The Truth Calling

Many nights, alone in my apartment with my daughter, I still wrestled with the strange heaviness that created a sorrow in me and made my eyes pool with tears, all the while fighting back the on-rush of emotions because I didn’t want Amanda to see her old man cry. What kind of a man was I? And what had I really done with my life that would make my daughter Amanda proud of me one day? All I was good for was witchcraft, guzzling booze, and chasing women.

If Amanda was the one with tears in her eyes, I would’ve rushed to her, put my arms around her, and comforted her. But who did I have at that moment that would comfort me? That’s when I felt a prompting to call an older woman from the church who was like a grandmother to all. So I did. I was so grateful she lived just a few blocks away. I waited until she picked up the phone. I was so desperate to talk to someone, anyone. But it had to be her because she was a godly, Christian woman.

Finally, her voice broke through like a ray of sunlight. She was so glad to hear it was me. “Please lead me to the Lord,” I begged. “I want to pray to take the pain away.”

“I would love to, John,” she answered.

She invited me over to her place, and I was out of the house as soon as I hung up the phone, taking Amanda with me. I was heading in the wrong direction down the street and didn’t want to admit it—lost just like my soul and about to split hell wide open. I had been to the woman’s house once before. Why couldn’t I find it now?

It was dark and late, and as I hustled past lamp-lit streets with Amanda by the hand, I looked for a pay phone.

“Daddy, are you okay? Why are we rushing?” she said.

“Everything’s going to be fine, Amanda.” My eyes darted around for a phone booth. “Do you trust me? I trust you.”

“Yes, Daddy.”

“Do you love me? I love you.” “Yes, Daddy, I love you.”

“Okay, everything’s going to be all right.”

Happily, I found a pay phone, fed a quarter into the slot, and dialed the number. My hands were shaking, my breathing ragged. My patience strained, waiting for a ring. They say a man never asks for directions. But I was desperate. At the sound of a clunk I realized I had lost twenty-five cents and the call, so I ran to another booth and pumped in another quarter. The same thing happened. I slammed the receiver into the cradle, the urge to cry rising within. Someone was making it hard for me to find the address—to have the truth. That’s when I started thinking about going back home. But the voice that had spoken to that time in my living room wouldn’t let me. “Don’t give up,” it said. So I moved on with a determined pace.

At last I found the building. In no time I was in the old woman’s living room, sitting on her sofa, Amanda at my side. I wanted prayer for her too.

The woman said, “John, we can stand and hold hands, and I will pray for you and Amanda.

Jesus wants to be the Lord of your life. Is that what you want?”

“Yes, that’s what I want,” I said. The surge of tears got stronger, rising like a mighty tide.

A few members of her family surrounded me and began to pray. I felt at peace, but in the back of my mind I was very much aware that my demon tormentors were not far away, hunting me down. Lost in the intercession, I saw myself again as a nine-year-old boy. I had gotten off the bus at Fordham Road and was on my way home when I ran into an evangelical street meeting. There people were witnessing and giving out tracts. Some kind soul asked if I wanted prayer and I said yes. What joy I had in my heart. But because I didn’t have anyone to direct my life or take me to church, something else did the directing for me. A better word was misdirected.

As the people prayed for me, I said the prayers from my lips but not from my heart. I couldn’t come to the full submission, accepting Jesus as my Savior, knowing the contract of twenty-five years of my life that was signed over to the devil and his demons. I went back home that night with my daughter, trying to make sense of everything that had taken place, with many unanswered questions.

The next time I saw the old woman in church, she counseled me about totally renouncing witchcraft and getting rid of all the paraphernalia in my apartment. If she only knew that in my heart I didn’t fully surrender to God because I was scared of being labeled a traitorous enemy by the religious members of espiritismo, Santeria, and Palo, and would no doubt have a death contract put out on me as soon as they discovered what was in my heart.

Now, in order to honor the commitment I made long ago with the dark side, I guarded the biggest secret I had ever kept—that I was falling in love with Jesus. But I could not fool those who knew my personal history since I was ten years old. It didn’t matter that I carried a Bible or went to church. To them, I was still the devil man. And how right they were. Even though I was prayed for by Christians, I kept attending the witchcraft world.

Date: 2015-01-11; view: 602