When I was growing up, I always liked to hear my father tell the story of a strange premonition he’d had as a young missionary in China.
Dad’s superior, a Mr. Sinton, had just left Luchou for an extended journey to outlying missions, when Dad was overwhelmed with the feeling that Mr. Sinton was in mortal danger.
Every night Dad prayed for his safety. When Mr. Sinton returned, he told about having retired one night in a guesthouse where a tiny charcoal brazier burned. Later that evening Mr. Sinton had heard a loud pounding. Getting up, he went to the window, pushed it open and looked out. No one was there. He started toward the door, but the next thing he knew, he was waking up flat on the floor. He’d been overcome by toxic fumes from the brazier. Opening the window had saved his life!
When Dad was 82, he phoned me at my office. “I had such a vivid dream early this morning,” he said, “that I had to call you. I dreamed you were in danger. Is your house okay?”
I didn’t want to do it, but remembering Dad and Mr. Sinton, I actually went home; only to discover my cat sleeping in front of the electric heater. No fire. No danger. I turned off the heater and, feeling foolish, returned to the office.
At home that night, I turned on the heater again. Fifteen minutes later the lights in the kitchen sizzled and flickered out. The motor on the heater had burned out, blowing the fuses and filling the kitchen with acrid smoke. I dreaded to think what would have happened if I hadn’t turned that heater off earlier in the day. From then on, I didn’t take Dad’s dreams so lightly.
