But then, when I finally put down that burden—when I finally stopped running—I began to put on weight—and not just a little weight, but twenty extra pounds, then thirty. Before I knew it, I was more than fifty pounds overweight.
The real reason I got heavy, though, has nothing to do with working less. The truth is, once I stopped running from my problems and started putting down roots with Virgil, all the things I’d been running from just smashed into me all at once, like a chain reaction pileup on the highway. All my bad feelings about my abuse and abortion, all my fears and insecurities, all my guilt and self-loathing—it all just suddenly showed up together in my brain. I’d never really dealt with my problems; I’d just covered them up with anger, denial, avoidance, bad relationships, and long work hours. Basically, I’d just tried to outrun them. But now they finally got me standing still, and they overwhelmed me.
And so with my new outer stability came a new inner turmoil, if that makes any sense. I felt like I was always battling myself, always wrestling with my emotions. I know it sounds strange to say, but it truly felt like my mind and my heart were a battleground—only I didn’t know who exactly was waging war.
At the center of this turmoil was my continuing confusion about God. It would have been nice if Virgil’s certainty about God rubbed off on me, but it didn’t. In a way, it only made me question God more. I tried to find God everywhere—in the beautiful rolling plains of Oklahoma, in the moody mountain sunsets, in the beaming smiles of my children.
“Virgil, look at that beautiful tree over there,” I’d say, pointing to a magnificent elm. “God had to have made that. He has to be real, because all of this works so perfectly. There has to be a God!”
Patiently, Virgil would say, “There is.”
But still I couldn’t be sure. I truly wanted God to be real, but in my life I’d learned not to believe in anything I couldn’t see with my own eyes. When Virgil came into my life, I started leaning toward the belief that God was real. But that was still a long way from truly believing. Much of the time I just didn’t think He was listening to me. Whatever faith I had was kind of hollow. The truth is, I was still searching, still running—only now I was running toward something, not away from it. Because I needed Him more than ever, I was trying desperately to find God. “Come near to God,” it says in James 4:8, “and he will come near to you.” So, where was He?
It was then that God, who had never stopped trying, very clearly came near to me.
ONE OF THE first strange things that happened was a simple dream. And it involved my brother, Jayson.
Like me, Jayson was a headstrong little kid. He liked doing things his way, and he didn’t like caving in to authority figures. I’ll never forget what he did to my mom after she spanked him one day for not cleaning his room. He was nine or ten at the time, and he was so angry about the spanking that he cooked up an ingenious plan to get revenge. Back then my mom was working as a dental hygienist, so we always had a ton of dental floss in the house. Well, my brother took the floss and tied long strings of it to every single object in my mom’s bedroom. I mean everything—tubes of lipstick, underwear in drawers, hairbrushes, shoes, the works. Then he tied all those strings around the doorknob of the bedroom door. It was a pretty heavy door, and to open it you had to give it a yank. So when my mom came home and pulled it open, everything she owned came flying at her and wound up in a big pile on the floor.
Jayson was waiting for her in the bedroom. Right on cue, he said, “Mom, your room’s messy.”
Jayson was in his early twenties when I got married to Virgil, and—like me in my early twenties—he was having a hard time with life. Everything we’d gone through as kids had left us battered and scarred. Only instead of turning to food or long work hours to treat the despair, he drank. And, unlike me, he wasn’t struggling with the existence of God—he had a firm belief that God wasn’t real. See, here’s the big problem at the root of both our struggles. If God was real and loving, we wondered, how could He have allowed what happened to us as kids to happen? Why didn’t He stop it? I wanted an answer to this question, but Jayson didn’t need one. He didn’t want anything from God at all. My brother flat out didn’t believe that God was real, and he never let me talk about God around him.
Then, Jayson was arrested for driving under the influence for the second time. I lay in bed and asked God to help my brother. Before long, Jayson was facing his third DUI—and he hadn’t budged an inch in his stance on God.
