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A few years back I spent some time working in Sighisoara, a Romanian town best know as Vlad the Impaler’s (Dracula) birthplace. For weeks I had been increasingly frustrated with my business and my general direction in life. While welding posts together for a sort of palisade, I resolutely cried out to God: “What on earth am I supposed to be doing with my life?” I concurrently demanded an immediate cosmic solution and expected that no eye would turn my way.

Just then a vehicle was heard in the distance and a yellowish Datson soon pulled up to the work site, accompanied by small mantle of dust. The young men who stepped out delivered my long anticipated answer: “Hey, a lady up in the citadel told us that there was a bass player here. We need him!”

I stopped welding at once, hopped in the Datson and went to rehearse for the gig.