I BELIEVE IN MIRACLES: DAMNING DEMONS
J. Grant Swank, Jr.
Demons. They crawled all over his paper. But this was no one-stroke teen messing around with adolescent symbols of dark abodes. This was Bruce.
Bruce was committed heart and soul to the devil. He told me, "Paganism is my religion. I worship the devil." And he meant it. Other youth scrawled irreverent images on occasion; however, to Bruce it was a soul surrender.
Therefore, when I noted his full-paged "art," I took it in stride.
After all, I was teaching at a public school — an alternative learning school. No religion. No God. No Jesus. No Christmas. No Bible. To keep the job, mouth shut. Sealed.
Of course, in front of me was Bruce. This Bruce needed just what I had to offer him — God in Jesus, Bible promises of salvation, the hope of an eternal Christmas in heaven. Nevertheless, I was of course between the usual rock-and-a-hard place in America’s freedom scramble of what’s "appropriate" and what’s not.
Therefore, I prayed for Bruce. He counted me as friend, a buddy of sorts. He knew me to be a Christian. Not only that, he knew I was a pastor. Somehow I did manage to muffle that out on an occasion; but other than that, systems down.
As far as his personality, he was a winsome chap. Perfect in manners. Tall, slender, good-looking and quite intelligent. However, he had some "issues." In short, any student at the alternative learning school had "issues;" otherwise that student would be in "the other school." Alternative learning youth were those who had howling troubles pounding away at their innards.
Bruce was "kicked out" of his host school some months before I got on the job. I was aware of the major detail. Mainly I saw him as a young man of potential. He was especially astute in math and history. English gave him a few twisted moments; however, many of the fellows grappled with writing an essay.
Behavior was his problem. Or I should say "misbehavior," hence the alternative learning context.
What was so utterly sad at that school was that we staff had practically no teaching materials. We had a director who prided himself on keeping "within his budget." Therefore, the school district officialdom patted him on the back for saving the system money.
It did not matter that we teachers had no texts, no teachers’ manuals, little in the way of staplers, paper, pencils, pens, magic markers. We wrote our own curricula or else we had nothing. Nothing. Visual aids were non-existent. Other schools were laden with flashy materials of multi-dimensional choices; but not the school where the extremely troubled kids hung out. Just caging them for a day was enough.
I called it "warehousing troubled teens." When I left the system, I told the director and union representative that.
I then sent a specifically detailed critique of the school to the governor’s office. That then went to the state education department. Interestingly, the head of that department had just moved from my school district superintendency to the state position. Therefore, my lapsed school was indeed her former lapsed school in her former district that prided itself on saving budget funds because our school director refused to provide staff with teaching supplies.
Round and round the injustice wove itself — injustice against staff and students. Teachers and teens both lost out every day we opened the front door of that school.
We staff were there to oversee classroom "cages" in which adolescents with learning disabilities were forced to strike out for another few hours. No wonder desks flew through windows and police cruisers frequented our halls. No wonder swearing was rampant, teachers screaming at students was expected and youths, one by one, gave up. They’d storm out. They curse their ways out. Many left. I’d see them fling open the front door, yell back obscenities and then head for the open road.
I looked at Bruce. I knew he needed math materials to work on. He asked for them. He liked math. I had none to give him. I went to the local mall and bought some math materials for Bruce. He tried. But the school was not up to the challenge of a special person named "Bruce." The system let him down, as it did every other person under that roof.
Then Bruce disappeared. One day he was with us. Then the next day he disappeared.
I knew where he lived. I drove by his house on occasion. Sometimes I stopped by, knocked on the door.
Sometimes somebody answered. With that, I left my pastor’s card with name, address and phone number. After all, he was no longer a school student. I was no longer his teacher. I was "friend." So I could now approach him as "Christian."
More times than not, when I stopped by his home, no one was at home. I wedged another card in the door jam and went on my way.
Then came the day when I knew I had to pull into his drive. Just had to. God made me do it. Couldn’t travel on to Hiram. It was Bruce’s front door — another knocking, another attempt.
