Traveling across America, from Washington to Georgia, from California to Maryland, I've seen a lot of this country and heard a lot from my dad. As he turns 60, I remember the stories he told us as he drove the car through states like North Carolina, on dark nights and rainy days. In my mind, I remember those stories he told me as a little boy.
I try to recreate them as best as I can, knowing that I can never recapture every moment or breathe life into each event. Dad is as skilled a storyteller as I've known, particularly with his own life. I also probably don't have all my facts straight, but this is what I heard the best I remember.
Due to various injuries, my dad hasn't been able to write the story of his life. Still, it's a story that must be told. Because, in one way it's more than the story of my dad, it's the story of our family. Indeed, the lives of his children and his grandchildren are all affected by the life he's lived.
My father was born on October 27, 1942 in Spokane, Washington. Dad grew up in a melting pot neighborhood. He talks often of how he hung out with kids of all ethnicities. A skinny child, Dad tells the story of how he would consume an entire plate of Spaghetti at the house of an Italian friend and then his friend's mother would refill his plate saying, "Maucha, mauncha, you too skinny."
While his father was an atheist, he did teach him some valuable lessons. One day, after losing a race to a Black friend, not knowing the meaning of the word, my dad called his friend "the n-word". He was called into the house and given the spanking of his life for this. His father admonished him against racial prejudice. It was something that he would carry with him for the rest of his life.
My grandfather also taught my father the importance of punctuality. My dad and his siblings were constantly late for Dinner. Finally, my grandfather warned them that if they were late one more time, he would make them eat off the floor. Sure enough, the next time they were late they sat on the floor, but didn't view the situation as a punishment. My grandfather then told them that next time, he would make them sit on the floor and eat without silverware. My grandfather was true to his word and once again they showed up late. They had even more fun eating like animals. Finally, my grandfather warned that he'd make them sit on the floor, without silverware, and let the dogs in. Sure enough, my dad and his siblings didn't show up for dinner, and my grandfather let the dogs in. He wasn't late for dinner again after that.
On the issue of religion, my grandfather was quick to mock any inclinations in his children. My dad remembers my grandfather mocking him when he attempted to pray. Still, seeds had been planted in his life from some unlikely sources. My father recalls leaving a Catholic Church, and having a feeling that someday he'd be a priest, which for the agnostic son of an atheist was quite an odd thing.
The pro-Christian stance of many movies of the day would also help sow seeds, as he enjoyed triple features for less than 15 cents. During these years, my dad read avidly, performed in choir, and played softball. His life was not rosy, far from it. During these years, he dealt with a mother's rejection, a broken relationship with his brother that would never be repaired, and feelings of shame that would haunt him for years to come. On his 17th birthday, my dad enlisted in the Army.
Dad found a world entirely foreign to his own in the US Army. While other units were integrating, dad says that the Colonel running his base instead "has his own private Dixie" in Germany. Dad found himself in constant trouble at the base.
The Colonel had ordered that the Whites on base were to go to a big town when on leave, while the Blacks were to go to a smaller town. My dad, being my dad, he went to the town the Blacks were supposed to go to.
My dad suffered an injury that to this day, still effects him. While working on a truck with a knife, he fell off the truck and the knife landed in his hand. The doctor at the base got to him put a tourniquet on the wound to stop the bleeding. When dad got to a doctor in frankfurt, the doctor saw the tourniquet, cursed, and demanded to know who put it on. He ripped the tourniquet off and surgery was required to save Dad's hand. Because of various surgeries, my dad still has problems using one finger which has made typing difficult.
Dad still kept his sense of humor during this time. He asked the doctor after the surgery whether he'd be able to play the piano. The Doctor replied that he would be able to. My dad said, "That's good, I never was able to before."
Dad was court-martialed during his first tour of duty for "misappropriating" a battery from the Motorcade. Dad used a battery from the motorcade in his vehicle, something that many people on base did but only he was prosecuted for. While admitting his wrongdoing, Dad showed that the prosecution hadn't had enough evidence to prosecute him and that if he hadn't admitted to the crime, they wouldn't have gotten a conviction.
