MY VISIONS, DREAMS, AND VISITATIONS August 2009
I have had visions and dreams and visitations from God as far back as I can remember. There are a few of these things the Lord has allowed me to share down through the years of ministry, some to the public and some in private conversation.
Just recently the Holy Spirit told me,
"It is time to tell all."
I want to preface what will be a rather lengthy article with the balance that Christians are to be led by the written Word of God and to test every voice, vision, dream, teaching, and prophecy by the Word and to also test the spirit behind what is being spoken. There are people with a right spirit who are deceived or unlearned who say wrong things and there are foxes in the Kingdom who say the right things, but have a wrong spirit behind their words and experiences.
I expect each of you to test what I write by that same standard. There is no one who is infallible and not subject to error.
In a future letter I will share my experiences with demonic encounters from childhood, but that is not the purpose of this letter.
I have been reticent to share these things, but am prodded by the Lord the time is now--I do not seek to draw attention to myself, but to give the glory to God.
I also want these shared experiences to help open the eyes of the saints to the lateness of the hour in which we live.
My earliest memories of the visitation of the Lord was to lay in my bed as a small child and to be bathed in Love and to see a swirling blue light like a small tornado. I would be overwhelmed by the Presence of God whenever a Godly adult would speak to me about the Lord.
I would see the same Light of God's Presence later in life.
One of the first questions I remember asking the Lord was,
"What was there before You?"
The answer was,
"I have always been."
This was a little before I started school.
I was an abused child--terrible memories would be mercifully withheld from me until I was a mature Christian. God made sure I had His Presence. I in no way believe I was special, but whereever sin abounds, Grace much more abounds.
I also had the added benefit of Godly ancestors and a praying Grandmother, and a Mother who tried to instill the Christian faith in me until her broken heart could no longer try herself. I must add that I profoundly know both my parents loved me, but were overwhelmed people. Both were veterans of WWII, my dad a combat soldier. I am convinced he had Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. My dad was mistreated by church people, even relatives. I love my parents, who are also both gone.
The presence of great darkness was around me as well, but as I said, that is for another article.
I have no doubt that God visits all children, but makes Himself very real to those in difficult circumstances.
I remember the deaths of my paternal grandmother and my older brother vividly--they died about a year apart from one another when I was 2-3 years old. I remember God's Presence being with me very heavily during both of those times, but especially my brother, John, who died at 7. He had been born prematurely before there was care for preemies--he had a stroke which hit the motor area of his brain a few days after being born and was an invalid the rest of his life.
I remember his final illness, red measels. My dear Aunt Ilah kept me after he was taken to the hospital. I stayed at our house the day of the funeral with his nurse, Hatty. I am glad I did not see him in the coffin. I remember him vividly. I also remember the day of Grandma Clark's funeral.
There were glimpses during that time--my poor mother would tell me shortly before she passed away that during John's funeral, she couldn't hear anything the preacher said, because she could hear John calling the entire time,
Look Mama, I can walk! Look Mama, I can talk!"
He was laughing delightfully she recounted.
I remember the emptiness and sorrow in our home in the days that followed--the comfort of the Holy Spirit was also there. God would later take me to visit John to warn me when I was 16.
I now realize my emotional state as a child was due to the hidden abuse, but I was a strange little boy. I was very conscious of good and evil, was secretive, and was often driven to self-destructive and dangerous acts.
My mother and I took a trip alone to visit my grandparents in the rural MidWest after my brother died. I realize now that my mother was grieving, but she did all she could to make the trip memorable. We stopped at every attraction along the way that would remotely appeal to a small child, both going and coming. Upon our arrival, my mother and grandmother entered into a mother/daughter time of solace. My kindly grandfather kept the farm work up and because of my age I was in the care of the womenfolk.
"Pop" was the best man I ever knew; Grandma would become the most dynamic spiritual influence in my life--I am moved to tears to remember them. How I miss them! They both stood by my mother until they were gone, and were a great strength to us all.
