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<blockquote data-quote="taykair" data-source="post: 169619" data-attributes="member: 9418"><p style="text-align: center">Chapter Three</p> <p style="text-align: center">Absent From The Body (1972)</p><p></p><p>A few years before I turned sixteen, a series of events began to occur which forced me into a kind of double life for awhile. By day, I was the church's Golden Boy. I knew the Bible from cover to cover. I had an answer for everything. Or rather, the Bible had the answer, and I was its best Interpreter. God was in His Heaven and I was, if not on His right hand, then at least somewhere very close to it. All was right with the world.</p><p></p><p>There are no words adequate to the task of describing to you what an arrogant, self-righteous little prig I was. At least during the day. Night, however, was a much different story. I was having strange dreams. They would occur almost every night from the time I was twelve years old.</p><p></p><p>No. I'm not talking about the strange dreams which are usually associated with male adolescence. I had those as well, of course, but each and every instance was immediately followed by prayer and repentance. (As I said, I was a prig.)</p><p></p><p>This dream was strange to me because it was frightening, yet nothing about the dream ever seemed threatening. I had this dream scores of times during the twelfth year of my life. It was always the same.</p><p></p><p><em>There is darkness all around me. I can see nothing. No matter how closely I hold my hand to my face, I cannot see it. I cannot see anything. I can only hear. I hear, at first, a roaring sound. The ocean waves crashing upon the rocks. Louder. Louder. Louder. The sound subsides, but it does not fade. It changes. It becomes a buzzing - a high-pitched, electrical kind of whine. Another change. Now come the voices. They are muffled. Distant. I cannot make out any words, yet I can't help thinking that these voices are discussing something of great importance. If only I could get a little closer to them. But how can I? I don't know where they are. I don't know where I am.</em></p><p></p><p>Then I would wake up. Frightened. And sad, because I couldn't understand.</p><p></p><p>By the time I turned thirteen, I had become used to this strange recurring dream. It was as if this was the normal way one fell to sleep. You hear a great roar, then a buzzing sound, and then voices. Then you are frightened for no known reason and wake up feeling sad. Then you turn over and go to sleep. Normal, right?</p><p></p><p>One night, almost immediately as my head hit the pillow, the familiar dream started again. The ocean roaring. The electric whine. The muted voices. The inexplicable fright which awakened me. The sadness.</p><p></p><p>The light was on.</p><p></p><p>My bratty little sister, again. She had probably sneaked into my room and turned on the light just to wake me up. Little brat.</p><p></p><p>I turned over and got up to turn out the light. I took one step. Two. And then I froze. I turned around to look at my bed.</p><p></p><p>I was still in it.</p><p></p><p>What happened next probably took place within seconds, but seemed to me to have lasted an eternity.</p><p></p><p>The shock of seeing my own body ripped through me like a lightning bolt. You would think that a perfect little Christian (which is how I saw myself then) would be happy about discovering that the soul was really real. Not that I had believed otherwise, but such personal confirmation of a belief should have brought exquisite joy to me. It did not. Instead, I was petrified.</p><p></p><p>I wasn't frightened because I was dead. I mean, I was dead, right? (I am standing here. My body lies over there. I must be dead.) No problem. I can handle being dead. Going to Heaven. Meeting Jesus. Communing with the other saints. These were the things which Christians long for, and which I had longed for. Yet, I was frightened (excuse the expression) to death. Why? Because a Bible verse kept repeating itself, louder and louder, in my mind:</p><p></p><p><em>To be absent from the body is to be present with the Lord.</em></p><p></p><p>Here I was, obviously absent from my body. (Me here. Body there.)</p><p></p><p>Where was the Lord?</p><p></p><p>It was His absence from me, not my absence from my body, which was so jarring. Shocking enough to slam me back into my body almost immediately. Afraid and confused, I awoke with a start.</p><p></p><p>'Gosh! What a dream,' I thought.</p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="taykair, post: 169619, member: 9418"] [CENTER]Chapter Three Absent From The Body (1972)[/CENTER] A few years before I turned sixteen, a series of events began to occur which forced me into a kind of double life for awhile. By day, I was the church's Golden Boy. I knew the Bible from cover to cover. I had an answer for everything. Or rather, the Bible had the answer, and I was its best Interpreter. God was in His Heaven and I was, if not on His right hand, then at least somewhere very close to it. All was right with the world. There are no words adequate to the task of describing to you what an arrogant, self-righteous little prig I was. At least during the day. Night, however, was a much different story. I was having strange dreams. They would occur almost every night from the time I was twelve years old. No. I'm not talking about the strange dreams which are usually associated with male adolescence. I had those as well, of course, but each and every instance was immediately followed by prayer and repentance. (As I said, I was a prig.) This dream was strange to me because it was frightening, yet nothing about the dream ever seemed threatening. I had this dream scores of times during the twelfth year of my life. It was always the same. [I]There is darkness all around me. I can see nothing. No matter how closely I hold my hand to my face, I cannot see it. I cannot see anything. I can only hear. I hear, at first, a roaring sound. The ocean waves crashing upon the rocks. Louder. Louder. Louder. The sound subsides, but it does not fade. It changes. It becomes a buzzing - a high-pitched, electrical kind of whine. Another change. Now come the voices. They are muffled. Distant. I cannot make out any words, yet I can't help thinking that these voices are discussing something of great importance. If only I could get a little closer to them. But how can I? I don't know where they are. I don't know where I am.[/I] Then I would wake up. Frightened. And sad, because I couldn't understand. By the time I turned thirteen, I had become used to this strange recurring dream. It was as if this was the normal way one fell to sleep. You hear a great roar, then a buzzing sound, and then voices. Then you are frightened for no known reason and wake up feeling sad. Then you turn over and go to sleep. Normal, right? One night, almost immediately as my head hit the pillow, the familiar dream started again. The ocean roaring. The electric whine. The muted voices. The inexplicable fright which awakened me. The sadness. The light was on. My bratty little sister, again. She had probably sneaked into my room and turned on the light just to wake me up. Little brat. I turned over and got up to turn out the light. I took one step. Two. And then I froze. I turned around to look at my bed. I was still in it. What happened next probably took place within seconds, but seemed to me to have lasted an eternity. The shock of seeing my own body ripped through me like a lightning bolt. You would think that a perfect little Christian (which is how I saw myself then) would be happy about discovering that the soul was really real. Not that I had believed otherwise, but such personal confirmation of a belief should have brought exquisite joy to me. It did not. Instead, I was petrified. I wasn't frightened because I was dead. I mean, I was dead, right? (I am standing here. My body lies over there. I must be dead.) No problem. I can handle being dead. Going to Heaven. Meeting Jesus. Communing with the other saints. These were the things which Christians long for, and which I had longed for. Yet, I was frightened (excuse the expression) to death. Why? Because a Bible verse kept repeating itself, louder and louder, in my mind: [I]To be absent from the body is to be present with the Lord.[/I] Here I was, obviously absent from my body. (Me here. Body there.) Where was the Lord? It was His absence from me, not my absence from my body, which was so jarring. Shocking enough to slam me back into my body almost immediately. Afraid and confused, I awoke with a start. 'Gosh! What a dream,' I thought. [/QUOTE]
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