This is my attempt to glorify my God. He has done so much in my life, even just up to this point, which is at forty years of age by the way, that I find I can no longer be silent. It seems clear, that the Lord has been working in my life all these years, unbeknownst to me, to lead me to this point. As I look back over my life I can hardly believe it myself… The fact that I’m even breathing just astonishes me. I’ve always had quite a cavalier approach to life. Simply choosing to believe that what ever made me happy at the moment was to be my true path in this journey. It is only recently, within the last three years that things, meaning me, began to change.
In these pages I will attempt to be as accurate, and chronologically correct, as my recollection of things will allow me to be. Weather by Devine design, or by the substance abuse suffered at my own hand, some of my memories are missing, and shall we say, vague at best. I do believe that our Creator made each of us with certain coping mechanisms, one of which is what I like to think of as selective memory. Scientists have termed this suppressed memory, but I prefer the term selective. The reasoning for my chosen term is simple; I Really do not remember some whole sections of my life. I like to think that for some unknown reason God has culled some things out. That is selective.
This little booklet you are holding is indeed a biography, and not a work of fiction. Please enjoy the journey you are about to embark on, and if in some way it has made your walk with God closer, please pass it on to a friend in need. To God be the glory!
August 5th 1964
On that day, in a Houston Texas hospital, I came into this world. Born prematurely, and immediately placed in an incubator, the doctors told my Mother and Grandmother that I had a 50% chance of pulling through. It seems that my lungs had not yet fully developed. Because of my under developed lungs, I had not started breathing on my own yet. It was fully three days, according to my Mother, before the hospital staff would let her hold me. This was the first of many miraculous interventions of God into my life. My parents were just kids themselves, eighteen years old. Now to hear Mom tell it, her and my father fell in love in high school, and she helped him get his diploma. Some time later, I came along.
My Father was, and I suppose still is, a mechanic. He worked for a little service station that I recall being part of the Shell Oil Empire. Mom got a license to practice beautifying people and being an infant I really can’t tell you much more than that. I have a few fuzzy memories of ladies coming to our home and getting perms, but nothing about her ever actually working for a salon. Please remember, like I said earlier, just because I don’t remember doesn’t make it so. These are just my memories.
I’ve seen photos of me standing up on a red couch at three months of age, leaning against the backrest part; I even remember a large portrait in some silly white sailor suit. The real meat of childhood memories evades me, like trying to grasp smoke. I know it’s there, I know that surely things occurred worth remembering. Like smoke however, I just can’t seem to get a good grip on it. My failed memories of childhood, I'm convinced, stem from lack of evidence. As you’ll see in the near future, my Mom went through a bitter divorce, and in her anger, subsequently destroyed every last vestige of photographic triggers that had any thing to do with him. How sad, because of her pain, she inadvertently erased ten years of my life. I can only imagine what it must have done to my sister.
Not being sure of their order, the next few passages are going to be a kind of a jumble of thoughts, emotions, and memories. Having prepared you in advance, I feel a little freer to express myself. Memories of dear old Dad are few; the ones I remember are mostly from stories I've heard at Holidays and the like. Dad didn’t really participate in my life much that I can recall. I have some images of him in a big brown chair watching television stored in my mind, and I’m told he would dip my pacifier in his beer to get me to be quiet. You would think as nasty as that stuff tastes I would have spit it out. Nope.
There were times spent with his family that I have no recollections of, once again all the photographic memory triggers have been destroyed. I do have the distinct impression though, that the family from which my father came was simple, down to earth folk.
I see in my minds eye, the very vivid hues of pink and green encompassing the front yard in the form of a huge, or at least that’s what it seemed like to me, mimosa tree. I clearly remember playing with the dried seedpods, listening to them rattle. There was also a short chain link fence there. Emotionally speaking, I don’t feel any negativity about those people. I just know that I was kept from them the remainder of my youth, because of one person’s bitter resentment. Don’t think that the intention of this tome is to heap judgment upon my Mother’s head it’s not. This is an autobiography, and some times the truth hurts.
I believe with all my heart, this is why Jesus exhorts us to think of others more than ourselves. He knew before the foundations of this world were laid, that selfishness has no place in a parent’s life. Now if you were to ask my Mother, she would say, “I did the best I could” At least that’s what I’ve heard growing up. You see, Mom grew up in the “If it feels good, do it!” era. What some would call the “Me” generation. All around her people were having casual sex, AIDS was never heard of. Marijuana use hit an all time high, excuse the pun. Being a liberated, modern woman was what it was all about. But God…
In the midst of all this lunacy, there were my little sister and I. My Sister, born in September 1969, five years after me, saw even less of our father than I did. Since he made his departure when she was five, she has even fewer memories of him than I do. I’ve been told that she adored me, and as any such situation would dictate, therefore would make the ideal toy. To a five-year-old boy, a little sister is a barrel of fun. At least she was to me. I’m told, and I wholeheartedly believe, that once I spun her around like a top in her onesie on the coffee table, inciting riotous laughter from the two of us… That is until one particularly brisk spin sent her careening to the shag carpet.
The crying that ensued would surely wake the dead. It had the same effect on our parents. When they arrived in the living room, I was leaning over my fragile infant sister with my right hand index finger securely fastened to my pursed lips. “Shhhhh! You’re gonna wake up Mom and Dad!” Thank God she survived. I recall once rolling out of the rear window deck where I was sleeping, and toppling into the floorboard of our car, when Mom had to make a rather abrupt stop. Thank God we think differently about child safety now, but then I guess it was the norm. That fateful night I think we were on our way to see Dad at Brown and Root, his place of employment at the time. Once again, But God…
I sit here in pure awe of the work that the Lord has done in my life, saving me from harm at the hands of inexperienced parents. Saving me as well, from my own foolishness in later years, and rescuing me from the things that would have surely killed me. Things that I still to this day don’t even know about. What an awesome God we serve! Another such act of youthful foolishness is the time a cute, curly headed little girl, with whom I was no doubt infatuated, dared me to touch a hot motorcycle exhaust pipe. Not being one to do anything halfway, I proceeded to wrap my entire tiny hand around said severely hot pipe. Resulting, of course, in second degree burns. Weeks of green salve and gauze bandages, along with the necessary needle poking of each individual blister and my subsequent screaming took care of that.
