PART FIVE – Moon River to Harvest Haven (cont.)
In 1984, starting with all the prophecies at Bernalillo, New Mexico, I had begun keeping a journal of all spiritual matters, dreams, visions, prophecies, experiences, revelations, words of wisdom, and events with people. I recorded my troubles, worries, foolish thoughts, and mundane matters. I also decided to record everything I could remember of my past spiritual life, going back to 1972, when it began with the dream of the Lord’s Coming.
In my horrible struggles during the battles in the stock market in 1994, it came to me I should destroy my journal. I recalled how the Lord had said to me in 1980 or 1981 that if I burned my writings, He would give me something better, which came to pass. I took all my records to the fire pit in the back yard, tore them up, and burned them.
When I had told Marilyn my intention, she agreed with me. If she hadn’t agreed, I wouldn’t have done it. Though I didn’t realize it as yet, she was my god – I was ever dependent on her to determine if I was hearing correctly.
Perhaps it was good to burn those records; perhaps not. I have regretted it because I’ve forgotten many of the prophecies and their times and circumstances. I think at times, “I was too lazy to sort out the spiritual from the mundane, and my words from His, thinking it would take a horrendous amount of work, so I threw it all away.”
The time came when I felt as though I had greatly despised God’s great and good revelations, attention, and affection toward me. In some of those prophecies, He had told me how much He loved me.
However, I was also somewhat concerned others might find the precious things He said to me. Some of these things were quite personal. I have often wished the Lord would be gracious to me and bring to my mind all those things, so I might write them down again, even as He did with Jeremiah when the king burned his prophecies. However, Jeremiah was not the one who destroyed his records; his enemies did. I destroyed mine.
In any case, they’re gone and I need to accept that had it been His will, He could, and I like to think would, have stopped me. But I still wish I hadn’t done it. Every once in a while, Paul quotes certain prophecies he recalls, which I had completely forgotten about, and I am refreshed to hear them again.
Kerri was very prone to communal living. She seemed to want to belong somewhere. I told her she was a classic candidate for a cult. I asked her to repent of looking to people for her solace and comfort. I believed only the Lord was worthy of the kind of affection she showed. I advised her to part from us for a while. She went to Big Fork, Montana. At this time, Paul was in Missoula, I believe. Marilyn, Paul, Kerri, Jonathan, and I decided to visit together in Big Fork.
At Big Fork, a tourist town, I dared take everyone out to dinner at a popular restaurant. I was a beggar for punishment, and I had another unpleasant dining-out incident. The service was great, the food was tasty, but it was rather expensive.
Being the miserly sort of person and eternal calculator in financial matters, I determined the value of the free-range veal I had ordered. I was paying them about $90 a pound. I thought, “How can they justify these kinds of charges?” Prices in 2014 would be higher.
That was not my only “beef.” I was informed restaurants expected the clientele to pay the wages of restaurant staff by gratuities, seeing waiters were either not paid, or paid very low wages. I felt like a sucker of the restaurant industry and I determined I wasn’t going to cave.
I gave the waitress a 10% tip, though I was told the custom was more like 20%. For the next few minutes while we were there, she scowled at me. What gives? At one time, 10% was customary and acceptable. Admittedly, the waitress was giving us good service, and it wouldn’t have hurt me to be liberal, but I refused.
Perhaps it was a mere matter of stinginess (I have been so stingy), but I was annoyed with the industry and what I perceived as its presumption. I did consider that if she remained friendly, I might be persuaded to change my mind, but I also thought that if she was doing well in tips, it would encourage her to continue in her occupation, with which I didn’t agree. Teeter-totter, teeter-totter! I do have my painful rationalizations and justifications.
That was the last straw. I just was not blessed at any time in any way for eating out. Except of necessity or special occasion with others involved where I had little choice, we have never eaten out again, and I’m thankful for it.
No more stale food or glass or hair or mice; no more skimpy portions, high starch/low protein deceptions; no more exorbitant prices.
No more drooling, flattering, pretentious waiters, several of which expected tips without being there to attend to our desires and needs, to fill the water jug, bring beverages, tend to shortfalls, or provide extra items. No more waiting staff frowning at me.