“God,” I said during one of my prayers, “You’re going to have to go get him, because he sure isn’t coming to You. You’re going to have to show Yourself to him, or he’ll never believe in You.”
One night, after just such a prayer, I had an incredible dream. I was in church—only I wasn’t standing; I was hovering over the worshippers. I could see all these people on their feet with their hands in the air. They were singing and worshipping, and I had never seen people worship God like this before. It was a beautiful sight.
And in front, onstage, the person who was leading them in praise and worship was Jayson.
He is a great singer. As kids, we sang together all the time, and he’s still a karaoke champ. And there he was, in my dream, arms raised and head thrown back, weeping out of sheer love for God and singing at the top of his lungs—singing praise to God! The guy who didn’t believe God was real was leading a congregation in worship! When I woke up, the image of my brother seemed so real and so beautiful. It was more vivid than any dream I could remember having. I told Virgil and my mom about it, but I knew better than to tell Jayson. I just filed it away, and after a while I forgot it.
Then, in the summer of 2007, I had another powerful dream. This time, I was in my own bedroom, and once again I hovered high above it. I could see Virgil on his side of the bed, fast asleep, and I could see myself sleeping peacefully next to him. Then I became aware of this beautiful light encircling me as I hovered over the bed. The light began to outline this perfect plan for our lives, and in my dream I soaked up each and every detail. I woke up and nudged Virgil and groggily said, “Wait until you hear God’s plan for us.” Virgil looked at me funny, because I’d never actually said I believed God was real, yet here I was telling him how God shared His plan with me. I drifted back to sleep, with every intention of telling Virgil every detail the next morning. But when I woke up, I couldn’t remember what God had told me. I could only recall two odd and random things that seemed to have come from the dream: two numbers—16 and 6—and the image of building a great wall. I didn’t know what any of it meant, and I chalked it up as just another weird dream. I mean, the only great wall I knew about was in China.
Those two unusually vivid dreams were just the start of this strange period in my life. What happened next was frightening, and I wish it had happened only in a dream . . . but it didn’t.
Virgil and I had recently become friends with a young couple in town. They were a typical family—three beautiful children, a great house, all of that. I was very friendly with the wife. We talked a lot, and we had a really easy camaraderie. One summer night, shortly after my dream about the wall, Virgil and I went to dinner in their home. Afterward, the wife and I sat in their backyard talking about this and that.
By then, she had confided in me about her childhood. To my horror, what she described was even worse than my own history. She grew up in another state, and she told me that when she was just a kid, her mother joined a satanic cult and dragged her into it. She wound up being badly abused and raped by male members of the cult. The few details she shared with me were the stuff of nightmares. They seemed too horrible, too outrageous to be real. I did my best to console my friend and give her a sympathetic ear, but deep down I don’t think I really believed her story. Or maybe what she described was just too evil for me to comprehend. On some level, I was still that terrified little girl who ran out of that sewing room thinking she had met the devil. I didn’t know if Satan was real, but I didn’t know that he was not. And
I didn’t want to believe what my friend told me, because if it was true, that would mean the devil could very well be real.
When she confided all that to me, she also said that once her friends knew about it, they usually stopped being her friends. And, you know, I wanted to run away from her when she told me, too. But something inside me wouldn’t let me leave her. I just couldn’t turn my back on this wounded little creature. So I remained her friend.
That night, in her backyard, she seemed quieter than usual. Out of the blue, she asked me something she’d never asked before.
“Crystal, do you think God is real?”
Of all the people in the world to ask.
I wasn’t sure what to say to her, so I told her about my dream. Then I told her how I was searching hard for God and how my faith was slowly growing. She sat silently for a while, then asked another question: “Do you think God could love me?”
I don’t know why I said what I said next; it just rolled out of my mouth without stopping at my brain first: “Do you want me to pray with you?”