Dad left the army in 1962 and for nine months as a salesman. Finally, one morning, Dad woke up with a hangover and decided to go back into the Army. He'd spent his first tour of duty, just getting by and fighting the system. Dad was determined that this time he was going to be one of the best.
When he signed up, my dad was clear that he didn't want to remain in the Army unless he was a Green Beret . Dad won the Beret and was trained in language, medicine, and military techniques and tactics.
Dad found his status as "one of America's best" made him a target for guys who wanted to prove they were something great. One day, when Dad was at a restaurant, a waiter walked up to my dad, trying to pick a fight. My dad simply glared at the man and replied, "I know seventy ways to kill a man with my bare hands. Pick a number." Flustered, the waiter apologized and left, after which my dad cracked up laughing.
Dad spent three tours in Vietnam as a medic. He saw many men die in the course of that war. One of my most poignant memories related to my father was when we went to Washington, DC and he searched the wall to find those he knew who had died.
During the course of his service, my dad was decorated with the Bronze Star, the Vietnamese Cross of Gallantry, and several other medals. He went from E-1 (recruit) to E-7(Sergeant, Second Class) in the course of 7 years. Dad's team Seargent offered to put Dad in for the Silver Star but dad declined viewing the action as foolhardy and stupid rather than worthy of a medal. In Dad's view, the one time he deserved a medal, he didn't receive it.
Dad's unit was up on a mountain in Vietnam. Dad woke up to machine gun fire one morning. After getting on his gear, Dad asked what was going on. He was informed that the South Vietnamese forces had turned on them. Dad, knowing the language, asked to speak with the South Vietnamese to find out what was going on. The South Vietnamese commander informed them that a Sergeant Burke had come over to their camp drunk and insulted them. Dad agreed with the Commander that Burke was a "number ten" but told the Commander that if they killed all the Americans on the Mountain, US Forces would sweep down and kill them, thinking they had gone to the Vietcong. Dad promised that they would fly Burke off the mountain. The commander agreed to cease shooting at the camp but warned that if Burke didn't leave, he would "kill everybody".
Dad's Commanding Officer returned later that day. He was a friend of Burke's and wasn't about to fly him off the mountain. Dad then demanded to leave if they weren't going to take Burke back. Reluctantly, the Commanding Officer agreed to take Burke off the mountain. However, he was none too happy about it, which explains why dad didn't get a medal despite saving the lives of every man in that unit.
Even while in the Army, and living a sinful life, God was still seeking my dad. He protected him from the ravages of war. Bullets flew into my dad's cabin one day with one bullet lodging in the wall just inches above him. While walking in the jungle, my dad stepped on a booby trap, but it didn't go off. My dad took the booby trap back to the base and hung it on his wall. He was upset when he found that his Team Seargent had taken it from the barracks and set it off.
One night at a party, some men were playing a tune on the guitar but lacked any lyrics to go with it. Dad gave them the lyrics with a song about Noah's Ark called, "Here I Sit in a Puddle of Water". This was a sign that God was dealing with him.
Dad also saw witnesses in the military that stuck with him as well. Dad remembered a young Mormon man who his buddies were determined to make fall. They got a woman from town to come into camp and try to seduce him. She entered his quarters and was in there for half an hour. She left angrily and slapped the faces of the men who had brought her there, telling them never to pull a stunt like that again. The Mormon's integrity in this situation has stuck with dad through all these years.
Dad found himself in an increasingly desperate situation. He had married in the mid-1960s. Though he didn't know it at the time, the woman he thought he had married was actually still legally married to someone else. She was cruel to him and drove my Dad to greater depths of desperation.
On a beach in 1969, Dad stood ready to throw himself into the Ocean. The woman was there and cried out to God. And he looked at her astonished. "You're crying out to God!" he exclaimed, looking at the adulteress with contempt. Dad then shouted into the cold Ocean air, "God, if you're there. Show yourself to me. Strike me down! Come on God!"
