intended to get a fish dinner at Culver’s on Friday night. Instead, I ate at home. My Sunday school teacher will have to create her own lesson plan this week since I could not set up the lesson. Plus, I missed out on the youth group carwash today.  And I will be relying on a fried to pick up my brother and I to get to church on Sunday.

The truly amazing thing is that I am not fretting. If the car’s battery simply died, a jump start from the mechanic will set things right. If it’s the starter that has gone kaput, well, that will be more expensive but, again, it can be fixed. Maybe this whole scenario is just God’s way of making me stop and remember what He has done for me and to give Him thanks and praise.

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Dreamtime

I arrived at church just as our senior pastor and the church secretary were leaving for the day. When asked what I would be doing, I informed them that there were several new books that I would be cataloguing and shelving in the library. They wished me a good afternoon and departed. Now I had the entire grand building to myself. I enjoyed my time – alone – in the church library and in the sanctuary proper. After the confines of my tiny apartment in the senior living complex, the soaring spaces gave me a sense of freedom. It didn’t take long for me to catalog the three new books, but I couldn’t resist opening one to read. A crack of thunder brought me back to the world and I realized hours had passed. I shelved the book with a promise to return to it in the near future.  Then I picked up my handbag and cane and made my way to the exit.

               Standing in the portico, I realized I had lingered too long. Icy rain was pouring down in sheets. A younger person might make a mad dash for her vehicle, but I was not a younger person and the errant drops that invaded the covered entry stung from force and cold. I don’t know how long I waited, but when the intensity of the downpour abated some, it was fully dark. “Now or never,” I thought, and though I would still get wet, at least the drizzle didn’t sting. With my car less than ten feet away, the one thing an old person fears most happened. My foot hit a slick spot. In an instant, I landed hard on my back, the breath knocked from my lungs. Gasping like a fish on the shore I took inventory, flexing every joint beginning with my toes. Thankfully nothing was broken. If I could just turn over and crawl to my car, I could use that to pull myself up. Yes, like all young people, in earlier days I had laughed at the television commercial where the old woman cried, “Help! I have fallen and can’t get up!” Not a laughing matter anymore. Just as my heartbeat and breathing returned to a semblance of normalcy, I closed my eyes to gather strength for effort to rise. At that moment the downpour returned. Sleet, this time and the icy pellets hurt.

               I counted to ten. At nine, the rain stopped and I felt warmth on my skin. Warmth on my skin and bright sunlight on my eyelids. What? I opened my eyes to an aqua sky peeping through a canopy of spindly trees. I lay on rough turf as sounds of harsh cries, the ring of metal upon metal and piercing screams reached my ears. With effort, I rolled over and with cane in hand crawled to the nearest skinny tree. Between the tree and the cane, I made it to my feet and stood shaking against its trunk. Looking down, I was a mess. My plaid flannel shirt was soaked and my grandma jeans were muddy and torn. But I was alive and on my feet. The only question was, “Where?”

               I didn’t stand there long. Hoofbeats sounded closer and in moments I was surrounded by…by…what? Horses? The enormous black beasts had four legs, head, mane and tail, but there was something off I couldn’t quite identify about them. And their riders? Men, yes, but huge and clad in some sort of armor. Again, something wasn’t quite right.

               “Well, well. What have we here?” One of them spoke. At first, I heard nothing but gibberish, but in my mind I could almost see runes transforming into alphabet and the letters forming words that I could suddenly hear and understand.

“I don’t know what it is, Captain. It appears to be some sort of female, but not like any woman I’ve ever known.”

               “Well, the Master will know what to do with it. Put it with the other prisoners. We make for the castle at once.”

               One of the warriors dismounted and prodded me with his spear. Even with my cane, I could manage only a few shaky steps. Then another man came down from his beast and the two of them grabbed me under my arms. I managed to hold on to my cane as they carried me a slightly smaller horse one of the men had been leading by the reins. They were not gentle as they set me upon it. I clung to the animal’s neck for dear life as the troop set off at an unseemly clip, given the surrounding trees.