The mosquito coil, now there’s one I have vivid memories of. One night when Dad was working on a car in our driveway, I was running around supervising, as all small kids do. This being Houston, we have what you could call a slight mosquito problem. Lots of water everywhere, and it never really gets cold enough, for long enough, to kill the little bloodsuckers off. Due to the tiny flying carnivores, Dad, had placed what used to be known as a Wick coil on floor. These things burn in circles, and the smoke somehow wards off the voracious critters. The coil itself is held up off the ground by a large, fold up sheet-metal spike, sort of resembling a one-dimensional pyramid.
Now that you have ample description of the device and it’s location let me add this; I was not wearing shoes. It takes no stretch of the imagination to conclude that at some point, my little foot was getting together with that metal spike. To answer your assumptions, yes, I stepped on it. Rushing to the emergency room with a huge gash in the sole of my tiny right foot wasn’t on my “To Do” list. Being held down by several nurses while the doctor S-L-O-W-L-Y stitched up my foot wasn't too high on my list of priorities either. Such is my life, but God was watching over me the whole time.
Here’s a good one, at still less than ten years old, and seeking adventure, I grabbed one of our quilts. This being the sturdiest piece of fabric in the house, I just knew that it would work. Aptly equipped with the quilt, I gathered all four corners, two in each hand, and throwing this mound of cotton cloth back over my head and behind my shoulders, leapt from the second story balcony of the apartment we were in at the time. Only God’s intervention kept me from breaking anything, or dieing. Where the idea came from to make a parachute from a twenty-pound quilt, I’ll never know. I do know this... If it weren’t for God’s hand on my life, there’s yet another time I very well could have been dead. But God…
I have family photos of that period in my life. Ones that do not include “The Sperm Donor” as my Mother so lovingly referred to my Father. She called him that until one day near my fortieth birthday when I finally asked her not too. (I can only imagine how he must have hurt her) Only God’s grace has kept me from being any more messed up than I am. Please understand that I love my Mom. I honestly believe in the depths of my heart that if she had been serving Jesus Christ, I mean really sold out to him, the person I am now would be vastly different. Isn’t that strange? Do you think that God allowed it to be so to build my character? But God…
A few of those pictures that weren’t destroyed were of times spent with my Uncle and Aunt. (Mom’s “Much older” brother and his wife) All those seemed to be very pleasant and life affirming, and in those two I got to see Jesus modeled in my life. My Uncle, Aunt, and Grandmother (Mamaw)… those were the folks closest to me that put skin on Jesus. I remember spending nearly entire summers with my “Mamaw and Papaw” I really miss those two. Papaw’s been with the Lord for quite a few years now, and Mamaw Has had a stroke and just isn’t the same anymore. It’s my prayer that she enjoy her remaining days on this earth, and I look forward to seeing her again fully restored when we meet at the wedding feast!
When I became ten, actually shortly thereafter, things were starting to look up. Mom and Dad had purchased a home in Spring Texas. (Just outside and to the north of Houston) There was a cool little park, and we even began raising Basset hounds. To put the proverbial cherry on top, it was announced that a sibling that we would shortly come to know as our Little brother would soon join my Sister and me. The joy that was our lives soon came to a screeching halt, courtesy of a selfish adult, Dad. Mom’s pregnancy didn’t occur under the greatest of circumstances.
It seems as though the next-door neighbor and Dad had a thing going on. More properly called an adulterous affair. Little brother came along, the divorce ensued, and somehow Mom, Sis, Little brother, and I wound up living in an apartment with another single Mom, and her two kids. It was very quickly after the big move that we were hit with what seemed like a ton of bricks. Our Little brother had gone to be with the Lord. The doctors all called it crib death back then. I called it, within myself, a miracle. As much as I longed for my Little brother, something within me knew that he was better off. When I saw him laying there, blue on the bottom, and white on the top my heart sank. I knew he was dead, but I couldn’t cry. He didn’t have to experience all the mean spirited talk and bottled up, and sometimes not so bottled up hatred that my Sister and I were left to deal with.
Thank God for his tender mercies! To be comforted by the Holy Spirit at ten years of age just boggles my mind as an adult. Especially since I hadn’t even accepted Christ as my Savior yet. Mom got a job at a Biker bar where she had lot’s of fun and met many interesting people. This is the way my ten-year-old mind saw it. We moved again to some guy’s house in the country with yet another woman, whose job it was to take care of us four kids and tend to the house for free room and board. Meanwhile the two single mothers were working, dating, joining Parents Without Partners, ETC… I should mention, the owner of the property, did not reside there.
One of the best memories I have of that place was of a fellow in an old, yellow bi-plane (Crop duster style) flying over the house every so often, and us kids running outside to wave at him. The fun part was that he would actually wave back at us by tilting the wings back and forth. I can still feel the smiles bubbling up from within me, even some thirty years later. Somewhere along the way Mom met a man. Nineteen years her senior, and also a member of Parents Without Partners, this fellow had his own house. When asked why she married a man she didn’t love (After divorce #2) Mom replied, “It was for you two kids.” I suppose whatever arrangement had put us in the big borrowed house was over.
Dad #2 was a quiet, country type, man. He never really had too much to say to my Sister or me. It’s just as well; I got the distinct impression that we, (Sis and I) were just the baggage that came along with Mom. Our house had a little half-acre garden out back and we used to ride around on a sheet of plywood with nails driven into it, chained to a small lawn tractor to till the soil. That was a good memory, you see, it wasn’t all gloom and doom. One of Dad #2’s other assets was a neat little sixteen foot fishing boat, he would spend a lot of time on it, and occasionally we would all join him.
Somewhere further on down the Dad #2 road, Mom and he bought a house. It was 1976 and everywhere you looked the country was celebrating the Bi-centennial. Red, white, and blue were the chosen colors of the day. The coins, all but a couple, were redesigned. The house hadn’t even been built yet, I remember thinking, “When will it look like a house?” We drove by the construction site, what seemed like everyday to check on its progress. We even put our handprints into the wet cement of the freshly poured back patio. Yep, we watched that house go from dirt to domain. I can still vividly remember when we first came inside after it was finished. The new carpet smell, mixed with freshly painted walls is something you don’t easily forget.
A thirteen hundred square foot U.S. Home, circa 1976, it’s where I still live, by the grace of God, today. The boat had to be put into storage, due to deed restrictions, and we immediately began a little garden in the back yard. This one was better dealt with using hand tools. The lawn tractor was a bit much, given the size of our new yard. All seemed to be going along merrily until one day as I sat upon the countertop (Which are still in use) Dad #2 Came in and really blew his top at me. He was really raging on and on, something about me tearing up his new house, and all about what he thought about me sitting on the countertops of his new house… Well, Mom heard it and I guess it was all she could take. Divorce #2 soon followed.
