A Visit from a Master
Long ago in Syracuse, New York, I became friends with a man who once had a mysterious encounter with the founder of Eckankar, Paul Twitchell. One night while I was visiting my friend's home in that city, he asked if he could tell me a story. He said it was the only miracle that he was certain of in this life.
As he started his narrative in a low voice, I leaned toward him. His eyes were shining as he said, "This is exactly what I remember about that day ten years ago." His sincerity struck me deeply.
Sometime in 1969, my friend, who I'll call John, came upon a book about the life and times of Paul Twitchell. His curiosity piqued by the title, he purchased and read In My Soul I Am Free; it left a lasting impression upon him.
Several years passed in which John suffered greatly from heart trouble. Poor health eventually forced him to lighten his workload, and he took a job as a security guard in an office building in Syracuse.
The fascinating story of Paul Twitchell was often in John's thoughts, and he didn't know how to quench his burning interest in the spiritual Master.
Finally, in February 1974, he sat down and wrote Paul a letter in care of Eckankar. He humbly asked for assistance with his heart condition, and for more information about the Ancient Science of Soul Travel. He also ordered The Flute of God, another book by Paul.
Shortly after 4:00 p.m. on February 22, 1974, John was at work as usual with his partner, when a man entered the building and approached the two security guards.
The stranger was dressed in light blue shirt and pants. John had noticed the man immediately as he came into the busy lobby, for he wore only a light jacket. His attire would not normally be considered adequate for Syracuse's cold winters. As John watched him, the man walked straight over to ask where the phones were.
Then touching both the guards' hands as if on impulse, the stranger inquired if they had ever received an Irish blessing.
At this point in the story, John digressed to explain that he had always been interested in anything Irish, whether an Irish joke or song, though he was not of Irish ancestry.
With a smile, my friend got up to stoke the fire in his cozy living room, and continued his tale.
"The stranger in front of my partner and me began this Irish blessing, but we couldn't understand a word he said. I don't know what language he was speaking. Anyway, there was an intensity about this fellow that was not ordinary; he radiated warmth and love as he spoke."
Visibly moved, John stopped his narrative to take a deep breath. "After he finished the Irish blessing, the man in blue stepped closer and pressed his hand against my chestdirectly over the heart. Time seemed to stop for a moment. Then he asked a second time where the telephones were, as if nothing unusual had taken place. But he left the building without going near a phone."
John and his partner never moved a muscle throughout this unique episode. They were caught up in the strangeness of the fleeting moment and the person who had created it.
The very next day, John's copy of the The Flute of God arrived in the mail. Looking at the back cover, he was astonished. The author looked exactly like the lobby visitor who had acted so strangely the day before!
During that weekend, my friend wrestled with the implications of the stranger's visit. His health condition had vanished; the rhythm of his heartbeat was strong and steady for the first time in years. After reading The Flute of God from cover to cover, John slipped it into his jacket to show his partner on Monday.
As soon as he got to work, he pulled out the book and again scrutinized the cover. Then he handed it to his coworker, asking casually, "Ever seen that guy before?"
"Sure," replied his partner, "That's the fellow who was in here Friday afternoon. Who is he, anyway?"
John just shook his head and smiled. Paul Twitchell's life in the physical form had ended almost two and a half years earlier, on September 17, 1971.
Excerpted from Earth to God, Come In Please . . ., Book 1, copyright © 1991 ECKANKAR. All rights reserved.