No more wishing I had ordered what the other person had.
No more doubts and uncertainty of the cleanliness of the place or the quality, or even the nature, of the food.
No more supporting the conventional food industry that couldn’t care less about chemical-free, soon to come GMO-free, environmentally- and consumer-friendly, wholesome foods. I was through with it all. Yay! What a relief!
No more absence of “guaranteed satisfaction or money cheerfully refunded.” In restaurants, you often pay the price, like it or not, or be accused of, and charged with, thievery. After all, it’s a judgment call, a matter of taste and opinion.
From now on, we wouldn’t be wasting our money and setting a bad example for others who need to learn to cook and eat at home as a family, saving their money for better food – like organic.
Elizabeth, Archie’s eldest, came to stay with us for a while. We were hoping to help her change her directional choices in life. She was secretly dating a boy and lying to her parents.
Elizabeth had another problem. As her father had been taken by “the Force” of Star Wars, so she had been taken by a seductive, deceiving spirit. She was consumed with the idea of being another talkative, imaginative, precocious “Anne of Green Gables.” We talked to her and prayed for her deliverance, and there seemed to be a change, but I deeply failed her. On many occasions, she angered me, whether her fault or not (there certainly was fault on my part).
One day, I got so angry, I tried to slap her a few times. She shielded herself and didn’t get hurt that I know. I decided that it was no use trying to change her, and that she better leave before we came to any worse conflict. We sent her to Lois’. I’m not sure we had renewed a relationship with Lois by then.
I was hoping Lois might be able to help Elizabeth. One day, as she and Lois were doing dishes, Elizabeth pulled a hankie from her pocket and spilled supplement pills all over the floor. She had been pretending to take them each day as dispensed to her for her health (she had severe menstrual times, and perhaps other problems). Lois was angry not only because Elizabeth wasn’t cooperating, but because she was lying.
Who was Lois of all people to be offended by the lies of others? Lord willing, you’ll see about that.
Elizabeth was always lying, as was the rest of the family – it was clear on many occasions deception was ruling Archie’s house. Lois gave up and Elizabeth went back home with her parents.
Should we have patiently and tolerantly continued? Perhaps, but I don’t think so. Some things we can change, and some we have no choice but to let them take their course. I bear Elizabeth no ill will. I hope only for her good.
Somewhere between August 16th and the 21st of 1994, in the 14th year from the time we met in Israel, Paul received the Spirit of God at our home. God fulfilled the promise He gave us in September of 1979 in our converted chicken shack at Revivim, where we prayed for Paul and the Lord said: “Paul will receive the Spirit at a future time.”
That same day, Paul had a vision of a classical sailing ship with three masts. It was anchored in a harbor and there was a storm at sea. The harbor was U-shaped, and he saw it as though he were on land, inside the bay, looking out to sea. The ship was moored closer to where the sea met the bay, not far off from the land. The ship represented us.
Every Saturday, Jonathan and I would go garage-saling. We would take some lunch with us. Sometimes he would nap in the car while waiting for me, and sometimes he would join me at the sales. He was always so patient. And he had an understanding and awareness of things that impressed me.
I had a bit of a difficult time refusing him some of the many toys he wanted, but he got a few. One thing was sure – if he really wanted something, he usually got it. He had uncommon determination. I was no match for his persuasive skills and persistence.
His favorite toys were construction toys, guns, and Legos. After Trevor bought him his first Lego set, he was on the watch. He loved putting things together and was very good at it.
I had this dream in the early nineties, I believe: I was at a building site in an urban area. The ground had been dug up and construction was proceeding. Along came two men, sober friends, who took me away. I didn’t know why. Later, I saw they were expertly fitting me up in a black suit or tuxedo.
The next thing I knew, I was back at the building site, dressed normally. I had been away for a few hours, only to find a good portion of a spectacular house had been built while I was gone.
It was breathtakingly beautiful. The rooms’ walls were white and perhaps 25 feet high. The doorways were of normal width, about twenty feet tall and arched at the top. They were without doors. Suspended from the arches at the top of these doorways were small delightful decorative hangings about two or three feet long.
