Part 2

When I entered high school, I re-met a girl with which I had gone through grade school and junior high. Her name was Mary. She was a very kind and gentle girl, very smart, and very pretty. We sat next to each other in German class. We would talk and talk and talk. That next summer after freshman year, we used to talk on the phone for hours. Now, mind you, she had a serious boyfriend, and had had this boyfriend since seventh grade. Plus, I was a “fat kid.” So all of this was purely innocent. Come next year, tenth grade, we had all the same classes except one. We sat next to each other in every class we could, but after the seating charts were assigned, it left us only with Drafting II. Not long into the year, she broke up with her long-time boyfriend. She moved into my locker. And one day I woke up to realize that I loved her intensely. I felt so comfortable with her that I just called her and told her. She really didn’t know what to say, but I like to think that she had some minute feelings for me as well. I’ll never know because I shoved her out of my life in the most perverse way possible: with religion.

Along this time that I was feeling so overpowered by the Lord in church, witnessing to anyone who would listen, and having had an experience with healing, I felt that it was time for Mary to move into the next level spiritually. I kept inviting her to church (she lived in Scipio, after all), but she wouldn’t come. Finally, after a couple months of trying, I got frustrated and told her that if she wouldn’t come to church, we couldn’t be friends. We argued to the point of getting separated by the teacher of the class (yeah, right in front of everyone), and the next day, when I went to sit by her again, our teacher thought that I should just stay at the other desk. For Mary’s sake, in retrospect, he was right. She moved out of my locker and quit talking to me. And who could blame her. I sure don’t. It was probably sophomore year of college before I finally got over the loss. It broke my heart in the worst way. It shook me to my roots. Though I didn’t “lose” my faith, I just didn’t think about it much anymore. I didn’t notice it at first. I guess I was in shock about the whole thing until I woke up an realized that I just wasn’t “into God” anymore.

Junior year of high school is lost in some of the most rank stupidity I have ever committed. Senior year was a turning point. I found alcohol. I dumped my best friend. (There’s a couple of pages in-and-of itself.) I hung with the “in” crowd. The details here aren’t all that relevant to my testimony except to say that God was getting further and further from my everyday thoughts.

Freshman year at Purdue University as a Freshman Engineer: I had made it! I worked in the kitchen staff at Harrison Hall; it was my first job. It immediately gave me a clique of friends — and upperclassmen friends at that. I was partying by the second weekend of my career. I wound up barfing drunk every weekend of freshman year (well… except a couple.) I was drunk both Friday and Saturday nights of the weekend. Sophomore year, I added marijuana. I really liked dope, and it liked me. Something about my body’s chemistry allowed me to get high for eight hours a stretch. Once, I smoked an entire eighth of an ounce and was high for three days straight, I kid you not. I was fuzzy for the next two, and for the next three, I got buzzed again after eating supper. I got scared enough by that experience that I flushed the rest and swore off buying anymore, knowing that it would’ve been my education down the toilet if I didn’t. But that didn’t stop me from smoking at parties when someone else offered.

Junior year was the height of my despair. I had finally learned how to handle my alcohol. I usually prepped for an evening of drinking by taking 10 or 12 NoDoze tablets just before supper. Needless to say, I would just pick at my food. Afterwards, I would have the requisite… ahem… movement (hey, you’ve probably had too much coffee; think about it) and shower. Then I’d whip out the 100 proof Dark Eyes vodka. I pour about half a pint in a cup, take a big breath, drink it in one long gulp, and immediately chase it with a Coke. (Don’t breathe…) I’d time it so that, just as I was coming down off the caffeine, I would go all the way down on the alcohol. Then I’d turn on my CD player full blast, listening to Led Zeppelin or Pink Floyd, and flip channels on my muted TV while my body came along for the ride. There would always be an adjustment period as I went from sober to dead drunk in about 20 minutes. When it was time, I’d get together with the “gang” and head to a party where I’d nurse a beer and dance myself silly.