About this time I have memories of being a “Latch Key Kid” that’s what we call them now, but basically I was in charge of my sister and myself until Mom got home everyday. Those memories smell like Spaghetti-O’s. I will not ever open another can of those as long as I live. One day, out of the blue, along came the man I refer to as my Dad, even to this day. Mom had a job at a print shop and he worked there also. I think he was her boss. He started coming around more and more often then the next thing we knew, he asked Mom to marry him. She replied with a yes, and soon afterward, he asked us if we would be His kids. My Sister and I both weren’t sure what he meant but soon it was clear. He wanted to adopt us as His Kids! He wanted it to be like he was our Dad all along.
How cool that was to us, to have a man Wish to be our Dad. After being dumped on by our natural father, and briefly put up with by our second Dad, here was a man that would do whatever it took to become our Dad! To say that we were elated would be an understatement. The hard point for me was that my natural father actually had to sign away all of his parental rights to my Sister and I. This needed to happen for the adoption and subsequent name change to proceed. It was like one final rejection by our dear old Dad. That stung.
The following years until I left home were filled with laughter, happiness, good times and bad, but at least we had some sort of normalcy around us. When I turned fourteen a couple of really great things happened to me. First, and foremost, I accepted Jesus Christ as my personal Lord and Savior. Secondly, I became the owner of a Yamaha DT 100 Enduro motorcycle. (Queue the Steppenwolf music)
Once born again, and duly baptized into the Church Of Christ, I turned my back on God. No, I didn’t start worshipping Satan, I simply fell prey to the feminine wiles. Yes, I discovered girls, where were all the cootie laden sissies? All at once, or so it seemed, they all turned into attractive young women. Mom had the habit of putting us on the Joy bus every Sunday morning and sending us off to the Tomball Church Of Christ. All in all, not a bad idea, no matter what her motive was. In other words, time alone with Dad. By that bus coming to pick me up every Sunday I got to learn about God. The real loving father that sent his only son to die in my place. I’m saddened to have to say this, but I never really knew Jesus until January fourteenth 2001. Like all teenage boys with raging hormones, my sole concern seemed to be girls, and one girl in particular.
Rhonda was a cute and bubbly little blonde girl from a small (at the time) town near Houston, called Magnolia. She was fourteen as well, and in our minds we were in love. According to us we were to be married, buy a house in the country and have a white picket fence, a Golden Retriever, and 2.3 kids. All was well. That is all was well until I had the first of many near fatal motorcycle collisions in my life. There were three that stand out on this bike. The first, if I recall correctly, was when after cutting across a field, that my Dad specifically warned me against, I hit another kid in a go-kart. The grass was tall, like a foot and a half, and the kid in the go-kart was short. Bad combination, but if I had listened to my Dad and stayed out of the field, the collision could have been avoided all together.
I was left pretty banged up, but no hospital care was needed. The bike, on the other hand, needed a new front end. God’s blessings show up again. To be alive and relatively unhurt was wonderful enough, But God… It just so happened that our next-door neighbor was a café racer named Chuck Casper. He was accustomed to repairing broken bikes, and soon enough, I was up and rolling again. I spent every chance I could get with Rhonda. Some visits were with my folk’s permission some were without. Our love grew stronger everyday. The next wreck on the Enduro happened on my way to school one morning. The front tire blew out. If you are traveling at more than twenty miles per hour and have a front blowout on a motorcycle, you are going down. It is non-negotiable. This was yet another place for God to show himself strong in my life. A little road rash and some torn up clothes was about all that came of that.
I wound up in the ditch safely away from traffic, where three kind, Hispanic gentlemen stopped and put me across their laps in the cab of their beat up old orange Chevy truck. The bike got to ride in the bed of the truck, and they delivered me safely to the nurse’s office at the high school. The third and final wreck on the Yamaha Enduro was much worse. I was on my way to school, when literally ten feet in front of me another student in a yellow Subaru pulled out of the parking lot and into my lane. The witnesses, there were about seven or eight hundred, said it was spectacular.
I impacted the car at the front of the driver's door, just behind the left front tire. I can still see the horrified expression on the driver’s face. The motorcycle collided and went underneath the car. My head (With helmet) hit the windshield, just before I was launched into the air and flew a distance of approximately thirty-five yards. After the human cannon ball trick, I landed with a thud on my knees in a kneeling position, and then fell backwards. I came to with paramedics cutting my pants off.
The collision occurred at about fifty miles per hour, and after the whole thing was over, and I was discussing it with friends, it was indeed, spectacular as previously mentioned. The wreck was so intense that I actually had to be scooped up with a spoon, that’s what they call the two-piece backboard that was used to pick me up. Once inside the ambulance, I passed out again. One of the strange things that I distinctly remember; there was a small cut, about one quarter inch in size, on the back of my right hand. I play guitar, so I immediately freaked out, thinking I would lose the use of my hand from this huge gash. (There was a lot of blood) And why hadn’t these people seen this horrible injury and done something about it?
They say, (the people responsible for cleaning up after the accident) that at the moment just before impact, my adrenalin level must have been through the roof. The metal gas tank of the bike was caved in about three inches deep on both sides. Apparently caused be my squeezing my legs together to brace for the impact.
I voiced my concern, rather loudly while trying to sit up, and was quickly pushed down, strapped in, and given a Band-Aid, A regular, everyday, household Band-Aid. I guess there were other things I should have been worried about. Upon arrival at the hospital, I had a sadist that called himself an emergency room surgeon put two-thirds of his little finger inside my left knee. The unpleasantries continued until my Mom finally talked someone into giving me something for pain. Poking and prodding and pills were my lot for the next few days. A lot of pain was felt; the worst came when we were told I might lose both of my legs mid thigh.
It seems that two complete breaks, one inch apart (the exact width of my handlebars) were present in both femurs. Both my knees were completely shattered, and filled with debris. The end all, cure all, to the problem at hand was the previously mentioned double amputation. Mom and Dad persisted until we found an Iraqi specialist with an experimental technique. He proposed removing all the little broken pieces, and replacing them with plastic parts he would carve as needed, and then Superglue in place. I liked his attitude! When I first met him, I’ll never forget… he came into my room in blue jeans and a loud plaid shirt. This guy, Dr. Hussam Bahrani, seemed to be straight out of Arabian Nights. It’s amazing the way a teen-age mind thinks. Thick, wavy, black hair, and an equally prominent moustache adorned his head. Through a barely understandable accent this man says… “Mr. Henson, we’re going to fix you!”