Although, God wouldn't answer the second part of my dad's "prayer", he would answer the first.
Dad was out of answers and solutions for a life that was quickly falling apart. In desperation he turned to God. From a Christian-friendly cultural surrounding Dad had gathered some information. He knew that he had to confess all the bad things he did to God. He spent every Evening for two weeks doing that.
Meanwhile, he and the woman he was with began attending a Baptist Church. Dad describes the church as dead, mentioning that they had smoking breaks in between services. After another dry Sunday service, my dad despaired saying, "After all the things I've told him about, I'm not surprised that He doesn't want to have anything to do with me. I wouldn't want to have anything to do with me either." The woman he was with announced that they were going to go to a Church of God. As my dad didn't know much about denominations this didn't mean much to him.
That Church of God on C&Adams Street would play a pivotal role in my father's life but not before a demonic attempt to run interference. My dad had remembered something he hadn't confessed before and was praying about it when suddenly he felt two hands grabbing him out of nowhere and choking him. Dad used every martial arts move he knew to throw his "attacker" but to no avail. Finally, he cried out, "God help me!" and whatever was choking him departed.
On that Sunday Night, in August of 1969, my dad entered the C & Adams Street Church of God in Fayetteville, North Carolina. Affiliated with the Cleveland, Tennessee Church of God, the church was "on fire" at the time, with a strong commitment to God and the lost. Dad arrived early and saw dozens of people emptying out of the prayer room before the service. He was greeted with warm handshakes from complete strangers. Dad, used to keeping a low profile, was clearly uncomfortable with the attention, but also oddly drawn to this church and the people in it.
At the beginning of the service, the choir formed together as the pastor declared, "Anyone who wants to sing in the choir, come on up." The Choir area filled as the unrehearsed and unprepared choired delivered spirit-filled singing. At this time, Dad began to feel an urging in his soul, Come to the altar. The Devil told my dad that if he tried to come to the altar right then and there, they would tell him to go sit down because they were singing. After this, the pastor began to preach and once he again he felt the urging. Once again, he was afraid of being sent back to his seat while the pastor was preaching.
At last, the pastor delivered an altar call, and all my dad knew was that there was something at that altar that was his and he wanted to make sure he got. His concern about keeping a low profile went out the window, as he ran to the altar, slid in on his knees and cried out, "God help me."
My dad said that he felt the burdens of his sins being lifted from him, and described it as like "having seven Empire State Buildings lifted off your back". Dad, who was on his knees had to check to make sure he wasn't floating, the change was so great. He was standing there in the middle of the church, laughing and rejoicing.
My dad, even though he'd asked for God's help, didn't know much about Jesus. He said that his knowledge of Christ was limited to the fact that he got a day off because Jesus was born and got another day off because Jesus died. My dad needed an intimate meeting with a savior. It was exactly what he got and was a moment he would never forget.
In the midst of his rejoicing and celebrating in the church, he found himself standing at the foot of the cross, looking up at Jesus in the midst of his suffering. He heard a voice say to Him, "Now you know what Jesus Christ did for YOU!" And that last part stung him at the depths of his soul.
"No, it's not right, take him down." said my dad.
"It is done," replied the voice.
My dad looked up at Jesus and said, "Man, I didn't even get to shake your hand. "
Suddenly, my dad found himself back in the church and he was weeping and crying. Then he was hit by the joy of his salvation and was rejoicing again. Then he remembered what he saw in the vision and began weeping once again. He kept this up for many hours, as church members stayed with him. Finally the Lord, the Creator of Heaven and Earth, the God of Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, and Moses, spoke to dad and said, "Get up these people need to go to work in the Morning."
After dad got up, a man in the church asked him, "Brother, do you think God saved you tonight."
My dad replied, "No, I know God saved me tonight."
The man then said, "Well go on, get sanctified, and filled with the Holy Ghost."