This “living” was slowly eating away my morals and conscious. It was destroying my friendships and my self esteem. I didn’t realize how badly until Spring Break of Junior Year. Four of my friends decided to go to Daytona for the break. I wasn’t told directly. That was a clue I was too stupid to notice. It really should have told me something. But, nevertheless, I pushed my way along, and, to make a long story short, had the worst week of my life. It was my fault, I must confess. It was a time in my life that I needed strong friends. And by the time that I realized that I needed strong friends, my friendships had deteriorated well past the point of being able to count on them for support. It would have been a lot of work to be my friend at that time; I was a mess emotionally and mentally. I had become a real jerk. I was abusive and belligerent. I was foul. I needed help. The bible says:

Proverbs 17:17, “A friend loveth at all times, and a brother is born for adversity.”

And I found I didn’t have any. More than that, I found that:

Proverbs 18:24, “A man [that hath] friends must shew himself friendly: and there is a friend [that] sticketh closer than a brother.”

Meaning that to have friends, you must be the kind of person people want to be friends with. I wasn’t. That’s a pretty crummy feeling.

That next summer proved pivotal in my life. As much as I started a downspin in senior year of high school, I started an upspin in senior year of college. I started on “the Slim Fast Plan” and doing aerobics to lose weight. I lost thirty-five pounds in four months. I got a haircut and a shave. I bought a new wardrobe. I was a new person… almost. Let’s back up a second.

Just before my rebellious junior year, I went to a tiny home mission church that was held in a two car garage with a long-time friend named Greg, who I had known since seventh grade. He had gotten into a kind of church that I had never heard of before: Pentecostal. His best friend had gotten him into it. I’ll never forget that evening we went. They had a piano, electric guitar, a set of drums, some amplifiers and all the pews and people all crammed into that garage, but from the first few notes of worship music, I knew that I had walked into the presence of God. I began to cry. I began to weep. I knew how far I was from God, and yet, the very person of God seemed to be comforting me, letting me know that it was going to be alright. All those times that I had felt His presence in the Presbyterian church had prepared me. When it came again, amidst all the noise of Pentecostal worship, I let it fly. I cried out to God. I don’t remember what was said. I don’t remember the preaching. I do remember the hands that people laid on me as they prayed for me, and I remember feeling loved by them. And you know what? I was. But it was a completely foreign kind of love. Something that went past having to earn it. It was unconditional. It was this demonstration that would lead me back to a Pentecostal church. I left that place thinking that if Jesus was alive today, that would be the kind of church He would attend.

I worked at Arvin during the summer between junior and senior year. A guy there invited me with him to a Pentecostal church in Brownstown. I went off and on, but it never stuck. However, what still amazes me to this day is the feeling I would get in worship. Though I was still mired deep in sin, when I’d go to church, the power of God would grip me. God never let go of me. Never stopped loving me. Never stopped showing it. He continued to draw near to me when I would draw near to Him.

Back to campus senior year. I had one of those “moments” that, though it’s probably a sin to enjoy for the sake of one’s pride, you do anyway. In the first week back, I rounded the corner of the Humanities library coming from the Undergrad Library heading to the Union. Decked out in my new look, I ran smack dab into an old girlfriend and her new boyfriend. The look she gave me made every drop of sweat worthwhile. Her jaw hit the ground. I never missed a beat. I just said “Hey,” and kept walking. Comments from my old friends also helped soothe the old wounds. I was in rare form. And it was in this state that Greg invited me to a revival service at Brother Parnell’s church in Lafayette. It was September 29, 1990. I don’t remember the preacher’s name, but I remember he preached on being baptized with the Holy Ghost. After the message, Greg asked me if I wanted to go to the altar to get the Holy Ghost. I said okay, not really understanding what was happening. I went to the altar, knelt down, and opened up my heart…

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