My grandmother kept geese and the roving gaggle intrigued me. I was on the front porch of the old, white, Victorian farmhouse and the geese came by me on their way to the pond which centered in the large pasture that was the front yard of the house. I wanted to pet the geese, but of course they evaded me. The pond, about a third of a mile from the house, was flanked by a solitary old tree and had steep clay banks.
The lure of the pond overwhelmed my desire to follow Grandma's geese--as I approached the barn I noticed a snake sunning himself upon a flat rock at water's edge. Off course I went after the snake, and when he lept into the water, I dove in head first after him.
I came to the surface and the water was over my head--my little feet could not touch the bottom. I went under several times, but grabbed onto reeds that grew in the pond. My feet connected with the soft mud and I struggled to the edge--each time I tried to climb out, I would slide back down the bank into the water. I grabbed onto grasses that grew down the bank to pull myself up, but they broke off--this happened several times.
I don't remember being afraid, but it seemed impossible. I grabbed onto the grasses again and tried up the bank, and suddenly invisible hands lifted me up and out of the water and onto the ground. I remember an impulse, "Go back to the house."--I nonchalantly walked back to the house covered in mud and pond slime and came to the back kitchen door. I could hear my mother and grandmother talking. Grandma looked out the back door and exclaimed,
"My God, this child has been in the pond!"
I don't know why our family cars always represented security to me. My mother had a huge dark blue metallic and turquoise Mercury with gold and silver trim. It was summer and quite hot. On this same trip, I was aware of the grief which permeated the atmosphere due to my brother's death--the old folks were stoic and tried to shield me, but I could hear them in other rooms,and I wanted to get away.
It was the heat of the day and I went out to our shining car, managed to get the door opened and crawled into the back seat. The car was partially packed and there was just enough space for me to wedge between the door and the parcels and bags--I was too short to be visible from the house. I would often hide in closets or crawl under or into small cramped spaces--it made me feel secure.
The windows were all rolled up and it was suffocating in the car and stifling hot. I sat there for a moment and was overcome with sleep. I woke sometime later bathed in sweat, dripping. I was very groggy and unable to move. The same impulse drove me, "Get out of the car."--I don't know how I got the door open. The fresh air hit me like a wall: I could feel sweat running down my body; my clothes were wet through.
I stood by the car, reviving, and did not move--my mother and grandmother stormed out of the house where they had been searching for me. This was the same trip, and I know now the enemy was trying to kill me, and to destroy us all--how horrible it would have been for everyone involved if I had died on this trip! They both realized I had been in the closed car in the heat--Mama and Grandma rushed me inside and bathed me in cold water.
I am so thankful the Lord was there and had mercy on my family--every member was later saved after I came to the Lord.
Leaving my grandparent's home on this journey was sad--my stoic grandparents and mother stifled weeping and I cried, begging to stay.
Around the time I was four, the anxiety level in my life increased dramatically. I vividly remember secreting matches out of the kitchen out of the gaze of our kind maid. I was one of those children that troubled adults, was a terror to other kids, and caused people in the neighborhood to move away. My dad had a shed behind our house filled with the confusion of generations and I settled in and pulled the large box of kitchen matches out of my dungarees.
He had a large, round, red metal gas can with a flexible metal hose out of a lid in the center of the top. My dad was forever throwing gasoline on piles of trash and brush, and I had a fascination with the explosive displays. I unscrewed the top of the can--the paint had flecked off in spots exposing the metal underneath.
I began to strike matches and drop them into the nearly full can. Each match would go out with a hiss. It frustrated me and I struck match after match, until finally the gas caught fire. Flames shot high out the top of the can I was sitting next to, and the sides of the can began to go in and out, creaking as if it were breathing.
I realize now it was about to explode.
My glee turned to terror. I was so afraid. Suddenly I felt a firm, but gentle hand on my shoulder. A voice spoke to me audibly,
"Don't be afraid. Don't ever do this again."