               In moments, the green turf and trees gave way to a charcoal landscape. The line of demarcation between the living forest and the dead earth was sharp and distinct. Just over that line stood a larger troop of warriors and a cart harnessed to two of the large horses. In the cart, a dozen men were crowded together, their arms bound behind their backs. Most were bloodied. They wore a bright livery in contrast to the black garb of the giants. On the ground next to that cart was a pile of weapons and shining armor the soldiers were loading into a smaller cart. The same two men who had put me on the horse now pulled me off it and carried me as before to the larger cart. The tailgate was let down and I was thrust, still holding my cane, into it. There was scarcely room for me and I was pressed up against the bound men. Then the tailgate was raised and secured and at a shouted command and the crack of a whip, we started off.

               The way through the desolate, cratered landscape was rough. The cart jostled and jolted, but though we were shaken, we were so tightly packed none of us could fall. One of the men asked, “Who are you?” but the crack of whip over our heads and a shout of “Silence!” forestalled any answer. Standing at the very rear of the cart, I could not see where we were going, but eventually the ride smoothed out and I could see a road of sorts unraveling behind us. Soon, we began to ascend a steep path and I was pressed hard against the tailgate. The man closest to me looked an apology my way. It wasn’t long before the road again leveled out. The cart rattled as we crossed a bridge and we passed underneath a monstrous gate. The portcullis clanged to the earth behind us.

               We stopped beside a massive staircase leading to a dark, ornate door. As soon as the tailgate was lowered, I nearly fell from the cart but the same two soldiers grabbed hold of me and lifted me out. The men in the cart with me were prodded with spear points and stepped down, one by one. Each man was immediately flanked by two soldiers and led away in a line. As the last man left the cart, the two carrying me fell into formation at the end of the line. We ascended the staircase, entering a dim corridor as the doors opened before us. Down a long hallway, we stopped before another huge door embellished with a curling dragon. The lead warrior beat his spear on the floor three times and the door opened. Beyond was an enormous hall. Small windows high up on the walls let in little light but the walls were lined with sconces holding torches that sported orange and purple flames. At the end of the hall, opposite the door stood a dais supporting an ebony throne.  Courtiers and soldiers filled the space in between. The men and I were marched down to stand beneath the throne. The creature who sat upon it had the appearance of a man. Tall and with a face that could have been lifted from a Greek statue, he was coldly and palely handsome. He was clothed in a floor length black robe topped by a violet surcoat decorated in an embroidered dragon and edged in reddish gold braid. On his coal black hair sat a jet circlet with a single, blood red jewel in its center. But again, there was something off that I could not identify.

               He rose and the councilors seated to either side of the throne rose with him. Again, I heard a voice that took a moment to become understandable. “Ah. Prisoners. And the rest of the enemy forces?”

               “Dead, my Lord,” the captain answered.

“Well done.” Then he addressed the prisoners. Despite what my enemy may have told you, I am a merciful Master. All you have to do is swear loyalty to me and me alone…and you live. Defy me…and you die.”

               The leader of the prisoners was pushed forward. The Master looked down on him. “So what shall it be, little man? Serve me and live? Or defy me and die?”

               The captive straightened his shoulders and looked up at the man standing above him. I could not see his face, but I heard a smile enter his voice as he said, “In life or in death, I serve Issa and Issa alone.”

               “So you choose your own fate,” the monster hissed. He held out his hand and one of his councilors placed a long staff topped with the golden head of a dragon. “So be it.” He pointed the staff at the captive and a green flame shot forth from the dragon’s mouth. It enveloped the man and for a moment all that could be seen was an ultraviolet cyclone. It lasted only a minute and then all that remained was a heap of ash upon the floor. Servants scurried forth with a broom and dustpan and swept up the debris.

