Chaos (and a Bullet)
Protected.
That’s the word I’d use now. From an early age, I had experienced the presence of a loving Father God and had been taught to avoid any personification of the devil—and because of that, I don’t have many stories of facing evil in a direct, embodied way.
Except one - well kind of....
There was a moment—now that I look back—when I was congratulating myself for having never encountered the devil personified. But then, I heard a voice. Low. Deep. “I do have a bullet… aimed…” It sounded evil. It sounded like the devil.
I shrugged it off. By this time we had encountered suffering, trauma, temptations, the dark side, sinister cloud of depression, but I had kept my distance from horror movies, satanic themes, or haunted stories, exorcisms and the likes. So I was taken aback by the voice but didn't think it was real - until we took a road trip -- to BC.
We’d been invited to a wedding in Victoria. Instead of flying, we decided to make it an adventure—a road trip, just like the old days. The empty nest syndrome had left us raw and restless, looking for a refreshing vacation and need to get off the grid and just be ourselves again.
Our only vehicle was my father’s beat-up Oldsmobile. I adored it, but it wasn’t reliable. So we chose to take Cliff’s white company van, threw our sleeping bags in the back, and hit the road—hippie-style.
The wedding in Victoria was beautiful. And on our way home, we took the North Cascade Scenic Highway through Washington—quiet, breathtaking, soul-healing. Though we never actually slept in the back of our van as we intended (turns out pretending to be poor is hard when you can afford motels), we were in our groove again.
We were driving along, listening to old music, when suddenly: CRACK.
A sharp noise, sounding like a bullet hit us - the windshield jolted. We stopped. Got out. It looked exactly like a bullet had struck—angled just right to glance off the glass. It had been aimed at me. It was a miracle it hadn't shattered the glass.
Where did it come from? Was it deliberate? There was no one around. No cars. No houses.
At the next town, we had it checked.
“Yes,” the mechanic said. “That was a bullet. You want to report it?”
Locals guessed it was the wild mountain man—“a hippie with a gun,” someone muttered.
We chose not to report it. But I kept thinking: That was the bullet. And I’m okay.
It made everything afterward feel sacred. Driving. Talking. Laughing. Eventually,
Cliff got tired and I took the wheel. While I was driving, Cliff read to me from a book about the left brain vs. right brain. It sparked a deep conversation—about perception, time, truth, memory.
That’s when the police lights showed up behind me signaling me to pull over. The officer approached very cautiously, crouched low along the van, as if preparing for something dangerous. When he saw me in the driver’s seat, he did a double take— I was clearly not what he expected.
“What are you doing?” he asked, shocked. “Why didn’t you stop earlier?”
Apparently, he’d been following us through the entire town, trying to pull us over. I hadn’t noticed. I was immersed in Cliff’s voice, in the book, in the moment. And honestly, I ignore U.S. speed limit signs. They’re in miles—I’m Canadian. I don’t do math.
To the officer, though, we were driving a beat up utility van with a Canadian license plate, a bullet-scarred windshield, erratic driving… we looked like violent, desperate drug dealers, I'm sure.
When we explained the book, the drive, our very boring selves, he softened. “My wife would love that book,” he admitted. We even pulled him into the discussion.
Still, he said, “I can’t let you off with a warning. When you didn’t pull over, I reported you - and now there’s a sting operation set up just ahead. Tactical units, checkpoints—ready to trap a threat.” We all smiled at the absurdity of it all - but also the horror - what if we had been pulled out of the van - on our faces - cuffed...
We were mortified. I apologized profusely.
Cliff took the wheel after that.
The rest of the journey was uneventful—but when we turned into our driveway at home in Winnipeg, it felt like we had time-traveled. Back to our hippie years. Back to Eden. We had faced a bullet, avoided a sting - and were keenly aware that there is something darker always lurking in the shadows of our lives.