There was a swimming pool in the house, with tile laid that was perfect (I think the pool was the first thing I saw). The water was wholesome and refreshing. All was perfect and beautiful.
There was no furniture. The rooms were all empty, and it seemed the building extended further than I could see. I wish I could remember more. The architecture reminded me of something the very wealthy Saudis would do in constructing impeccable palaces in the Middle East. It had the Arabic architectural look, in the whiteness, the door hangings, and whatever else was there; there was great attention to detail, though simplicity was predominant.
Marilyn was the one responsible for the building of it. It would not be long before I would know the meaning of the dream.
When Elizabeth had been staying with us, Jonathan was playing in the sandbox and suddenly started screaming. She ran to see what the matter was. Jonathan had lifted something and suffered an inguinal hernia, for which we soon concluded he needed an operation.
It was so hard for this sentimental Ukrainian to see them wheel him in a gurney down the long hall to the operating room on October 25th, 1994, but Jonathan took it in stride. He seldom cried and I had seen him express fear only once in his life to this point. The not-too-common operation was successfully performed by Dr. Gomes.
Within a year, Jonathan decided to be an exception as with many other things. He developed an inguinal on the other side, so back to the hospital again. When we asked the doctor why it wasn’t taken care of in the first round, he said that while they thought of doing it, a second inguinal was very rare, and decided against doing both. I don’t blame him.
We have seen God perform supernatural healings and many other miracles. “Why then,” you may ask, “did you not ask God to heal Jonathan in these situations? Why did you seek after physicians?” I must tell you we do petition God for healing, but for whatever reason, whether because of a lack of faith or some kind of sin in our lives or whatever, He didn’t answer with a miracle, as we often define the word.
God did provide what was possible to deal with the problem, which is still a “miracle,” in that He does it. I’ve come to the conclusion He makes it necessary for us to assert ourselves to meet a need or rectify a situation so we may learn. However, where it’s plainly impossible, He glorifies Himself as He chooses, though we may need to approach Him in faith on the matter.
There are two principles of judging the source and nature of miracles. God does only that which is impossible for us to do in any way, and He only does it in times of necessity.
People have reported receiving gold fillings in place of amalgams through prayer. This was once claimed by Dick Deweert and the people of The Miracle Channel in Lethbridge. God doesn’t operate that way. There was no necessity for gold fillings, and He’s never about sensationalism. God isn’t a showoff. He isn’t one to do the superfluous. But Satan is the sensationalist and entertainer, the deceiver, the father of lies and of the children of pride. And he is the one who encourages covetousness.
Why wouldn’t God simply restore a tooth instead of filling it? Isn’t that better, or has dental science improved on God’s creation? But where man is able to take care of his own problems, albeit clumsily, the Lord lets it be that way, even if it isn’t nearly as good as He could do.
However, isn’t everything a “miracle,” in that all that exists in creation is intelligently governed and totally beyond our ability to understand or direct, except where we’re given involvement in so limited a measure? If it weren’t for Divine Providence governing all affairs, nothing would exist or have any meaning.
These things said, we know and have frequently seen that God performs spectacular miracles from time to time that are so evident, we take sharp notice and marvel, and our faith in Him is strengthened.
While we were in the stock market in 1994, I had a dream of a great, many-storied building, looking like a long-abandoned factory, made of brick or cinder block or stone, dull and grey. No windows or lighting were to be seen inside or out. The building was all open-spaced inside, there were not always walls to stop someone from dropping off the edge, and there was no full floor on any level.
There were many staircases of stone, most cut off and leading nowhere, except to sudden, surprise drops or to dead ends. There were doorways on some of these stairs, though no doors. There were some large, crude escalators or conveyor belts, going back and forth, up and down. The whole place was very treacherous and desperately dismal.
Throughout this building were miserable, pained people, moaning, crying, and screaming, some going up and down the maze of slippery escalators and stairs, many falling, many injured, torn, and de-limbed by large mechanisms of gears and moving parts. They were all desperately looking for a way out, or perhaps for a place of rest or fulfillment within, but never finding escape or solace.
There was always the carrot dangling before them, always just out of reach. If they did manage to get a bite, they were soon bitten instead, losing instead of gaining.
