It is midnight. I awake to explosions, sirens, gunshots, and screams. On my hands and knees, I crawl toward my balcony overlooking Lindell Boulevard. Acrid smoke assails my nose and mouth. Flaming buildings and trees and scorched cars illumine the scene below. Armored vehicles plow through rock-throwing protesters, snipers in battle-gear pick off armed citizens, black helicopters film the mayhem. Terror seizes me.

Through my studies in the depth psychology of Dr. Carl Jung, I recognized this dream had emerged from the collective unconscious; it foreshadowed what was to come.

However, in 1998, this  dream encroached upon my predictable world: hospice work, homemaking, entertaining, significant studies, films, symphony, and theater.  Its setting was Lindell Boulevard in the fashionable Central West End of St. Louis, MO. where I had lived for many years. True, just a few blocks, north and south of this pristine thoroughfare, lived impoverished families eking out a living. As a hospice chaplain, I had been inside their homes.

Years passed. My predictable world continued, largely unruffled by mayhem in other parts of the world.

Not so today.

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