Agreeing with his prognosis was a lot easier to do; after all, I had grown accustomed to having legs. Nearly eight hours of surgery, and close to a full year in a wheel chair, and
some very unfriendly physical therapy sessions, (Although my therapist was a doll) I had my legs back! It’s amazing, the people God puts in our lives. I can’t thank him enough for his miraculous intervention. Now for an update, that incident and subsequent recovery took place in1978-1979 and a little part of 1980. The doctors all said I would need to have more work done on my knees in five years. It is now nearing the end of 2004, and aside from occasional pain, (I am forty, you know) my knees are fine! But God…
One great blessing that came from that wreck was the knowledge I gained about the real character of my true love, Rhonda. Once informed that I would most likely become legless and therefore spend the rest of my years in a wheelchair, she thought it better to end our relationship. Looking back, I can only thank God that she didn’t wait until we had a couple of kids and a house note. Life returned to normal for a while, I returned to school. Mom made the executive decision that I was to never ride a motorcycle again. I got the Pinto. Anyone remember the Pinto? That’s the one that bursts into flames when hit from behind. How that was supposed to be safer than a motorcycle I’ll never know.
Eventually I received a settlement of $25,000.00. I believe it was the day I turned the magic age of eighteen. The money had been kept in trust by the court until then. Now what do you think I did with all that money? Like any irresponsible teenager, I went through it like water. One asset remained, The Pony Express. That was the name of what I turned the Pinto into after purchasing it from my folks for $4,000.00. I was out of money, except one IRA for $2,000.00, Naturally, I cashed it in and incurred a $500.00 penalty. Driving along one day in my Hot Rod Pinto, I happened by a motorcycle shop.
I was just going to go in and look around… Really. Then I saw it. She was a thing of beauty, a Yamaha Virago 750. Monococque suspension, mag wheels, and an awesome V-Twin motor were just a few of the finer points. A Shoei quarter fairing and high-gloss jet-black paint finished her out. The longer I stared at her the more I needed her to be mine! After a rather brisk test ride, I struck up a deal with the owner of the shop. I traded my Pinto for the Virago. When I left the shop, I had a new helmet, leather jacket, chaps, boots, and a nice Eclipse tank bag. Now I knew that I would never be allowed to keep the bike at home… so I left.
I wound up staying with friends, and dropping out of high school just two weeks before graduation. My life had become ruined in my young mind. I had enlisted in the United States Air Force while still in school, and after the accident, I was considered damaged goods. The Military no longer wanted me. I wound up living in an undeveloped wooded area across from a small shopping center. I panhandled for enough money to eat, and eventually got a job as a janitor at a Target store. With that illustrious career under way, I managed to save enough to buy some camping gear, and thus made myself a little more comfortable. The motorcycle had seized up one night coming back from a ride at spring Creek Park, and was currently sitting in a friend’s garage.
The seized up motorcycle was as a result of twisting the throttle wide open for about twenty miles down then Farm to Market road 149. I quit looking at the speedometer when it bottomed out at 85 mph. (The last number on the speedometer) It never was quite right after that. Even though it was about two in the morning, I know now what a stupid and dangerous thing that was to do. Another place God showed himself strong on my behalf. His mercy allowed me to live one more time. Somewhere along the way I met a dude that talked me into hitchhiking to Utah to plant explosives for seismic surveys for $13.00 per hour. That little expedition ended in Dallas Texas, at the House of pies next to the freeway. There I was, 18 years old, new town, no job, and very little money.
I wound up staying with an off shore oilrig worker that went by the moniker of “Bear” from Little Elm Texas. He was home for vacation, and helped me get a job as a fueler at 76 Truck stop in Denton Texas. A real nice fellow he was, like I said earlier, it’s amazing the people God puts in your life to accomplish his plans. One thing led to another and I wound up sharing a house with four collage students. That was just weird. One night while out cruising the strip (University Blvd.) on roller skates, go figure, I met a girl. We dated for a while and not too long later were married.
For some strange reason I thought that this woman was to be my future. As it turns out, I was partially correct. If it had not been for meeting and wedding that young girl, I would not know the joy of my little girl, Heather today. Well ok, she’s not so little. She’s eighteen. She will always be my little girl. Marie and I were wed and begin to fight instantly. There were very few good moments in our relationship. Almost immediately she became pregnant. This was after supposedly being on birth control. As it turns out, she had been throwing the “Pill” down the toilet. She said later that she thought that a child would bring us closer together. It pushed us further apart.
The little baby that resulted from that pregnancy was not my daughter. A lovely little boy would come to life at 7:20 am Christmas morning 1984. Still being kids ourselves, and not wishing to use a child as a marital aide, I made the suggestion that we let a couple from Houston, two lawyers, adopt him. We were given this option by the ex mayor of Denton Texas. A lawyer himself, Thomas Jester, made it possible for us to bless another couple, and not having to resort to the butchery of abortion. Our relationship never recovered from the betrayal I felt about that.
Drugs like marijuana, L.S.D., cocaine, not to mention alcohol entered my life in a major way at about this time. I turned into a real first class jerk. If it wasn’t going to make me happy or high I did not do it. I think I was seeking escape from what my marriage had become. I started getting tattooed as a form of self-expression. The tattoo shop is where I first really started to develop relationships within the biker community. I really liked these folks, I had happened upon a group of guys, and girls that was sympathetic to my plight. “That Chick’s nuts!” was the common phrase applied to my wife.
With a new group of friends, and some trumped up bravado, I set about gradually turning myself into a biker. These people were just like me! Do what feels good, don’t take crap from anyone, and just enjoy life. Russ, Buzzard, Mark, Rebel, Flash and Sleeper were a few of the folks that helped me discover “The Real me”. As a matter of fact one well-known biker saying is: Live to Ride, Ride to Live. I was getting good at it too! I wound up selling five hundred hits of acid to a guy and turning around and buying a 1967 Triumph chopper. It had metallic paint and had a 12” over front end, twisted chrome Z-bars, and drag pipes. Cool.
One thing led to another, and before I knew it I didn’t care one way or another about Marie. She could do her thing and I would do mine. Several near overdoses, and one very memorable evening being robbed at gunpoint by one of my associates were to become commonplace in my life. Dodging the law, as well as other folks that did not have my best interest at heart presented itself as the norm. I had actually gotten to the point that it was my regular habit of selling cocaine. Not on the street corner like you would think, but out of the ladies room of a popular biker bar in downtown Ft. Worth. It’s not my intention to glorify any of this behavior, so I’ll refrain from going into too much detail about the good old days. Suffice it to say, I was a mess.
