Rattlesnakes, whoopin' and hollerin?
Not exactly.
This involves the story of a police
woman's literal visit to Hell, a reporter's contact with the former leader of
the Satan's Disciples street gang, and the letters between them which show how
God's love never fails.
It is more than that.
Readers will see the "more" as the story unfolds.
Let's begin it with the latest letter I received
from Johnny White, in prison since 1998 for the drive-by shooting death of a
young woman in Rockford, IL. At that time Johnny was the Satan's Disciple
street gang leader.
He first contacted me at the News
Office where I had been writing a series of articles on a wrongfully convicted
prisoner who is also serving 40 years behind bars. He convinced me he knew
something about that crime, so I corresponded with him.
Over the next several years, Johnny
and I slowly developed a relationship of trust. His letters to me are a story
in themselves, and one I hope to write some day.
Johnny responds to the blog posts I
wrote about the gift of speaking in tongues, which began in December.
Harriett,
Thank you for sharing your personal
experience with the baptism of the Holy Spirit and the gift of speaking in
tongues. I never told you about my own experience, but I will now.
It was 1995 and I was wanted on
some warrants in Rockford, so my father
sent me stay with family members in Lost Creek, Kentucky, which is up in the
hills.
My great uncle Joe lived at the
bottom of the holler and still drew his water up from a well. He did have
electricity though. Uncle Hoe had one condition for me if I was allowed to live
with him. I had to go with him to Sunday service.
My idea of church in the back wood
hills of Kentucky was of rattlesnakes and people whooping and hollering. The
service wasn't like that at all. It was a quiet Baptist Church, that is until a
lot of the church goers would start talking in weird languages, mostly to
themselves.
Being young and lacking in manners,
both my cousin and I would make fun of them and laugh at their
"language." At least until Uncle Joe would turn that eye on us that
said we were close to gettin' it.
Sunday was the only day of the week
Uncle Joe stayed sober and the one day to take him seriously.
That day, me and my cousin Tommy
were being disrespectful at church again. Uncle Joe took us both outside and
asked, "Why do you find it so funny that people are talking with
God?"
We didn't have answer. I asked him,
"How is God supposed to understand what they was saying?"
He told me, "That's God's
language."
I was missing home and had been so
bored that the Holler Church service was at least something to do. And instead
of laughing and joking, I actually listened from time to time. One day it
seemed like the Reverend spoke directly to me, almost as if he knew my past and
my secrets.
I started to feel horrible, scared,
and really had the compulsion to pray. I just didn't know how, or what to say.
So I sat there with tears streaming down my face. I didn't even know I was
speaking until after the service when Tommy began to make fun of me and say
that I was just as crazy as everyone else at the service. He said I began
speaking in the same way those church goers were talking when they talking.
I don't really know what happened
to me that day. I was just a young gang
banging punk from Rockford who was in tears from hearing the Reverend's words.
I still don't get how he seemed to know me like that. I never experienced this
language again, but reading your experience has given me a better understanding
of what took place in my spirit that day in the hills of Kentucky.
I plan to read up on it in the
Bible and it will be edifying. Edifying. I like that word and just wanted to
use it. I would like to know what you described in your blog as your
"Abraham moment."
Thank you for your friendship and
for your words which have helped me grow in my faith.
Sincerely,
Johnny White
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