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(Continued from last week…)
When I flunked out of college the first time (yes, there was more than once), I moved back home, got a part-time job, went to community college and went back to church. Strangely, my life seemed to turn around. I was organized. I was successful in my studies. AND I was "going to church.” After one semester and a summer away from UT, they permitted me to return. This time I didn't live on campus. I had a job lined up working full-time for the Texas National Guard. And, I buckled down with my studies. I even returned to ROTC, thinking it would be helpful for my future career as an army officer.
One spiritual experience happened late one night. I had just returned from a field training exercise with my guard unit and had a lot of dirty equipment that needed cleaning. I didn't have access to a garden hose at my apartment so I headed over to Camp Mabry where they had an area to wash equipment. I went over in the evening when I knew that I wouldn't be bothered. One of the night guards, whom I was acquainted with, stopped to ask how I was doing. I responded that I was fine and was just cleaning some of my field gear. He went on with his nightly rounds but came back later. We started to chat and he turned the conversation to Jesus. I really just wanted to get my gear cleaned, but was polite enough to let him talk. He asked if he could pray for me and I grudgingly said okay. He took me by the hand and placed his other hand on my shoulder. I never experienced prayer in this way and was quite uncomfortable but I said nothing. I don't remember what this man prayed but what I do recall was that his hands were hot. I don't mean sweaty hot. I mean burning white hot, almost to the point that it hurt. When he finished praying we chatted a bit, he invited me to his church, and then he left. As I turned back to cleaning my gear I thought "how odd."
The last spiritual experience of my desert period that I want to talk involves my father. It was 1994 and I worked for Builders Square. I had gone to San Antonio for some work-related training. My father had been in the hospital and when my classes finished, I went to visit him as a surprise. It was my surprise because when I got there he was getting to go home. As I walked into the hospital room, my dad came over, gave me a great big hug, and told me that he loved me. Wow! My dad was never much for physical affection or sentiment. Don't get me wrong, my dad and I had always had a special connection and I looked up to my father as one of my heroes.
As a child, we had been involved in Y-Indian Guides together. Even though he wasn't musically inclined, he supported me in all of my music activities: choir, orchestra, piano, and violin. He taught me how to drive a stick shift. He was a booster for my high school ROTC battalion. He was my dad. Dad was never a smiley-type. Don't get me wrong, he could laugh and joke with the best of them, and often did. However, he wasn't someone to walk around with a smile all day long. Sometime in 1993, he went on something called a "Walk to Emmaus.” All I remember about this was that a friend of his had asked me to write my father a note of encouragement and love. The next time I saw dad, he was happy and smiling. He and I never got an opportunity to talk about his "walk" experience, but I could see a change in his personality and countenance. He became active in Kairos prison ministry and often baked hundreds of dozens of cookies for men and women in prison. I was happy to see this change in my father.
The afternoon we left the hospital, I went with my family back to the house to visit a while before I left for Austin. When I got up to leave, my father gave me another big hug and told me that he loved me. My drive to Austin was uneventful and when I got to my apartment, I sat on the couch with a beer and watched TV. I waited for a phone call from a girl that I was supposed to go out with that evening but instead, got a phone call from one of my parents' neighbors. They told me to get back to San Antonio quickly - my father had been taken back to the hospital. I threw some things in a bag and drove back to San Antonio.
I don't recall ever having a "Holy Spirit" moment before, but somewhere on the road between San Marcos and New Braunfels, I felt a presence in the front seat of the car with me. I just prayed that my father was okay and this presence stayed with me all the way to the hospital in San Antonio. When I walked in the emergency room, my sister was there and told me that daddy had died. I went to find my mother and got to see my father for the last time. They told me he had passed about twenty minutes before - while I was still on the road. For many years, I remembered that presence in the front seat of my car and thought it was my dad's spirit coming to say his final farewell. However, you see, he had already told me farewell earlier that afternoon. There, in the midst of my desert wandering, my Father, my heavenly Father, with me in that car, ensuring that I would safely arrive at my destination, even though He knew the grief I was about to experience.
The remainder of my desert time wasn’t much better. I drank. I used every form of tobacco. I cussed. I made bad choices. I even thought about becoming a Buddhist. As if eastern religion held answers which my Christian experience lacked. I dabbled in crystals, self-hypnotism, and other new-agey things. I delved into conspiracy theories; seeing black helicopters and shadows at every turn. Even with all of these faults, I never did drugs.
When I got married, I did so in a church. When we baptized my son, it was in a church. However, I didn’t practice this “religion” at home. I didn’t teach Jesus to my children. I didn’t talk about Him with my wife. Even in this place of doubt, God was still faithful and pursued me.
Sometime around 2002 or 2003, my wife told me that she wanted to start going to church and that I was to find a place for us to attend. Without realizing it, she had started to lead me, and our family, out of the desert. (To be continued...)
~~Ken
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