Enter a county judge with a good heart. After a particularly interesting bust, of which I was the star, I was given the opportunity to turn my life around. The Judge in my case gave me the choice of prison or rehabilitation. Not being completely brain-dead, I chose the latter. Three months in the Texas state hospital’s substance abuse recovery program and I was officially declared “No longer a threat to society, or my own person” I was sent to a halfway house back in Denton to continue my recovery, and discovered that Marie was still waiting for me. Three months later I moved home to redeem myself. Hello Marie, I’m home!
By mid 1985, after a separation of several months, I foolishly tried to save our marriage through reconciliation. It was a moot point. Marie was up to her old tricks again; the weekend we spent together was very pleasant. I wouldn’t go so far as to call it romantic but it involved a lot of cuddling.
Little did I know, she was setting me up again… I even asked her repeatedly, “Are you sure it’s safe?” Well of course it was a lie that fell from her lips, and while seeing each other off and on over the next six weeks on one of our very last “Dates” the news was relayed to me that she was once again, pregnant. I was furious! “How could she do that to me again?” I was mad at her, but even more so I think I was mad at myself for falling for the same trick twice!
The Lord God Almighty… what can I say that expresses the awe that I feel when a tiny part of His plan is revealed. At the time, it seemed like my life was over. Marie didn’t love me she just didn’t want to be alone, at any cost. I grudgingly moved back in with her. For the sake of our forthcoming child, and just out of a sense of surrender I thought it best to make it work. My first real cry for help came about this time. I convinced Marie that we needed professional help. Without a lot of resources at our command, we turned to the Clergy. We met and began to fellowship with some wonderful folks at a little place called New Creation Fellowship. The Pastor there, Randy Nussbaum, was the same man we hired to marry us from the phone book. (Non-denominational)
Counseling session after session was scheduled, and we went to most of them. It was hard to get her to go at first, then as if by miraculous intervention she just decided to start going. The biggest snag to our moving forward was Marie’s inability to listen. Seriously, if anyone tried to say anything that went against the notion of how things should be, according to her, she would simply talk over them. I know it’s hard to believe, but while witnessing this first hand, I could only shake my head in amazement as she would literally, continue speaking as if no one else had said a single word. During this trial, I met a woman. I should say we met a woman. This poor unfortunate soul (That’s sarcasm) needed a place to stay, and being the “Christian People” we were we took her in.
I’m not sure if the thought was that while concentrating on helping someone else we would forget our own dilemma… or was I subconsciously looking for something else? Days turned into weeks, weeks turned into months and one night it happened. Marie had been getting larger, the way all pregnant women do, and in the process had lost all desire for contact from me. I’m not trying to justify anything. I just want you to see the warning signs. They may be in your life right now. One night sitting in the living room of our government subsidized apartment our guest came and sat down in front of my chair on the floor between my feet. She asked if I would mind rubbing her shoulders. “I don’t think Mary would like that.” Was my reply. “She’s asleep in her bedroom, it’s okay.”
That "massage" my dear friend was the final blow to our marriage. I’ll spare you all the gory details, but I will tell you this, “Cat” and I wound up having a full-fledged affair. Before it was all over we were packing up the old 1979 Ford Fairmont and headed for Wichita Falls Texas. Yes I left my Wife, pregnant and ran off to another town with the other woman. Looking back I can’t believe I did it. As well as many of the other bone headed things I’ve done in my forty years. That kind of behavior reminded me of my natural father.
The little town in North Texas looked promising for a couple of adulterers from Denton. Soon I found myself resorting to my old ways. Not all at once, just a little at a time. Satan has a funny way of doing that. He gets you to accept the “little” sins as no big deal, “Everyone’s doing it” and “At least I’m not like them” comments like that are planted in our flesh so easily. One thing I would not budge on was my “No Needles” rule. This just meant that although I had relapsed into every other kind of drug use, I would not shoot up. I forbade “Cat” from it as well, somehow thinking I could control her.
Employment came our way immediately, after all when you’re working for Satan; he wants to make sure you’re provided for, lest you see him for what he truly is and leave. My job was as a gun toting topless bar bouncer at one of the trendier places on Scott Street. “Cat” became a bartender and waitress in the same place. Life was just one big party after another. Several customers frequently rented the Presidential suite at the Sheraton down the road and invited dancers and staff to all night parties. “Cat” grew in popularity, and one day she asked me what I thought of her dancing? When the topic of $1,500.00 per week plus popped up I agreed. The key part of that phrase being A-Greed.
The freefall into the depths of sin continued, until spiraling downward at a leisurely pace lost it’s luster. At some point my appetite for destruction had become so voracious that the wild parties and free drugs just weren’t enough any longer. My eye soon fell on another dancer. The petite Roxy piqued my curiosity. When she asked if I would take her to the gun range to teach her how to shoot, I knew what would happen. I borrowed another pistol for her from one of my friends and off to the range we went. You know how that story ends… “Cat” found out, and I truly believed it didn’t bother her. It was at that point though that she decided to hire me as her personal bodyguard. That way I would be within viewing range at all times.
You see, when the thing with Roxy went down, “Cat” and I were working different schedules. Sometimes we worked together, sometimes we didn’t. That torrid feast of weirdness continued for nearly two years. One day while being sent back to the apartment for something she had left in her other bag, I found a spike. That’s a slang term for a syringe. I was crestfallen; this is when the party came to a stop for me, at least this part of it. I wrote a goodbye note on the inside of one of her favorite jean jackets with a magic marker, and left the syringe on top.
Into the blue Fairmont went all my worldly possessions, and off to Dallas I drove. The first place I stopped was a biker bar, one I will always remember. Garfield’s was a dark little joint located in the Sodom and Gomorra section of Big “D” also known as Harry Hines Boulevard. This is where all the prostitutes ply their trade, along with topless bars, adult bookstores, liquor stores, and cheap motels. The perfect place to begin a new life for a guy bent on self-destruction. The Owner of Garfield’s was a really nice woman that I still consider a good friend today. If it weren’t for Suzy, there were many times I would have done myself in. I’m not talking about suicide, just poor decisions.
God has a way of using people in your life to accomplish his goals, even when the people he chooses to use aren’t living for God. The Old Testament is full of examples of this. One place in particular, in the New Testament, comes to mind as well… Judas. My life has been filled with these unknowing tools of God, and it’s only now that I am beginning to really see it. What an Awesome God we serve.
