Dancing on a Razor. Kevin John White

supper and a bath when as a child I sat with my brother and sister on the floor, my toes burning on the electric heater in my father’s study, as he read to us of Narnia and of Aslan—“The Great Lion,” “Son of the Emperor Over the Sea,” “The King of All High Kings.” I am so pleased now that the cynicism and sophistication of many years had not dulled my ears nor deadened my heart to wonder and mystery.

      I found out that night there was another world, but unlike Narnia, this world was not a bedtime fairy tale. This unseen realm was very real and had just invaded my life, and I would never be the same again—I couldn’t be the same again—ever.

      I remember asking many other questions and that we talked about them all. Other than one, I don’t remember specifics about particular questions, but I would suppose they were all in the nature of what any lonely ten-year-old would ask God in the middle of the night as he walked down the middle of the road on his way back home. I do remember he always answered me, though, and that many of his answers seemed to be questions I had to answer for myself. This vexed me somewhat, but he always answered nonetheless. We walked together that night, he and I, and slowly we began to speak as friends would speak, of many things, the voices in the distant wind long forgotten.

      The one question I do remember asking was “Why? Why are you talking with me?” His answer, try as I may, was something I cannot quite recall.

      However, before we got home that night so long ago, he did tell me one thing that I do remember. It was something I have kept in my heart always and will keep there till I am at his side forever.

      He said that I could believe in him or not but that he would always talk with me—always—no matter what.

      Not very long after, I noticed something. Something wonderful. In that dark and frighteningly empty hole so deep in my heart, there mysteriously appeared a wondrously beautiful sphere of purest crystal, and inside it burned a single flame of fire. No wick, no candle, just a light in that terrible darkness—a flame that nothing in this world or any other could ever possibly extinguish—the very life of God in me. I can see it clearly still to this very second, and I long for it to consume me utterly and completely—the very fire of God in my heart of hearts.

      And our conversations? They have continued, unbroken, to this very day. He has kept his promise to talk with me always, no matter what. And we talk as friends would talk, and I still have so very many questions to ask, and he remains as vexing as ever, “The Great Answer and a Question and a Great Big Magnifying Glass with a Wonderful Sense of Humour All at Once,” only now … I’m not alone. Now I’m never alone.

1: The Set-Up

      I suppose I should introduce myself. My name is Kevin John René White. Legally my name is John René, but both God and my mother call me Kevin. Now I’m pretty sure the two of them pack a whole lot more wallop than any government on earth (especially my mother—ask God … he’ll tell you), so that being said, I shall call myself Kevin.

      What I’m going to tell you is rather odd, but that’s not surprising seeing as how I’m the one who’s doing the telling. What is surprising, however, is that I’m alive with enough brain activity to write anything at all!

      That also being said, everything I’m going to write down here is the honest truth about some extremely unusual events. I know they’re true because they happened to me, which means I was there when they happened, so I should know better than anybody—right? Except for the parts where I wasn’t born yet … and I am a little sketchy on the parts where I was crawling around in diapers (don’t remember—very embarrassing time … rather messy actually).

      Now before I really get going here I think perhaps I should mention something. I am not the only one in my family that’s a little bit … well, odd really. It just seems like I got a double portion of this weirdness, so it’s actually quite normal that I turned out the way I did (I mean, being a tad whacked and all).

      The parts where I wasn’t born yet go like this:

      During World War II my father served in the British navy as a dive bomber and a reconnaissance photographer aboard the HMS Trumpeter. In civilian terms that meant he and his pilot pal flew around the Atlantic Ocean picking fights and taking pictures of everything that had an enemy flag attached to it. At least everything they could find. My dad would hang out the tail end of a British fighter plane and say “smile” to all the guns and crew on the enemy vessels while his pilot pal made steep dives so Dad could drop his bombs and take good pictures of what type of guns they had. This intel was then sent to headquarters monitoring enemy activity in that area of the Atlantic. While Dad was occupied with that, his buddy was real busy trying not to get them blown right out of the sky.

      What was even trickier was taking pictures over land. They’d have to dive straight into the antiaircraft guns and take pictures of them so the bomber crews would know what kind and how many guns they would be facing in any offensives they were planning. They got shot at a lot. Oh yeah, during those missions they were not armed, so they couldn’t even shoot back.

      Now none of this really has any bearing on what I want to write about other than to say I think Dad secretly loved the adrenalin rush and was definitely a bit mad. That, and I’m really proud of him (which I never told him while he was alive). Oh—and most importantly—I definitely inherited from him on both counts!

      After the war, he returned to England and became a surgeon, working mostly in an emergency room. I guess he must have read a few books or something. My dad was a pretty smart guy.

      After a while, I think God told him that there were even better things than bodies to save, so he got it into that wonderful head of his that being a missionary and saving poor savage souls was just the thing for him. So, off he went and hooked up with an outfit called New Tribes Missions and for the second time in his life found himself in a war, this one even more important than the last. This was around when the miracles started. At least the ones I heard about. I’m sure there were plenty of others.

      See, before my father went to New Tribes boot camp, God told him that was where he would meet his future wife. Well, when he got there, missionary school was a total bust. No single dream girl in sight. But because God says, and Dad’s Dad, he decided to stick it out and began teaching. Seems like he taught wherever he was, at least as I recall it. He did this for a while, but as the clock ticked on and time got short, there was still no sign of Mrs. Right. Or should I say—Mrs. White.

      One day in camp he was kicking back on his bunk with a prayer chain magazine, and he stumbled across an article about a young Canadian girl who, while serving with New Tribes in the Pacific, had contracted tuberculosis of the spine. At that time this particular type of tuberculosis permanently crippled or killed everybody who got it.

      Now, for some reason this pissed my father off something fierce, and as he recounted to me, after reading it, in a heartbeat he tumbled out of his bunk, was onto his knees, and started getting real pushy with God—like actually arguing and demanding that God heal this woman—and with fast quickness too!

      Dad told me that as he’d been reading he became frustrated and angry at God. Dad felt that this was all wrong! He began pointing out in no uncertain terms that God needed to really re-examine himself on this particular issue, reconsider exactly what he was doing here, heal this girl up right quick, and get her back in the saddle again, pronto! As in right away! The funny thing about it all is that Dad didn’t even believe divine healing existed anymore. But for some reason that didn’t slow him up too much that day.

      Now there is a point to all this, and I’m getting to it now. The facts are that miracles were running way wild in my family long before I ever showed up. You see, I come by the kind of things I am going to describe to you honestly. Premonitions, visions, and manifestations of God’s incredible love and holiness were shared by both me and my father. I didn’t ask for them. I didn’t go looking for them, and there are many times I wished I’d never experienced them. Also, I’m going to show you, very clearly, that none of this is my fault, that I never stood a chance, and that I was set up from the get-go. Here are two miracles right off the hop, and then I’ll get to the “Big Set-Up.”

      What