My dad looked up to God and said, "I don't know what that is but if it's anything like what you've just given me, give it to me and tell me what it is later."
When dad got home, without thinking he reach into his pocket to pull out a cigarette. The woman said, "You don't have to do that anymore." Dad looked at the cigarette and crushed it in his hand. It felt so good, he crushed the entire pack. He went and grabbed the whole carton and ripped up every pack. He then poured all the liquor in the house down the drain and tore up all the questionable reading materials in the house.
The next day, he went before his platoon and apologized to them for the way he'd treated them and testified of his conversion to Christ. The following Sunday, my dad went to church and prayed that God would sanctify Him. The Lord told Him he was sanctified.
The Holy Ghost was another matter. In the Pentecostal Churches, it is our view that the in-filling of the Holy Spirit is accompanied by the sign of Speaking in Tongues as was the case in the book of Acts. The important thing that was emphasized in my dad's church was to praise God for the gift that was already given to them and that in the midst of that praising the Spirit of God would come upon them and take over, as they would speak as the Spirit gave the utterance.
However, everyone's exact experience varied and dad talked to three different people who told him a different way to get the Baptism of the Holy Ghost. One told dad to run back and forth shouting, "Thank you, Jesus." Another said to bowe his head low and say, "Glory, glory." Another said to lift his hands towards Heaven and say, "Hallelujah." My dad, being new to Christianity thought they all knew what they were talking about, so he spent the next three weeks alternating between the three "methods".
Dad had hoped that he wouldn't be sent back to Vietnam. Yet, he found himself ready to ship out to Vietnam without yet having received the Baptism of the Holy Ghost. The last service before leaving, my dad prayed to God, "God if I don't get the Holy Ghost now, I don't know if I ever will. Please God, do whatever it takes to fill me with the Holy Ghost."
Dad had been told that when you received the Holy Ghost, you spoke in another language. Dad thought that would be no big deal as he already spoke some Spanish and some Vietnamese. Dad had no clue of what he was in store for him.
In the middle of his three methods, Dad felt the Spirit of God come upon Him in such a powerful that he was knocked to the ground. He heard the Spirit of the Lord say, "Stand upon your feet." My dad stood and then fell over the other way. While this was going on, my dad heard some people shout, "That's right, Lord, baptize him the old fashioned way." My dad thought, "Oh my God, this is the old fashioned way!"
At some point, my dad noticed that he was speaking in tounges and began to praise God in English for having received the Holy Spirit. At this point, a man walked over to my dad and touched his throat and said, "Don't worry, keep seeking, brother, you'll get the Holy Ghost." My dad, once again believing that everyone knew what they were talking about returned to seeking the Holy Ghost, which he already had.
After the service, he talked to the pastor who encouraged him to keep seeking. Dad told him that he had thought he had the Holy Ghost one point and the pastor asked what he meant. My dad explained (he apparently thought he hadn't spoken enough in tongues) and the pastor said, "Getting the Holy Ghost is like getting saved. Once it's done, you need to accept it by faith. It doesn't matter whether you speak two words in tongues or 10,000." and my dad said, "Well, then bless God, I've got the Holy Ghost."
In his Army life, Dad's new conviction presented a new challenge to him. Before his conversion, he had no problem fighting for his country. Now, he was beginning to feel that war was wrong. This clashed with his commanding officers, who sent him to the chaplain. The Chaplain told him that war was acceptable in the eyes of God, pointing to the example of David, who was a man after God's own heart, and also a mighty man of valor.
Dad listened to the chaplain and decided to leave the matter in the hands of God. Upon getting back to Vietnam, Dad was transferred from the C-team to the B-Team to the A-Team. Dad knew that on this A-team in the midst of hostile country, it was possible that he'd have to kill someone in combat. Dad waited to see what God would do. He never encountered anyone in his brief time on that A-Team as he was transferred back to base. After arriving at base and talking with his commanding officers, he was told that he was out of Special Forces.
My dad would never again come close to a combat situation. But, he still had many battles ahead of him.