I’d never personally prayed over anyone in my life. I mean, sure, I’d prayed for people in church, but I’d never laid hands and prayed over someone, like I’d seen people do in charismatic churches I’d visited. After all, who was I, the skeptic, to pray over anyone? My friend nodded her head and started crying, so I took her hand and started to pray. She bowed her head and listened, but before I was done, she suddenly lifted her head and looked straight at me.
What I saw startled me.
Her expression had gone from sadness to something that looked like anger. She had this hardened glare, like she’d just sucked on a lemon, but about ten times worse than that. She looked hateful and frightening. She began to laugh at me, but it was a laugh unlike any I’d ever heard. It was this cruel and unsettling cackle. Then she began mocking me and mocking the name of Jesus in a high-pitched, evil-sounding voice. I sat there thinking, What is going on? What is wrong with my friend?
Her husband, who had joined us earlier, was just as shocked as I was to see how she was acting. Now, she had been diagnosed with multiple personality disorder, a result, her doctors believed, of her childhood trauma. Sitting there, listening to her evil laugh, I put two and two together and turned to her husband.
“Is this one of her personalities?” I asked.
“No,” he said. “I’ve seen them all, but I have never seen this.”
I ran inside the house and found Virgil. “I don’t know what I did, but I did something to her!” I said. Instantly Virgil sprang into action. He ran outside and up to my friend, who was on her feet and still ranting and raving in that strange, childish voice. He put her in a bear hug from behind and began talking in her ear. “Tell me your name,” he said over and over while she spit out curses. “I will not listen to you until you tell me your name.” I couldn’t wrap my mind around what was happening. I was watching the poor woman go crazy, and it broke my heart. I was also confused why Virgil was speaking to her that way. Meanwhile, she just kept on urgently screaming my name—not Virgil’s, not her husband’s, just mine. I took a few steps back and tried to catch my breath. Honestly, I was scared to death. I didn’t know what to do or what to say, but I knew I wanted the madness to be over.
In a tiny mutter under my breath I started repeating the name of Jesus.
Suddenly she stuck out her head and looked right at me with hatred in her eyes. She broke free of Virgil and lunged at me, but stopped just before she touched me, almost as if she’d hit an invisible wall. Then in a low but clear voice that was not her own she said, “Where’s your Jesus now? You got what you deserved as a child.”
I hadn’t told my friend about my childhood abuse. I hadn’t told anyone except Virgil. My first thought was that Virgil must have told her. I started crying, and Virgil told me to go home. I got in the car and drove home and locked all the doors and windows. Virgil came home a while later, and I hugged him tight when he walked in.
“She’s crazy,” I said. “She is nuts. We need to get her some help.”
“No,” said Virgil quietly. “I don’t think that was her.”
Virgil told me he reacted the way he did—quickly and forcefully—because he recognized what was happening as demonic. He was commanding what was inside her to say its name, so that with God’s authority he could make it leave.
I stood there, more confused than ever, not knowing what to think. My husband was a smart and serious man; in all the time I’d known him he’d never told a lie or even exaggerated anything. He was as plainspoken and honest as a person could be. And here he was telling me our friend was possessed? What was I supposed to say to that?
Virgil told me she returned to her normal self after I left. She didn’t remember anything that had happened, and she was deeply frightened when her husband and Virgil told her about it. It chilled me to the bone to think all of her venom had been directed squarely at me. I asked Virgil if he had told her about my childhood abuse, and he said he hadn’t. I believed him, but that meant I had no idea how my friend knew what she knew.
That night I insisted we sleep with all the lights on. I jumped at every sound and lay in bed crying until the sun came up. To say I was terrified doesn’t really convey what I was feeling. All I knew for sure was that my friendship was over.
The next day I told my Aunt Connie about what happened. Without hesitating, she said what I described was a demonic event. I knew the Bible talked about demons, but the truth is I hadn’t read the whole Bible, only small parts of it. And no one had ever talked about demons in any church sermon I’d ever heard. I listened to what my aunt had to say, but deep down I had already convinced myself that what I saw was either part of the poor woman’s personality disorder or evidence she was just plain crazy. Still, when Connie gave me the number of a Christian counselor she knew, I agreed to call him to ask if he could help. I didn’t want to be around my former friend anymore, but I also didn’t want her to suffer. If I could direct her to the help she needed, I would.
