How an ECK Master Saved and Guided Me
By Anthony, Nigeria
When I was a child, my father worked with Her Majesty’s Naval Service. We lived near the Lagos lagoon, where I liked to play and swim with my friends.
One fateful day at the lagoon, I came across a timber raft. Large wood logs were tied lengthwise to form a raft. That was how timber was transported around the shores of Nigeria in those days. Someone had berthed the raft on the sandy shore. Part of it still floated on the water.
I climbed onto the first log, walked to its end, and jumped into the water. I went to the second log and did the same. Each jump landed my feet on watery but firm ground. It was not the first time I had played this game. Other children and I often played this game whenever there was a raft on the beach. That day I was alone.
Subsequent jumps landed me on the ground. But my last leap found me going deeper and deeper without my feet touching anything. I panicked as I found myself going into a deep pit. Within seconds, my head was submerged in water.
The erosive nature of the tide must have caused the shore to break its bank, forming a deep gorge which I was not aware of. I was a good swimmer, but in my panic I could not help myself.
“Uhuhu! Uhuhu!” I screamed as I struggled to reach the surface of the water. In my native dialect this was a call for help when in danger. The water pulled me down again. Anytime I surfaced, I would scream, “Uhuhu! Uhuhu!” By the last time I came up, I had swallowed so much water I could not scream. The only sound I could make was “Hu-u-u-u.” Then I sank to the bottom. I stopped struggling and lay down to die peacefully.
Suddenly, from out of nowhere, hands lifted me as if I was weightless and placed me on the sandy beach. Is this a dream? I wondered. As I lay there exhausted, I opened my eyes and looked into the face of an elderly gentleman. He looked like an Indian. He had peculiar eyes, white hair, and a white beard. He wore a white, long-sleeved shirt under a short, blue, sleeveless jacket.
“Look at the road,” he said. I did. But when I looked back, he was gone.
Who is this man who had saved me from drowning? I asked myself. I must look for him. That started my search for truth.
I told my friends about my experience at the lagoon and my search for the man who had saved me. This led me into learning some psychic things I mistook for spirituality.
I finished school and joined the Nigerian Merchant Navy. As we traveled around the globe, I came across many religions and explored them, but I was like a bird without a nest.
After I retired, I went back to my village, which now had many worship centers. But I had grown tired of religions. My search for truth grew more intense, but I stopped going to church or practicing any religion.
I still had an uncanny assurance, though, that the man who saved me would one day help me find the truth about life. Who is he? I still wondered. What religion does he belong to? How can I find him?
I began to fast and pray.
After six days, the man who’d saved me fifty years earlier appeared in my room. He took me out of the body.
“Let’s go,” he said. I followed without hesitation as we went right through the wall. We flew above the sky. Below I could see bulbs of light. I was enjoying this experience and anticipating more, when somebody knocked on my door. This jolted me back. I woke up. It was daytime.
“God, please take me to where I will worship until I leave this world,” I prayed.
The following day, I dressed and left my house to look for a church to attend. I walked for more than three kilometers around town but could not locate any. Even though my town is noted for a proliferation of churches, mysteriously that day the churches seemed to have vanished into thin air.
I rounded a bend and had not gone far when, in front of a shop, someone suddenly took my hand.
“Follow me,” a voice sounded. I did. He pointed to a building directly across the road from the shop.
“Look at where you are going to worship,” he said.
I looked at him closely. It was the same man who had rescued me from drowning, the same man who had taken me on a trip above the sky. He wore the same clothes. He still held my hand as we crossed the road to the doorstep of the building. A sign read “ECKANKAR Centre.” We ascended a narrow staircase. He kept me in front of him while we climbed. The staircase was too narrow for two people to walk side by side.
By the time I reached the fourth step, I no longer heard the sound of steps behind me. I turned around and found I was alone. He was gone. I continued the ascent and reached the door of the ECK Center. I was trying to remove my shoes, when someone told me not to bother but to come in as I was. People were seated in the room. Somebody was giving a talk. Later I found that I was at an Eckankar service. The topic was “God’s Love in Action.”
After the service, I wandered from room to room in the ECK Center. I wanted to understand what I might be getting myself into.
In one of the rooms I saw some pictures—and there was the picture of the man who had saved me. Grabbing the picture, I asked myself, What is his picture doing here?
“This is the man that led me across the street to this place,” I shouted to a new-found friend at the ECK Center. “He has saved my life and guided me here.” I was so excited.
“Oh!” exclaimed my friend as he turned his attention to me. “This is Fubbi Quantz. He lives in a temple in Tibet.”
I had such a spacious feeling; it was as if my feet no longer touched the ground. This ended my search for truth. I was grateful I was home. I became an ECKist.