This time I heard a voice. It bellowed, "Who’s at the front door? No one ever knocks on the front door!" With that, the door opened. There stood startled Bruce, smiling broadly as he took in his visitor.
"Bruce!" "Grant!" Greetings exchanged, a few updates on this and that. Bruce was now 21, unemployed, having some problems, no specifics divulged. Then in a few minutes, knowing I had done what I could do, I hugged him, shook his hand and told him I was praying for him. I handed him my card — another card.
"There’s my phone number, if you’re ever interested. I’d really like to have you worship with us."
I had just spoken the unthinkable to Arch Pagan, Demon Worshiper, Devil Enthusiast. Bruce had spent his teen years studying every book he could find on demons. He had quite the dark-threaded library. He also had markings on his skin to prove his allegiance to hell.
"Someday I’m going to live in Amsterdam. I understand there I can open up a drug business. Illicit drugs, you know. It’s legal there, I think. And I can sell drugs, use drugs and do as I want." That was the litany Bruce gave forth daily when at the school. I could recite it backwards. I had heard his refrain so frequently.
A couple weeks after handing Bruce my card, Bruce called me. "When is your worship?" I told him. Sure enough, that Sunday Bruce worshiped with us. "I want you people to know that this is the first time in my life I have ever been in a church."
As we sang hymns, Bruce followed, trying his best to get hold of the melodies, the lyrics. As we bowed our heads in prayer, Bruce bowed his head in prayer. As we studied the Scriptures, Bruce looked on the Bible I had just handed him. At the close, Bruce said, "I’ll be back."
And he was. He was back.
"But Bruce, you’re pagan," I said. "Your god is the devil. You know that. What’s going on? Say, do you know that Jesus can be your Savior? You can live for Him. He can give you the hope of heaven."
"I want that."
"Then let’s pray."
We prayed as Bruce committed his soul to Jesus as Savior. We thanked Jesus for His mercy in saving grace. Then Bruce thanked me, promising to read the Bible and pray every day, worshiping with us faithfully.
And so he does. In other words, the damning demons lost out — major.
Another miracle.
For more: http://conservativeposts.us/ <http://conservativeposts.us/>
Demons. They crawled all over his paper. But this was no one-stroke teen messing around with adolescent symbols of dark abodes. This was Bruce.
Bruce was committed heart and soul to the devil. He told me, "Paganism is my religion. I worship the devil." And he meant it. Other youth scrawled irreverent images on occasion; however, to Bruce it was a soul surrender.
Therefore, when I noted his full-paged "art," I took it in stride.
After all, I was teaching at a public school — an alternative learning school. No religion. No God. No Jesus. No Christmas. No Bible. To keep the job, mouth shut. Sealed.
Of course, in front of me was Bruce. This Bruce needed just what I had to offer him — God in Jesus, Bible promises of salvation, the hope of an eternal Christmas in heaven. Nevertheless, I was of course between the usual rock-and-a-hard place in America’s freedom scramble of what’s "appropriate" and what’s not.
Therefore, I prayed for Bruce. He counted me as friend, a buddy of sorts. He knew me to be a Christian. Not only that, he knew I was a pastor. Somehow I did manage to muffle that out on an occasion; but other than that, systems down.
As far as his personality, he was a winsome chap. Perfect in manners. Tall, slender, good-looking and quite intelligent. However, he had some "issues." In short, any student at the alternative learning school had "issues;" otherwise that student would be in "the other school." Alternative learning youth were those who had howling troubles pounding away at their innards.
Bruce was "kicked out" of his host school some months before I got on the job. I was aware of the major detail. Mainly I saw him as a young man of potential. He was especially astute in math and history. English gave him a few twisted moments; however, many of the fellows grappled with writing an essay.
Behavior was his problem. Or I should say "misbehavior," hence the alternative learning context.
What was so utterly sad at that school was that we staff had practically no teaching materials. We had a director who prided himself on keeping "within his budget." Therefore, the school district officialdom patted him on the back for saving the system money.