I called the counselor and told him everything that happened, and when I was done, he had one question. “She only said these things about you?” he asked.
I said yes, that was true, and the counselor paused.
“Then you’re the one I need to talk to,” he said.
Sorry, not interested, good-bye.
After that, I tried to let the matter drop, but I couldn’t shake a sense of lingering dread and anxiety. For days I couldn’t even be alone. Virgil had to sit with me in the bathroom while I showered, and in bed I’d get as close to him as I possibly could. Was all of this real? Was any of it real? It was easier for me just to believe she was crazy, and that’s what I tried to do.
At this point, some of you might be saying, “Now hold on just a minute.” Some of you might believe in demons; some of you may not. I am not here to tell you what to believe or what not to believe. All I can do is tell you the truth of my story, even if some of it is hard to fathom.
For me, the easiest explanation only held up for so long. How did she know about my past? Was it a guess? It seemed too specific for that. Had I forgotten that I’d told her? I was pretty sure I hadn’t. And why was Virgil so sure he’d seen demonic influence? Didn’t his opinion as a man of deep faith and strong character carry a lot of weight? All of these questions swirled in my head, but even so, I might have sided with the skeptics and forever believed what I’d witnessed was just a case of mental illness.
I might have believed that . . . if it hadn’t happened again.
A FEW MONTHS had passed since we ended our friendship with the couple. I’d returned to my normal life, or as normal as I could get it. I taught school. I watched my kids play in the school band. I made them lunches and put notes on their napkins telling them how much I loved them. I didn’t need to sleep with the lights on anymore, and—after not praying for weeks out of fear and confusion—I’d even started to pray again. Most evenings in our house were quiet, just the way I
liked them.
On one of those evenings I invited a family friend to our home. She was a respected businesswoman and an all-around wonderful lady, and I was very close with her. I’d known her all my life, and she was down to earth and thoughtful and someone I considered a dear friend. I knew she didn’t drink, but that night in my home she treated herself to one glass of wine. I didn’t think anything of it, and our ordinary evening continued.
But within an hour or so, her mood changed. She started talking loudly and got very aggressive, and she said things she knew would upset me. My first thought was, If she’s drunk, I don’t have time to babysit her. And I don’t want my kids to see this, so I better drive her to her aunt’s home, which wasn’t too far away. I called ahead, got my friend in my car, and we drove off.
On the way, she got even louder and meaner. At one point she grabbed the steering wheel, and I had to push her away and back in her seat. At her aunt’s house, we sat her down in a recliner in the living room and let her cool down a bit. Instead, she only got more worked up. I’d never seen her act this way, and I could hardly believe a single glass of wine could cause it. She was staring at me now, just like my former friend had, with hatred in her eyes. And when she spoke she used a voice I didn’t recognize as hers. Her uncle watched her and tried to make sense of her behavior, and her aunt was unnerved enough to grab a Bible and start reading passages aloud. And, just as it happened in the last incident, my friend started spitting the verses back in an ugly singsong voice. Then she started reciting the verses quickly, as if she knew them by heart, though I was sure she didn’t know the Bible that well.
I felt a sickening knot in my stomach. One glass of wine could not explain all this. Her aunt kept reading the Bible, and she kept mocking her, until suddenly she stopped and looked straight at me.
Then she said something so vile and so brutal, I can’t even repeat it in these pages.
Using horribly vulgar language, she told me I got exactly what I deserved as a child and she said she was responsible for all the horrible sexual abuse I’d suffered. It was like she felt proud of the hell inflicted on me when I was young.
Waking Up in Heaven: A True Story of Brokenness, Heaven, and Life Again Page 12