At the bottom of the building was a great swamp of filthy waters full of blood, vomit, urine, feces, guts, body parts, and living people in shock, desperation, and fear, dying while trying to escape the very terrible soup. The whole scene was one of terror, hopelessness, and death.
This dream was what was given me to depict the true nature of the stock market. We had entered it to gain. We lost. The whole stock world operated on greed and fear. Yes, there are so-called winners, but oh, so many losers. We were among the losers, experiencing the very things described in the dream.
It was hell – and we were there.
Why are stock people called “brokers”? Why not “breakers”? They are indeed “breakers”; they certainly broke me of the market and dealing in fear and greed – which is good. But why the past tense? That’s because it’s a done deal. The stock market, in its present form, is meant to rob, maim, and kill, to punish the naïve, selfish, fearful, and greedy. (I must acknowledge some brokers are not as bad as others, as with most categories of people.)
I know the true definition of “broker.” I’m speaking tongue-in-cheek.
In 1990, we heard Wally and Adeline Hlewka’s children were involved in drugs and in trouble with the law. In 1994 or so, I took Jonathan to the Henderson Lake playground. As he played, I noticed a young man whose facial features could well have been those of Wally and Adeline’s son. He was about the right age and was supervising a child, likely his own. He had the hardened, rather sad aura of one having spent time in jail, which made sense. Was this their son, out of prison? I wish I had asked. We could have had a very good talk, had he been willing. But I wasn’t given to have it.
Around this time, when Jonathan was about three, he had a dream. He dreamt he came to our bedroom and asked his mother to take his hand and go flying. They went to the window, stood on the sill, and flew off together.
This dream told me of a wonderful relationship Marilyn had with Jonathan I could only envy, one I always wanted to have with Jonathan. The fact is, Marilyn earned it and I did not. She devoted her time, energy, and attention to him in all things. She deserved his affection and appreciation. What she feared at one time was not what was (when he was born, she feared he would reject her). He loved her with a special love.
I wondered why I couldn’t have that same kind of relationship with Jonathan, though why should I wonder, with the way I’d been? Was it also, however, a mother’s connection, coupled with the natural duty of mothers to their children, and therefore something not meant for a father? Perhaps. After all, Jonathan suckled at his mother’s breast till he was three and then gently weaned. Now there’s a bonding no father’s capable of!
I’ve also heard daughters can be closer to their fathers, while sons can be closer to their mothers. I make no excuses for my shortfalls; I only wonder about these things.
On October 4th, 1994, three years and 12 days from birth, Jonathan was weaned.
In 1994, while in mutual stock funds that were going very badly, I saw in a vision an infant crying, almost desperate, reaching with its mouth for the breast, which was being pulled away. I knew I was the infant, and even heard my weak, pitiful, helpless cry. It was in vain.
Sometime later, I had the opportunity to ask my mother if I was breastfed and when I was weaned. She replied I was breastfed four months – which is not long, not nearly long enough, and she didn’t say how she weaned me. I’m not sure she was even truthful with me.
Weaning means a gradual, considerate reduction to zero. The vision revealed I wasn’t weaned at all, but abruptly cut off. By personal experience, I’ve learned this abruptness can have a traumatic psychological and even physiological effect for life.
Until I first recorded this event here in 2007, it hadn’t occurred to me I wasn’t weaned. When changing the infant’s life source, it needs to be wisely done; it needs to be gradual. I expect my mother simply didn’t know any better or just didn’t care.
I marvel at how Jonathan was breastfed until he was three years old and properly weaned, without shock, without deprivation. God gave Marilyn the understanding and care to do some things right. Not to take credit from God and His favor, but age helps in some cases. While my mother was about 21 when she had me, Marilyn was 41 when she had Jonathan – twice my mother’s age. A 21-year-old has a lot to learn.
At least I had something of a home, parents, and a touch of breastfeeding. How traumatic it is for children born out of wedlock to mothers who were only out for selfish convenience and pleasure!
And then there are those who, by cold steel forceps, are torn from the mother’s womb, piece by piece. Read Abortion. My, how relative things are!
