The year 1973 was significant to me for two reasons; the 1973 oil crisis, and a particularly vivid and powerful dream I remembered on waking. It had threads of reality weaved within it, as there was a blast of a good time, jam packed, all inclusive party in the actual apartment I was living in at the time.
At the edge of a deep cliff overlooking the Turcot train yards of Montreal, I had an unobstructed view of the mighty St. Lawrence River, to the farthest extension of the horizon south to the US of A.
Suddenly, the the old 2 story building collapsed into a pile of rubble, as the earth shook violently. Climbing out and shaking the dust off, toward the northern view, I could see the real park across St. Jacques Street, and the high rise buildings in the distance, on the higher cliffs of Notre Dame de Grace swaying back and forth.
A Rolls Royce was parked in the street in front of the rubble that used to be my apartment. Getting in and turning on the radio, the only thing coming over all radio bands was, “You have to go to him. He wants you.”
Thinking that was the person I thought of as my best friend on earth at the time, I drove over to a fabulous dream apartment, not his real life one, having a commanding view of the entire City of Montreal.
“Frank! What’s Happening,” I asked, arriving at this amazing dream apartment.
“It looks like the end of the world to me,” he said. Asking “what do you think we should do?” he said, “If it is the end of the world there isn’t anything we can do about it, so let’s relax and enjoy. If it isn’t the end of the world, lets relax and enjoy anyway.”
He put on a long playing vinyl album on a sound system looking in 1973, like the kind today’s professionals use. The needle got stuck in the groove, and over and over again it played, “You can’t stay here. You have to go to him. He wants you.”
Stunned on hearing that, and backing away from the grand sunken living room, I backed into a tree standing in a corner of the room. The branches of the tree embraced me saying, “You can’t stay here. You have to go to him. He wants you.”
Bumping into somebody, I fell down and got up. Dodging things falling from the sky, I would stumble and fall. Getting up, I ran and climbed over collapsed rubble, falling and getting up again.
The obstacles seemed endless. Eventually from shear exhaustion, I collapsed and gave up. I couldn’t run any more.
At that point, the sky parted, and just a hand came down out of the sky, and picked me up. I woke up being lifted up in the palm of the hand.
Maybe I was a slow learner to put 2 + 2 together, but it took two more years after that dream before I came alive to God or God came alive to me on February 1, 1975 as I was turning 30. That Day was as unexpected and as powerful an experience to me personally, as I imagine was the conversion of Saul on the Road To Damascus.
The hand has been there for me time and time again since then.