               There was silence in the hall. One heartbeat. Two heartbeats. Three…four…five…six…seven…eight…nine…ten. Then the second captive was pushed forward. The Master issued the same offer, “Serve me and live? Or defy me and die?”

               As his leader before him, the man squared his shoulders and proclaimed, “In life or in death, I serve Issa and Issa alone.”

               Again the Master aimed his staff. Again, green flame shot forth, and again a man was reduced to a pile of ash. As soon as the ash was cleared away, the next man in line was prodded forward. Again the offer was proffered and again the man bravely declared his loyalty to Issa and was consumed by the flame. As the fourth man was advanced to the head of the line, he fell upon his knees. “Master, have mercy. I will serve you and you alone.”

               The Master smiled. “Very well. You have chosen wisely.” He nodded to the guards on either side of the trembling captive. One of them cut his bonds and the man was led away.

               Now the fifth man stood before the ruler of the hall. He declared his loyalty to Issa…and died. So did the sixth, the seventh, the eighth, the ninth, the tenth. The eleventh man fell to his knees begging for mercy and promising fealty. His bonds were cut and he was led away. Now the only one before me and the monster on the dais was the twelfth man. He declared his defiance. I could feel the heat of the green flame as it consumed him.

               Then it was my turn to stand before the one they called Master. I was shaking so badly the only thing holding me up was my trusty cane and the proximity of the guards on either side of me. I could scarcely lift my head to stare into those cold black eyes.

               “Well, well. What have we here? Surely no warrior. And what were you doing in my domain?”

               I had no answer. I did not even know where I was or how I came to be here. In my dry mouth, my tongue was thick and clung to my teeth.

               “Nothing to say for yourself, eh? Well, whatever you are, I make the same offer. Serve me, although I can think of no way you could be useful to me, and live. Defy me and die.”

               Suddenly, I knew who and what the creature who stood above me was. My tongue was loosed. “I am a bond servant of the Father God Jehovah, His Son Jesus Messiah, and the Holy Spirit. I have been purchased by Messiah’s blood and I serve no other.”

               The pale face turned crimson. “Jesus, I know, though he is not of my world. But who are you?” His gaze raked me from head to toe and back to head again. “You are nothing but a frail, shaking female, and though not of my world, of no possible use to anyone.”

               “That may be. Indeed, I am the least of my Father’s servants, but Him alone do I serve.” Where were these words coming from?”

               With that, the monster’s face became pale again. “Then go to your God and die!”

               He pointed the staff at me. I closed my eyes, waiting for the flame that would end my life. I could feel the heat approaching, and as I gasped and opened my eyes, inches away from my face, the flame split into two and went around me, striking each of the guards at my side and consuming them.

               A feral roar erupted from the Master. He tossed the staff aside and another, larger one was thrust into his hand. At that moment, I felt heat in my toes. I looked down to see a glowing white mist curling around my ankles. As the mist rose about me, so did the heat. When it reached my face, I inhaled and a cooling stream shot down my spine, straightening it and continued through my bones, strengthening my weak knees until I was standing tall without the need for my cane. Indeed, my cane was now nothing more than a scepter in my hands. My soaked flannel shirt and muddy jeans were gone, replaced by a white robe with a golden girdle about my waist. The mist continued to spiral above me until it was taller than the beast upon the throne. Then I felt a tremor in the floor beneath me. I expected the mist to obscure my vision, but instead, it was sharpened and I saw things as they really were. The Master was clothed no more in velvet and silk but tattered rags, as were his councilors, courtiers and soldiers. Still awestruck, I heard a basso profundo voice so deep it shook the building.

               “She. Is. Mine.”