A quick trip to the pawnshop, and I had enough money to get an apartment on the less than posh side of Denton. My Smith and Wesson .357 Magnum, and my electric guitar proved to be valuable assets. The apartment was fully furnished, as many very inexpensive places are. Lot’s of roaches, but I had no one to impress, and of course no furniture. I unpacked the car, and bought beer. The following two weeks were filled with drowning my sorrows on Fry Street. That is the Party spot in Denton, it’s very near the main campus of the University of North Texas. Back then it was called North Texas State University, but that’s not important.
On Fry Street you run into the Artistic type a lot, many folks there could be considered eccentric, some could even be called gifted, then there were the ones that were just plain weird. Casual sex, drug use and alcohol abuse are, or should I say, were the hallmark of this very strange place. Yep, I fit right in. The infamous street and surrounding area contained bars, record stores, (Remember records?) restaurants, a “Head Shop”, (Naturally) with a paint job on the building that looked like Zebra stripes, a small convienience store, an Artists’ supply house, and the prerequisite bicycle shop. Many of my pre-employment days were spent there, and once I got a job as a cook at IHOP, many of my nights as well.
I settled into Denton, like you do an old pair of jeans. Then I ran into Marie…and my Daughter. She was an adorable little girl, (Heather, not Marie.) and I felt myself swell up with pride at the beauty of this precious little baby. I tried to have some sort of place in their lives, but after Marie divorced me, she didn’t want me anywhere around. The shame of that was the lack of a relationship with that lovely little girl. When Heather turned twelve years old I finally managed to build a relationship with her, no thanks to her mother. But I’m getting ahead of myself.
Alone, divorced, and without direction, I muddled my way through my young adult life, one bad relationship after another. They say hindsight is 20/20, and at forty, I truly understand that saying now. If only I had developed a relationship with my Lord and Savior, (Matthew chapter 6) and put Him first in my life. That is my only real regret that I didn’t come to Jesus Christ sooner. Yeah, sure I said the words, and I was submersed in water, all at fourteen. I meant every one of those words too, I just didn’t know how Real a relationship with Jesus could be. Once again it seems like a good idea to reiterate the desired goal of this testimony. My point behind sharing this with you is simply to glorify God for the wondrous works he has done in my life.
My sincere prayer is that anyone that comes in contact with this testimony is forever changed, for the better. I pray that all those who read these pages are encouraged, and strengthened. I pray as well, that those without a Real, Loving relationship with Christ surrender, and waste no more time on what you have previously considered Christianity. Know him today, there’s no one else like my Jesus!
The weirdness in Denton continued, I became a regular at Garfield’s, and wound up becoming the epitome of bikerdom. Both arms covered in tattoos, five piercings in my left ear, (I only wear one earring now) and a succession of Harley-Davidson motorcycles that would make most hard core bikers’ mouths water with envy. This is what I had become, of my own doing; I took on the identity of a hard riding, hard partying, and textbook hard-core biker. But my life was empty. I wouldn’t come to see it for what it was until January 14th 2001.
Day after day I placed myself in dangerous situations. Drug deals, gambling, the buying and selling of motorcycle parts with questionable origins. The days zoomed by in a blur of Jack Daniels and Pot, with the occasional* Snowstorm *. My life had deteriorated into a selfish fit of gluttony with an average cruising speed of 120 mile per hour. Then I met “Cooter”… She was my female equivalent. “Cooter” was a hard-core biker chick with tons of attitude, and one of the only women I ever met that could keep up with me on a drinking binge.
Together we rode everywhere. Pool tournaments, (Her, not me) wet T-shirt contests, (Once again, her) and most often, biker parties called runs. These are parties that go on for two or more days, 24 / 7. The way it would go was like this… We would be at the bar, (Usually Garfield’s) and someone would come in with a flier for a run. It’s like an invitation. We would decide to go, sometimes at a moments notice. Ride the bike home, pack the saddlebags, stop by the liquor store for “Refreshments”, and ride. Sometimes there would be groups of us riding together, and sometimes just us. We would usually get to the party the same day we left town. (Often these runs are several hundred miles away) Upon arrival we would set up camp, (Pitch the tent, and chunk the saddlebags inside) and go look for the best party within the party.
There are lots of things to do at a biker run, most of which involve satisfying some desire. There are very few taboos as well. You could find a tattoo booth, a piercing booth, T-shirts, knives, and anything you could ever imagine made from leather. More often than not someone would hand you a joint if you stood in one place long enough, and the beer was on tap, sometimes three or four kegs at a time. Today’s bike rallies (As they are also called) are timid in comparison to most I’ve been to. I can say this because I’ve been back as a Christian missionary to bikers, and it seems to have become popular for the Big Money set to purchase Harley-Davidsons and play biker on the weekends. I suppose everyone needs a release.
Seven years Leigh and I spent together. I can’t count how many times God kept me from being shot, stabbed, or strangled, no thanks to me. In those seven years I think of all the times I should have died, But God… How many times have I ridden my motorcycle home, blind drunk and not killed myself, or worse, someone else? I can’t count that high. How many times have I said or done something totally inappropriate to rather large, drunk, stoned, and armed men and lived to tell about it? I can’t even fathom. But God… Before “Cooter” and I went our separate ways, we moved back here to Houston. My mom had fallen on financial hard times, and we packed up and moved in with her to help her out.
Once here in Houston, it took us no time at all to find the “Biker Scene”. It’s weird how the god of this world, Satan, will provide for you, as long as you would be a threat to him if you switched sides. Before too long we started hanging out with a motorcycle club, the San Jacinto High Rollers. Don’t get me wrong this wasn’t your typical Hollywood movie “Gang”. These folk were nice, everyday people that shared a common love of bikes and the associated “Lifestyle”.
Once I became a full member, I soon found myself as Sgt. at arms of the Northwest chapter. I can’t tell you how much fun I would have with these fellow’s. Of course none of the weirdness of my personal life was “Officially Sanctioned” by the club, so I had to keep it under wraps. One thing I did do … and do a lot was drinking. Many of the current members could tell you some very interesting stories. Over the course of my illustrious career with the High Rollers, I managed to get myself elected to the post of National Sgt. At arms, and at one point even had the opportunity to revive a disbanded Baytown chapter and act as their President. A great group of guys and girls still to this day, as are all the San Jacinto High Rollers.