For the person of sound body and serene of mind there is no such thing as bad weather; every day has its beauty, and storms which whip the blood and make it pulse more vigorously. - George Gissing
That’s the word I’d use now. From an early age, I had experienced the presence of a loving Father God and had been taught to avoid any personification of the devil—and because of that, I don’t have many stories of facing evil in a direct, embodied way.
Except one - well kind of....
There was a moment—now that I look back—when I was congratulating myself for having never encountered the devil personified. But then, I heard a voice. Low. Deep. “I do have a bullet… aimed…” It sounded evil. It sounded like the devil.
I shrugged it off. By this time we had encountered suffering, trauma, temptations, the dark side, sinister cloud of depression, but I had kept my distance from horror movies, satanic themes, or haunted stories, exorcisms and the likes. So I was taken aback by the voice but didn't think it was real - until we took a road trip -- to BC.
We’d been invited to a wedding in Victoria. Instead of flying, we decided to make it an adventure—a road trip, just like the old days. The empty nest syndrome had left us raw and restless, looking for a refreshing vacation and need to get off the grid and just be ourselves again.
Our only vehicle was my father’s beat-up Oldsmobile. I adored it, but it wasn’t reliable. So we chose to take Cliff’s white company van, threw our sleeping bags in the back, and hit the road—hippie-style.
The wedding in Victoria was beautiful. And on our way home, we took the North Cascade Scenic Highway through Washington—quiet, breathtaking, soul-healing. Though we never actually slept in the back of our van as we intended (turns out pretending to be poor is hard when you can afford motels), we were in our groove again.
We were driving along, listening to old music, when suddenly: CRACK.
A sharp noise, sounding like a bullet hit us - the windshield jolted. We stopped. Got out. It looked exactly like a bullet had struck—angled just right to glance off the glass. It had been aimed at me. It was a miracle it hadn't shattered the glass.
Where did it come from? Was it deliberate? There was no one around. No cars. No houses.
At the next town, we had it checked.
“Yes,” the mechanic said. “That was a bullet. You want to report it?”
Locals guessed it was the wild mountain man—“a hippie with a gun,” someone muttered.
We chose not to report it. But I kept thinking: That was the bullet. And I’m okay.
It made everything afterward feel sacred. Driving. Talking. Laughing. Eventually,
Cliff got tired and I took the wheel. While I was driving, Cliff read to me from a book about the left brain vs. right brain. It sparked a deep conversation—about perception, time, truth, memory.
That’s when the police lights showed up behind me signaling me to pull over. The officer approached very cautiously, crouched low along the van, as if preparing for something dangerous. When he saw me in the driver’s seat, he did a double take— I was clearly not what he expected.
“What are you doing?” he asked, shocked. “Why didn’t you stop earlier?”
Apparently, he’d been following us through the entire town, trying to pull us over. I hadn’t noticed. I was immersed in Cliff’s voice, in the book, in the moment. And honestly, I ignore U.S. speed limit signs. They’re in miles—I’m Canadian. I don’t do math.
To the officer, though, we were driving a beat up utility van with a Canadian license plate, a bullet-scarred windshield, erratic driving… we looked like violent, desperate drug dealers, I'm sure.
When we explained the book, the drive, our very boring selves, he softened. “My wife would love that book,” he admitted. We even pulled him into the discussion.
Still, he said, “I can’t let you off with a warning. When you didn’t pull over, I reported you - and now there’s a sting operation set up just ahead. Tactical units, checkpoints—ready to trap a threat.” We all smiled at the absurdity of it all - but also the horror - what if we had been pulled out of the van - on our faces - cuffed...
We were mortified. I apologized profusely.
Cliff took the wheel after that.
The rest of the journey was uneventful—but when we turned into our driveway at home in Winnipeg, it felt like we had time-traveled. Back to our hippie years. Back to Eden. We had faced a bullet, avoided a sting - and were keenly aware that there is something darker always lurking in the shadows of our lives.
For the person of sound body and serene of mind there is no such thing as bad weather; every day has its beauty, and storms which whip the blood and make it pulse more vigorously. - George Gissing
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