               I, who in my mundane life, believed in the triune God and accepted that the Holy Spirit indwelt me, but who had never heard His voice nor experienced a sense of His presence, now knew the Spirit of Christ as He overwhelmed me. In what seemed to be slow motion, I saw the now bedraggled Master raise and aim his staff again. The green flame shot out of the dragon’s mouth, but before it could travel more than a yard, it doubled back on itself. When the point of the flame touched the dragon’s head, it exploded in shards of burning gold shrapnel. The ebony staff splintered in the Master’s hand. All around me were cries of pain as the shrapnel found its targets. But enveloped in the mist, I felt nothing.

               I felt a slight pressure on my right shoulder and yielded to it, turning to face the doorway of the hall. The pressure moved to the center of my back and I began to walk, no, to stride, steadily and without pain. At the door, guards swung their halberds at me but as the weapons touched the mist, they melted. The guards fell back. All of them. We, I say we, for I knew I was not alone, calmly and purposefully walked through the dingy halls and out the front door. The steps on the massive staircase were solid before me but crumbled behind me. At the gate, the portcullis rose of it’s own accord and the drawbridge lowered. We walked out of that place of death and through the blackened landscape. As the sun reached its zenith, I could finally see the green line where turf and trees once again grew. We continued walking through the spindly trees and as we proressed deeper, the trees became taller, larger.

The sun was now three quarters down the sky, though barely visible through the canopy when we came upon a ring of trees, each so massive they would make the coastal redwoods seem as saplings. There was a narrow entrance between two of the trees that opened onto a clearing. The space was carpeted with soft grass and multi-colored flowers. In the center was a gleaming marble bench, heaped with bright pillows. At the head of the bench was a small table holding a crystal decanter filled with a clear liquid, a polished wooden goblet and a wooden platter filled with what looked like small rolls and sliced fruit.

I was led to the bench and gentle hands pushed me down onto the seat. I heard a quiet voice say, “Drink. Eat.” Then the mist disappeared. I poured the liquid into the goblet. It wasn’t wine, yet it wasn’t water, either. As I swallowed, I felt a new strength. The rolls had a crisp crust that crackled when I broke them open but the bread inside was soft and white. The slices of fruit were something I had never before seen or tasted. As I cleaned the last crumb from the plate, I heard that quiet voice again, “Sleep.” The pillows made the bench quite comfortable, so I stretched out on them, my trusty cane still in my hand, and closed my eyes.

I don’t know how long I slept but the next thing I heard was a siren. No longer soft pillows but hard pavement was behind my back. I turned my head and opened my eyes to see an ambulance pull up next to my car. A woman’s voice said, “I saw you fall and you weren’t moving, so I called for help.”

A firefighter asked, “Can you sit up?”

I could, and did. “Just relax,” he said. Then he and his partner stood behind me and lifted. In a moment I was on my feet. “Can you tell me what happened?”

I explained about the slick spot on the pavement. The firefighter said, “We still have to check you out. Did you lose consciousness? Anything feel broken?” He led me to sit on the tailgate of the ambulance. “Are you having any dizziness? Nausea? Blurred vision?” He put a blood pressure cuff on my wrist. “138 over 78. That’s a little high.”

”Not for me, it’s not.” I said. “I’m fine, though I suspect I will hurt all over tomorrow.”

“Well, we get concerned when anyone your age takes a fall and we just have to be sure you are okay.”

“I’m okay. And although I am mightily embarrassed, I appreciate your help.”

“No need to be embarrassed. That’s what we’re here for.”

“So. If you could just hand me my cane, my car is right over there and I will head home for a warm shower and some chicken soup.”

The firefighter laughed. “Sure you’re okay to drive?”

“Yes.”

He handed me my cane but as I stood, the other one gripped my elbow. Together the two of them escorted me to my vehicle. “Thank you again for your help,” I said. “I’m good.”

They waited until I had started my car before getting back into the ambulance. I waved to the woman who had called for help, and drove off. Back home, as I stripped off my sodden clothes and stood underneath a steaming shower, all I could do was wonder. Did I lose consciousness? Was it all real? But as I toweled off and slipped into my flannel nightgown, I had a sudden awareness. My knees no longer hurt.