The flames went out. I put the lid back on, and snuck the box of kitchen matches back into the house. My housekeeper did not know she nearly heard the screams of a little boy burning to death.
I became a very fretful and unhappy child during this season--I was moody, violent towards other children, cruel to animals, and self-abusive. I was quite thin, and did not sleep well. It was at this time God sent me my Pentecostal nanny, a wonderful woman who was the epitome of a Norman Rockwell country grandmother. Her name was Granny Tanton.
She would hold me and pray, and what I know no was praying in tongues. I began to eat during the time she worked for us, and I know it was deliverance.
Quite literally, this dear saint of God took me as her own child. She never raised her voice to me, and delighted in holding me, praying for me, walking with and playing with me. She talked to Jesus and talked to me about Jesus all the time. I know I was the only man outside of her household that every saw her hair, which she kept in a braided bun around her head--it was longer than she was tall.
Once were out walking, and when we came in she started to cry. I asked her why, and she told me the kid down the street said some ugly stuff to her. I slipped away and literally almost killed the boy. I fractured his skull.
One day a car rushed up to our house and began blowing the horn. Granny Tanton looked out the door and ran outside. I remember having felt very anxious that day. I could hear her begin to scream and cry. She came in the house with her head in her hands moaning and crying. Granny's youngest boy was in the service--she had just been told he had been killed in an accident. I went up to her and hugged her and asked her, "Granny what's wrong?".
She gathered me up in her arms and told me,
"My baby boy is dead. You are my baby now."
She prayed for me daily until her death well over thirty years later when she was in her nineties. She would say to me,
"Son, you are mine. One day you and I will walk on the streets of glory together arm in arm."
I am convinced that her prayers and those of my maternal grandmother kept me. My father's mother was a much older woman, she had died the same season my brother John passed away. She was not well, but wanted me to stay with her when she was able. She had television, and we would watch Oral Roberts together. When he prayed for people and they fell under the power, I asked Mema if he was knocking them down. She would laugh and say,
"No son, it is the Holy Spirit!"
I would discover later in life that Grandma Clark, my deceased Grandfater, and those before them were Methodist Holiness and had been a part of the Outpouring of the Holy Spirit that had taken place in the early 20th century.
I very often remember the Presence of God and conviction of the Holy Spirit during these years. We were going through a season in which my mother attempted to go to church as a family. I do not remember the pastor's name, but he and one of teachers, Mrs. Francis Powell, took a special interest in me. This was before I started school.
Both the pastor and Mrs. Powell always told me Jesus loved me. The Presence of God would come on me so heavily in church, but especially when the pastor would talk to me about the Lord. My mother worked at night, often double shifts. When she had days off, she would sometimes take me out and ask me what I wanted to do.
During this time, my request was always, "I want to go and see the Pastor!". My mother found this disturbing and would sometimes redirect me, but more than once, she took me. I just wanted him to talk to me about Jesus. It was during this time that he led me to the Lord. I was four at the time. I was in love with Jesus.
Both of my parents were somewhat taken aback by this, and it was my desire to be baptized. What I felt in worship in our Baptist church was intoxicating--I would get so excited the other children would laugh at me. I could never hear anyone speak about the death of Jesus without crying or coming near tears--this was cause of mockery as well.
This sadness about His suffering would follow me all my life, even in the darkest days of sin.
The childish love that I had for Jesus, my desire to be in His Presence, to talk about Him, but particularly my desire to be baptized and to publicly profess my faith caused great strife with my parents. I know now it was the conviction of the Holy Spirit. Oddly, it was my mother, and not my father, who objected to me being baptized. She wanted me to be older and to know what I was doing.
Do not ever underestimate the knowledge a child has for good or evil. God ministers to children continuously, and the enemy seeks to plunder them in his parallel plans for destruction.
I could not wait to go to church, and would have gone everytime the door was open out of sheer joy. It was during this time that my parents stopped going to church. I was still intent on going.
THIS ARTICLE IS STILL UNDER CONSTRUCTION
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