Years later it also occurred to me, given the time of this vision, that the stock market trial was the work of God, weaning me from the lust for money and the attractions of this world.
After the painful foray into the stock market, I wasn’t the same again, thankfully. But this time, I wasn’t accompanied by psychological scars, as when abruptly cut off from the breast.
As I review this in 2014, I realize another connection between the stock market foray and the vision of the infant abruptly denied the breast, and this, I believe, was the primary purpose of the stock market experience.
I lusted after money as a result of that experience as an infant. The Lord was weaning me from that lust through my painful subjection to the stock market. While, for a time, He left the explanation of the vision a mystery, He was showing me the cause and origin of why I went recklessly whoring as I did. Only today does He make known these things to us.
It’s revealed to me that lust for food/money/security stems back to being abruptly denied sustenance and comfort as a suckling infant.
As I review this Auto Part in 2014, I am fasting from food. Food has been a problem for me; I’ve spent my life looking for snacks, focused on food. I recently confessed to Marilyn that I’m reluctant to be corrected in this food issue. I can hardly wait to get back to enjoying it.
Following the confession, Marilyn prayed I’d be delivered from the problem. She has seen this in me for years, and now comes the time for her to pray that prayer, in wonderful coordination with other events. The timing and coincidence of these things – my fast, my confession of the food problem, Marilyn’s prayer, and reviewing this Auto Part precisely at this point with the stock market and vision – lead me to conclude the Lord has granted me a tremendous deliverance.
As I’ve so often said, when we see the origin of the problem, it’s because the Lord has healed us of it.
There were several instances when I suddenly identified with Jonathan and recalled certain events in my infancy. Once, when several months old, while he was sitting on the floor near the open cupboard below the sink, I suddenly remembered the taste of some caustic household cleanser like Comet or Ajax. I remembered the confusion in my infant mind, unable to identify it as bad or good. I vaguely remember my mother rushing to me, and with her index finger, cleansed my mouth of the substance.
I don’t recall for sure during what major trial in life I had this vision:
I saw an encampment of a circle of tents in a desert. An older man with beard and turban and a dark Middle Eastern garment was pouring something from a large urn into a cup, which a boy held in his hands. It was evident these were wealthy people, and it seemed the older man was a tutor or guardian. The boy, also in Middle Eastern robe, with turban, seemed about 12 years of age, very comely, robust, without companions, and the man was handsome, kind, and wise.
At first I couldn’t tell what the beverage was, but I knew it was cool and sweet. I then realized it was milk and honey. How refreshing it was! It gave life.
I knew I was that boy. Being the vision was at a time of great trial, I certainly didn’t feel like him; he was apparently happy, comfortable, and well looked-after, wanting no good thing.
Though we realized Bill Welton wasn’t what he pretended to be, we still hadn’t fully learned the folly of laying up treasures on earth, especially by the stock market. We began seeking out other brokers, looking to switch our portfolio to someone conscientious and caring about our financial welfare.
After talking to a few brokers, we chose Rick Dempsey, whom we appreciated as a person, not that other potentials weren’t appreciated.
Bill Welton didn’t make it easy for us to take our money out of his hands. While we directed him to promptly sell the Altamira funds, he stalled while the stocks continued to drop. There was nothing we could do because he had placed the stocks in his name. It was a very vexing experience.
Had he shorted, and was now making big dollars with our funds as they fell, while we were bleeding? I’m almost certain this was so – I’m sure those in the profession would know. In which case, is it any wonder he didn’t charge us commissions? He robbed us.
And what part did Glen Seaman play in all of this? He stood with Bill Welton 100%. How did he profit from us, or shall we believe he came to our house out of the goodness of his heart?
Finally, Bill released our money. We dumped Altamira, the general market was gaining again, and we finally had a gentler time of it. Rick was so much better to work with. But the day was approaching when we had a better place in which to invest what the Lord had given us.
Till then, I continued in covetousness and great folly. Thinking it would be profitable to have an “insider,” I asked Paul to consider becoming a stockbroker, seeing he was in sales. He applied to A.G. Edwards and was hired by Bob Whaley in Missoula. Here I was, still taking steps in life with mammon as a prime consideration and using Paul to that end. How dark and horrid!
