Imagine an intoxicatingly beautiful day. Bright blue sky, lush green woods, and the dark glassy water of the French River in Ontario. In this scene, I am standing on the Pine Cove Road.

As a child, I can remember the electric thrill I felt when our car turned onto the Pine Cove Road. With all its curves and slopes, it was enough to make you carsick. But that didn’t matter. After a 500-mile trip, it meant we were only a few miles from our destination: Crayhaven—our family cabins on the French River, built by my mother’s parents in 1938.

So picture me standing on a particular curve of that very road. My father and mother are next to me. My sister and brother too. Cousins, Sue and Rick, are nearby, soaking in the soft sunlight. Other cousins, Mary and Cliff, are strolling up the road toward us.

My dad hand-signals all of us to gather close. We wait until Mary and Cliff join our circle. Great emotion sweeps over my father’s face. His eyes fill with tears, his lips tremble a little. After a minute of labored breath, he manages to speak.

“This is the last time…” He winces. A tear rolls down his cheek. “…The last time we will all be here together.” It is a solemn moment. We’ve shared decades of history in our little cabins there. A rush of sorrow and gratitude flood my soul.

Then the dream ended, and I woke up.

Some would call this a “now” message from God. The dream wasn’t surreal like some Alice-in-Wonderland fantasy. The scene involved an actual place I can pinpoint. I knew all the people, and each one looked exactly like they do in real life. It was vividly detailed and in color. And if you’ve read Chapter 10 in my book, you’ll know just how much our summers at Crayhaven mean to me.

I had this dream in the spring of 2009. Several months later, my mother enjoyed what would be her last summer at Crayhaven. She left us the following year.

As it turned out, Cliff passed away too.

Why did God tell me in advance? Continue reading