It did not matter that we teachers had no texts, no teachers’ manuals, little in the way of staplers, paper, pencils, pens, magic markers. We wrote our own curricula or else we had nothing. Nothing. Visual aids were non-existent. Other schools were laden with flashy materials of multi-dimensional choices; but not the school where the extremely troubled kids hung out. Just caging them for a day was enough.
I called it "warehousing troubled teens." When I left the system, I told the director and union representative that.
I then sent a specifically detailed critique of the school to the governor’s office. That then went to the state education department. Interestingly, the head of that department had just moved from my school district superintendency to the state position. Therefore, my lapsed school was indeed her former lapsed school in her former district that prided itself on saving budget funds because our school director refused to provide staff with teaching supplies.
Round and round the injustice wove itself — injustice against staff and students. Teachers and teens both lost out every day we opened the front door of that school.
We staff were there to oversee classroom "cages" in which adolescents with learning disabilities were forced to strike out for another few hours. No wonder desks flew through windows and police cruisers frequented our halls. No wonder swearing was rampant, teachers screaming at students was expected and youths, one by one, gave up. They’d storm out. They curse their ways out. Many left. I’d see them fling open the front door, yell back obscenities and then head for the open road.
I looked at Bruce. I knew he needed math materials to work on. He asked for them. He liked math. I had none to give him. I went to the local mall and bought some math materials for Bruce. He tried. But the school was not up to the challenge of a special person named "Bruce." The system let him down, as it did every other person under that roof.
Then Bruce disappeared. One day he was with us. Then the next day he disappeared.
I knew where he lived. I drove by his house on occasion. Sometimes I stopped by, knocked on the door.
Sometimes somebody answered. With that, I left my pastor’s card with name, address and phone number. After all, he was no longer a school student. I was no longer his teacher. I was "friend." So I could now approach him as "Christian."
More times than not, when I stopped by his home, no one was at home. I wedged another card in the door jam and went on my way.
Then came the day when I knew I had to pull into his drive. Just had to. God made me do it. Couldn’t travel on to Hiram. It was Bruce’s front door — another knocking, another attempt.
This time I heard a voice. It bellowed, "Who’s at the front door? No one ever knocks on the front door!" With that, the door opened. There stood startled Bruce, smiling broadly as he took in his visitor.
"Bruce!" "Grant!" Greetings exchanged, a few updates on this and that. Bruce was now 21, unemployed, having some problems, no specifics divulged. Then in a few minutes, knowing I had done what I could do, I hugged him, shook his hand and told him I was praying for him. I handed him my card — another card.
"There’s my phone number, if you’re ever interested. I’d really like to have you worship with us."
I had just spoken the unthinkable to Arch Pagan, Demon Worshiper, Devil Enthusiast. Bruce had spent his teen years studying every book he could find on demons. He had quite the dark-threaded library. He also had markings on his skin to prove his allegiance to hell.
"Someday I’m going to live in Amsterdam. I understand there I can open up a drug business. Illicit drugs, you know. It’s legal there, I think. And I can sell drugs, use drugs and do as I want." That was the litany Bruce gave forth daily when at the school. I could recite it backwards. I had heard his refrain so frequently.
A couple weeks after handing Bruce my card, Bruce called me. "When is your worship?" I told him. Sure enough, that Sunday Bruce worshiped with us. "I want you people to know that this is the first time in my life I have ever been in a church."
As we sang hymns, Bruce followed, trying his best to get hold of the melodies, the lyrics. As we bowed our heads in prayer, Bruce bowed his head in prayer. As we studied the Scriptures, Bruce looked on the Bible I had just handed him. At the close, Bruce said, "I’ll be back."
And he was. He was back.
"But Bruce, you’re pagan," I said. "Your god is the devil. You know that. What’s going on? Say, do you know that Jesus can be your Savior? You can live for Him. He can give you the hope of heaven."
"I want that."
"Then let’s pray."
We prayed as Bruce committed his soul to Jesus as Savior. We thanked Jesus for His mercy in saving grace. Then Bruce thanked me, promising to read the Bible and pray every day, worshiping with us faithfully.
And so he does. In other words, the damning demons lost out — major.
Another miracle.
For more: http://conservativeposts.us/ <http://conservativeposts.us/>
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