Page 5 PART TWO – Pentecost to Israel (cont.) Particle – Winnipeg Charismatic Circles of the Seventies We drove on to Winnipeg, where we decided to stay with Art and Doreen Beals, whom I had known in Amway, on Roblin Boulevard in Charleswood. They were involved in Charismatic circles, often witnessing to us about the gifts of the Spirit. It was their custom, as with many Charismatics, to frequently pepper their conversation with “Praise the Lord” and to speak or pray out loud in tongues. They had been going to various meetings held in Winnipeg by itinerant preachers who seemed to excite people with music, revelations, preaching, prophecies, exorcisms, and healings, not to mention an oft ample dose of exhibitionism. For a “home church,” the Beals attended Washington Christian Center in Elmwood or East Kildonan, Winnipeg, which was co-pastored by Willard Thiessen and Ernie (I forget his Mennonite surname). Willard and Ernie previously had a street ministry in north Winnipeg, prayed for healings for many, and allegedly witnessed some miracles. Today, 36 years later, in 2011, Willard and wife Betty host a TV show, It's a New Day. In those days, friends of the Beals - Neil and Kathy Wiebe - also went to Washington Christian Center. I had also known them in Amway. Particle – A Spirit of Irreverence While there in a “worship service,” I was struck with the clear conviction that though the people were singing hymns, praising, speaking in tongues, prophesying, testif...
Correspondence with Nathan Lipton Here is a letter published in an HTE newsletter to Nathan Lipton (in his capacity as a medical doctor and distributor of HTE products), followed by his reply: Dear Dr. Lipton: Sometime ago (July ,2004) you may recall that I had contacted you wanting information about the Hothouses that your company sells. You may recall my story: My Mom (Janice) was diagnosed with Stage 3 peritoneal cancer in November of 2003. She underwent 3 different chemo programs and did not respond to any of them. In total she went through 8 months of chemotherapy. Shortly thereafter, she found out about your Hothouses and in desperation contacted one of your sales reps in Winnipeg, Manitoba --Alice J.--to find out more information. She was told that indeed she could be cured if she chose this method of treatment and was strongly urged to purchase the Total Health Spa if she wanted to see any results. As I recall, when I had talked to you in August you had told me that this treatment is not a cure; you were very clear about that. But who was I to tell her to purchase only one dome and shatter all her hopes. So she did purchase the 3 Hothouses and the Chi machine.] Alice sent her business associate Robert to set up the machines for my mom. My sister and brother happened to be in attendance and of course they had questions about this "unconventional treatment" (as most people would). This sales rep became very defensive that anyone would question...
wHaT tHe LoRd HaS dOnE wItH mE Table of Contents [insert_php] include("/usr/www/users/rtanner2/thepathoftruth.com/parts-toc.php");[/insert_php] PART ONE – Darkness to Light Part One PDF Part I - Page 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 Page 1 Particles... The Birth of a Fool Manitoba First Tongue Good “Googie” Dandled on Priests’ Knees “I Want to Go to Heaven!” The Constant Question A Born Barnstormer Poverty Magnified by a Cruel Christmas The Headless Horror How Powerful Is Pee? Little Things Big Kindness Is Perpetual School Away from Home Home Away from Home Firstborn Forsaken for a Few Furlongs Wrestling Returning Home My Mother a Witch? Sex Obfuscation Gloria Donald, the Draft Dodger Gluttony Not a Game Big Boys Don’t Cry; Little Boys Do Pudginess, Pee, and Poo The First of My Injuries Injury Number Two Injury Number Three Peter Pan Ill Humor and Cruelty Despise Weakness The Worst Job Ever Page 2 Particles... My First Memories of Natural Healing Skating and Hockey without Skates or Stick Passing Time Swatting Flies Little Indians and Miniature Trains Money Matters that Mattered A Necessary Preparation A Mysterious Enmity Mother Tongue Forbidden Lying and Cheating “Maybe” vs. “Mother” A Confounding Home Embarrassment, Confusion, and Humiliation “Wish I Wasn’t Born” Birthdays Turkey Trouble Victoria Comes t...