Please understand, I’m not trying to glorify this group of people, and I’m surely not saying that they are all sinless pillars of the community. I do wish to make a distinction between them and what most people have come to know as “Bikers”. What Hollywood has presented to the world, truly does exist. I know some of those guys, the ones that would shoot you just as soon as look at you. The High Rollers are not those guys, nor are they your local Boy Scout troop. Moving right along… One day, January 14th 2001 to be precise, a group of us decided to go for a ride in the country, up around Waller County.
As would many such rides, the day began with beer and a little something else to take the edge off. By 9:00AM I had a fairly good buzz going and there was no end in sight. One party led to another, and before long I found myself at a chili cook off at a local bike dealership. Someone always has a “private” party going at these events… and guess what? I found it. Due to the generosity of the host of this little private party I went from consuming beer and chili, to Jack Daniels and Coke, light on the Coke. Eventually, it would turn to no Coke. Several of my “Club Brothers” and “Sisters”, as well as my Fiancé Judi, tried without success to get me to, slow down. I was going full steam ahead by then, and had no intention of stopping.
7:00PM would find me at the now closed Whiskey Dick’s Ice House, two beers later and Judi had finally gotten me to listen to reason and agree that we needed to go home. Thank God Almighty that she was in the car behind me. Judi was eight and a half months pregnant by now, and had made the decision to no longer occupy the tiny passenger seat of our 1900 cc high performance S&S Machine, Ultra Ground-Pounder. A real fire-breathing hard-tailed monster that regularly took trips at 120 mph plus. (Once again, that was as high as the numbers went)
The consensus between my soon to be bride, and the Club was that if I could make it out of the parking lot, I could get it home. This was the decision reached after every single one of them tried to talk me into putting it in a truck. I would not be convinced. Do you see where this is going? Once again, But God…
Earlier in the evening, in my drunken stupor, I had succeeded in dropping my Hot-Rod over on its side. This little incident had caused my left foot-peg to get bent. (They weren’t the fold-up kind) With the foot-peg mount bent, the peg would work itself loose very quickly. There is a BUNCH of vibration on a 113 cubic inch rigid mounted motor, especially when it’s combined with a rigid frame. (No shocks) This particular set of foot-pegs was a machined aluminum custom set worth about $150.00, and you can’t buy just one. I say that, to say this, I was real concerned about losing that foot-peg.
Pulling out of Whiskey Dick’s parking lot ahead of Judi, I noticed the peg wobbling around. I was cruising at about 50 mph down the Beltway 8 frontage road, tame for me I know, with Judi behind me in the car. If I could just get my engineers boot placed in just the right manner, I could hold the foot-peg against the frame until I could get home and fix it properly. What strange thoughts dance through a chemically enhanced mind. Why wouldn’t I just take the darn thing off and put it in the car? Only God knows. With all the attention I was paying to placing my boot on the loose foot-peg, I completely missed the Red Light as well as the Ford van sitting stopped at it.
Judi tells me she was honking at me… I didn’t hear. At a full fifty miles per hour, I raised my head from the gaze I had fixed on my foot-peg, to see it… Ten feet in front of me, was a very large, very still van. With only ten feet to react, at a speed of 50 mph, I had enough time to do precisely nothing. With the delayed reactions on top of it all from the alcohol abuse, I couldn’t even let go of the throttle. The following events were pieced together from the accounts as they were related to me.
Upon collision with the van the extended front end of the bike collapsed, and rolled up underneath itself. This action crushed the front wheel, bent the down- tubes on the frame, and made the forks and wheel impact themselves against the front cylinder of the motor.
The shock from the impact, and subsequent recoil of my body forced my right hand, still tightly wrapped around the throttle of this high-speed rocket, to quickly jerk backwards. Any of you with the slightest knowledge of motorcycles knows what happens when you grab a fist full of throttle and jerk backwards. As you may have guessed, I shot up the back of that van like a roman candle. Airborne and cruising at an altitude of around twenty feet, I began to travel backwards, upside-down, suspended in mid-air, if ever so briefly. As if in slow motion, I hit the pavement with a thud. The bike continued on its path backwards toward my pregnant fiancé in the car behind me.
In a move that only God Himself could have pulled off, the motorcycle landed upside-down on the seat and handlebars, facing the direction I had originally come from, still running, between my limp body, and the car Judi was in. Let me stop this narration now for a moment to interject a few thoughts. The first thing that comes to mind is my mind, or more precisely my head. I wasn’t wearing a helmet. Not even a bandana. Praise God! Not only did the impact with the van not crush my head, but also it didn’t burst wide open when I hit the pavement after a twenty-foot fall either. Then there’s the fact that an 800 pound hunk of steel, the motorcycle, suspended in mid-air didn’t land on me, or Judi!
Praise God for his miraculous provision! Don’t forget this fact, Not only was my unprotected head not crushed, it did not even receive a scratch! Not a bruise, cut, or concussion one! That, my friend was God! Several other things come to mind within this one accident. All the specialists had warned us, that Judi’s pregnancy was too late in our lives (She had just turned 40) and that we should fully expect a difficult time of it. Physical as well as mental birth defects were not described as possible, but probable. We were warned to do every thing possible to minimize stress on Judi, and here she was witnessing her fiancé committing suicide through stupidity at eight and a half months along. But God…
When I came to in the emergency room of the hospital there was Judi, my lovely fiancé, by my side. She was in fine and health, and not having a miscarriage. I soon realized that I had been taped to a backboard to immobilize me in case of any spinal damage. It had become very uncomfortable and was entirely un-necessary to my alcohol soaked mind. I couldn’t get off of the thing by myself. God knows I tried. I set about convincing Judi to free me from the contraption. Thanks to God I didn’t have any spinal damage, because as the E.R. personnel vehemently told me, I could have made myself paralyzed or dead, just by moving off that board. But God…
It isn’t over yet friends. Then there was the surgery to install seventeen screws, two long plates that look like ten or fifteen Cheerios connected together, and one two and a half inch hollow bolt, all required to make some kind of sense out of my left arm. A nice long five-inch scar now decorates my right forearm where my master cylinder decided to hide during the wreck. The scar on the left arm is about thirteen inches long, and they had to go in there twice. I'll tell you more about that in a minute. Other highlights from that incident include more than $9,000.00 worth of damage to my bike, $4,000.00 worth of messed-up van, and a big Ol’ pile of hospital bills. I managed to break three ribs in the process as well. I know it sounds bad, but consider how it could have been! But God…
The repercussions of my lunacy just kept on coming… One such thing was the D.W.I. I incurred from the .28 blood alcohol level I was discovered to have in the hospital. The mandatory ten days downtown in the care of the county was a real hoot as well. The loss of my license, since this was my second was to be expected. These cover most of the big points. Now, so as not to focus on the bad points, let me tell you some of the good ones. On February 14th 2001 Judi and I became Husband and Wife. We were joined in Holy Matrimony at ‘The Chameleon” a neat little bar on 34th street by Pastors “Hollywood Joe” and Julie Guebara. Soon afterward, February 27th 2001, Michael was born.
