(Continued from last week's blog post: The Beginning of the Journey. See below.)
When I arrived back in Knoxville on that Friday evening of May 1998, I was still very excited. I was excited about sharing the new hope I had found while in Dallas. I was still pretty messed up emotionally, but it was a good "messed-up". I still felt drunkenness. I still felt the stomach punches coming rather often. I was laughing a lot. I even wondered if I would be able to drive back to Bristol. I was on a spiritual high and Jesus was buying the drinks. I figured plenty of people wouldn’t understand but it didn’t matter to me at all. I couldn’t think of a single person that I dreaded seeing.
Now I want you to understand, it wasn’t just crazy stuff that was happening to me. There was boldness and passion for revival burning in me. I prayed about which gas station to stop at because I felt God wanted me to share something with someone. I remember that there was only one single gas station at the exit I took - that made it easier. No one was in the station but the clerk, so that made it even easier. I can’t remember what all I shared, but as I left I was surprised to see the person bend forward as if they had gotten a stomach punch. Just in case you are tired of hearing about the stomach punches, that was the last evidence of the stomach punch I saw during that time. I felt some small touches in the weeks ahead but they faded out. I guess most of my re-birthing pains were about over.
However, the drunkenness and goofiness seemed to increase as I reached Virginia. The next day I had to go a couple hours north for a college graduation. I was so unsure of myself I asked one of our youth to drive me to the graduation. The young person was glad to do that for me, although I could tell there was confusion as I shared my story. The day went well. Then I began to make my plans for the following day which was Mother’s Day.
Mother’s Day 1998 will be a day I will never forget. If you remember any of my story from childhood, you might understand why Mother‘s Day is hard for me. My mother had struggled with the idea of having a sixth child during her change of life. My relationship with her was difficult. My mother had passed away fifteen years earlier and Mother’s Day was one of my least favorite days of the year. In the past I had done all of the Mother’s Day rituals, such as awards for the youngest and the oldest mothers and an award for the one with the most children. But, over the years, it had been my hardest day of ministry. This Mother’s Day was different. It was a blast.
Knowing I was still feeling tons of weird sensations, I needed someone to help me. I called the pianist and asked him for some help. I told him I would come in the back door behind the pulpit a little before the 11:00 worship service. I wasn’t about to go to Sunday school. He came back where I was, and I told him my plan was to just to make it to the pulpit. However, if I lost my train of thought, I needed him to whisper to me and tell me where I left my subject.
The service began and everyone seemed to be looking at me. I hadn’t done anything yet. The things I remember most about that hour was my overwhelming joy and how much I seemed to mess up. I would begin a sentence and forget what I was saying. The pianist would get me back on track and I would go on. I don’t think I did any awards for mothers. There was a child dedication for a little girl. I made it to the altar for that and began to pray for things that I didn’t normally pray for when dedicating children. I was even praying for her adult life and future husband. The parents were very understanding. I didn’t try to make it to the back of the auditorium to shake hands, so the people had to come up to the front to speak to me if they wished to do so. I will never forget the little old lady that asked me the question of the day. “Darrell, are you sure you haven’t had a light stroke?” My reaction to everything was to laugh.
Many were overjoyed with my experience. Some were not. I didn’t share a lot with the congregation about what had happened. I mostly shared about the possibility of revival in America and the meat of the messages I had heard in Dallas. I had a new interest in worship and that excitement was very evident. Otherwise nothing was said about stomach punches or the weird stuff. Those closest to me heard about all of that.
Out of concern, someone had called my family, because by mid-afternoon they came to visit me to see what was wrong. Of course I didn’t know of anything that was wrong. Things had never felt so right. I have no idea what I said to them and I haven’t dared to ask them yet. However by the time of the Sunday evening service, the crowd had gathered. Tons of people had come to see what was up. I have thought so many times about the words of John Wesley, “I just set myself on fire and the people came to watch me burn”. They did just that. Again, I can’t remember much about that night except that by the end of the service, I was lying on the altar laughing my heart out. The father of the child I had dedicated that morning was beside me doing the same.
The people slowly left looking back over their shoulder at the weirdest thing they had seen in a lifetime. I stayed at the altar. Eventually someone brought me the phone from my office. The youth leader had left the service and was calling back from a local restaurant. She was crying and told me she wouldn’t be able to come back anymore. Again, my response was the same - laughing my heart out. She came back and even visits where I pastor now.
The week continued with a small percentage leaving the church. Others embraced and liked the new me. Others didn’t leave, but in their own subtle way became the thorn in my flesh I needed to keep me humble. Plenty of things began to happen. I began to work harder with the other congregations in town. Worship became much more vibrant. I began to dream more. I recorded about 200 dreams in my journal in the next year or so. These dreams were powerful and held lots of insight. There was a new strength inside me that propelled me forward unlike anything I had ever known.
When Christmas 1998 came around there were those bears that had 98 written on the foot. I bought one to commemorate that year. For years I looked back and remembered that year as one of the best years of my life. The journey continues as I look back over the years and thank God from the most inner part of my being for showing me a new kind of normal. And it still continues...
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