When Michael announced his arrival into the world Judi and I both were understandably pensive. All the “Experts” after all, forewarned us that we should be prepared for the worst. I still remember turning down the amniocentesis proceedure when we asked if it could hurt our child and were told of the risks. We would love our child no matter what! He came a week early, but that was the sole abnormality of his gestation, delivery, and following childhood. Praise God! No long drawn-out labor, not a single physical abnormality. No mental development problems. Praise His Holy Name! But God…
My God, why do you love me so? What have I ever done but to be a constant disappointment to you? Yet you love me so much you gave your only son to suffer the punishment that I so deserved. I can only stand dumbfounded in your presence Lord. When we worship, and our praise draws you near, I am brought to tears by your love. Even as a father myself, I can’t begin to fathom the depths of your love for your children. I love you Lord, use my life and this testimony to draw men to you. Let my life count for your kingdom Father. In Jesus’ Name I Pray. Amen.
The Holy Spirit began to work on me, and lying in the hospital bed I began to know within me that I had to change, I had to surrender, and quite running from the Father that loves me so. There was just this inner knowing that everything was wrong and it was my fault. When I made the conscious decision to really get sold-out to Christ, I began to experience a peace like I had never known. The Gentleman that the Holy Spirit is, would not overwhelm me, but instead would bring little things to my mind. One at a time I began to be convicted of things that I didn’t even consider “Sins.” The Spirit of God would leaf through my life like a book, page by page, patiently waiting as I repented of each act, each thought.
With every passing day I felt lighter, newer, sort of blissful. One day it finally happened… although I had stopped consuming alcohol, and drugs, I was still in fellowship with the San Jacinto High Rollers. I began to feel more and more out of place at the bars, at the rallies etc… Then one night at a National meeting, without a doubt in my heart, I surrendered my “Colors.” (The patches sewn to our leather vests that forever remain club property) I was then led to ministry work with the Ambassadors For Jesus Christ motorcycle ministry. These fine Brothers and Sisters in the Lord allowed me to grow and learn in my relationship with Jesus Christ. I was also afforded the opportunity to do something for God with music and sharing my testimony with other Bikers that hadn’t come to know our Lord yet.
Soon after Michael joined us, it was discovered on a routine check-up of my shattered left arm, that I had developed a deep bone infection. More surgery would follow. The Dr.’s decided to remove the “Hardware” from my arm and debraide the bone, (They were going to scrape out the infection) While they were in there it was decided that some little plaster BB’s made with a potent anti-biotic would be inserted into my arm to kill the remainder of the infection. When it was apparent that this alone was not enough, the decision was made to implant a tube directly into my heart. The end of this gross-jean (I hope I spelled that correctly) tube hung out of my chest at my right pectoral.
For sixty days I would screw a medium sized baby bottle full of a powerful anti-biotic concoction housed within a balloon to the tube connected to my heart. I would do this twice a day. But God…
Eventually I was given a clean bill of health, and went in for day surgery to have the tube removed. More scars reside where the thing was anchored into my flesh.
Soon God would show his mighty hand in my life once again when, through a series of fortunate events my estranged daughter Heather would come to Houston to live with us. A huge blessing to me! We are daily building our relationship as Father and Daughter, and Michael thinks the world of her. (I think it’s mutual) At present I am a full time stay at home dad, and househusband. My mom, as many of you may know, was diagnosed with diabetes. The condition affected her eyesight to the degree that she no longer felt it was safe to watch Michael while Judi and I worked, and Heather attended High School.
Looking into day care, it just didn’t pan out for us financially, so after prayer and deliberation we decided “Tag” I was it! I must tell you I would not trade one minute of this life I have lived for all the proverbial tea in China. Through all of the things working together in my life for the good, God has been able to orchestrate reconciliation with my Daughter, and my Mother and most importantly, with Himself through Jesus Christ. I have learned to truly love my Wife, as well as my Kids, and to relish every moment with them. As I write these words the Lord is teaching me to be a better steward of my body, and through cycling and a sensible diet I am achieving a great deal of weight loss. The glory goes to God!
As there are seasons throughout the year, so there are seasons in our lives, this season has had my family as members at The Worship Center now since November 23rd 2003. We were fortunate enough to have been attending services for several months prior to that. This is our home, and I pray that we are able to stay here until the Lord comes back or calls us to headquarters. I hope that you will count it as your home also. Pastor Rusty & Stacey Greer are as good as it gets, with a real heart for reaching people with the truth of God’s unending love, you would be hard pressed not to feel welcome here. Hey if they could love me into singing in the choir, you should feel right at home!
It is by God’s grace alone that my family even has a place to stay, Long ago, our financial situation left us in a position that we were unable to pay my Mom for the house she is letting us live in. But God… has remained faithful through it all. We have not had to deny our children good food, clean clothes, or any other of life’s little necessities, and if I had to complain about our quality of life at gunpoint, I don’t think I could. God has been so good to us. Unmerited favor, that’s all anyone could call it. It is my strongest desire, as well as most sincere hope, that you have been able to draw nearer to God through these pages. If you know anyone that may be living a life remotely similar to the one I’ve just described, please tell him or her… There is hope! His name is Jesus Christ.
Romans 10: 9 in the NIV says: “That if you confess with your mouth that “Jesus is Lord,” and believe in your heart that God raised him from the dead, you will be saved.” (Emphasis added) I’m looking forward to spending eternity with you!
I'm happy to announce that after ten years, I will finally be back on a Harley! Soon. For money, The Lord has blessed me with the ability to set tile, and I do Backsplashes for Haley's flooring and interiors. We are buying our first home and serving in the worship ministry at The Rock in Huntsville Alabama. Pastors Rusty and Leisa Nelson are awesome folks of God. We've been at The Rock since June of 2006 now, and like I said earlier about our home church in Houston Texas, I can see us here until The LORD calls us home, or comes to get us. God has been so good to me! I can be reached by posting a message through here. God Bless you.