​Having been raised in the Catholic Church, I always assumed that I was a Christian.  Before I go further, allow me to allay any fears from my friends who are Catholic;  I am NOT bashing Catholicism. Indeed many wonderful people I’ve met who are disciples of the Christ remain within the Catholic Church. My Mother was the reason I attended and grew up in the Catholic Church; I was enrolled at a Catholic school in Waukegan while my Dad was pushing boots at the Recruit Training Command in Great Lakes, IL.  

​One of the main things I remember about growing up Catholic (especially during the time I attended the Catholic school) was an awe of the majesty of God.  While a teen in Swansboro (we lived in Cape Carteret, but attended St. Mildred’s in Swansboro.  During one confirmation service, my twin brother Eddie and I were drafted into being the altar boys to hold the Bishop’s crosier and miter.  We were given silk sleeves that draped across our shoulders and down our chests with glove-like openings in which to place our hands to prevent our touching these items.  At one point in the service (I admit, I was wool-gathering and not paying attention), the Bishop handed off his crosier, assuming my hands would be there to grasp it.  I hurriedly thrust my hands into the sleeves (have no idea what they are called), but my right hand missed and I (gasp) TOUCHED the crosier with my bare hand.  I remember closing my eyes and waiting for the lightning bolt, but nothing happened.  I quickly did put my right hand into the proper place and grasped the crosier ‘properly,’ all the time thinking that this stuff apparently wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.
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Keep in mind this was in the 60’s and a teenager in high school with rampant hormones and music playing whose siren song told me to question all that I’d been taught.  I continued attending church with our family, but this event caused me to wonder if all this religion stuff was just so much hoo-hah and as soon as I entered the Navy, all church attending ended.  I still felt that there was something more to the universe than could be explained by science alone, but was not sure what.  There were times when I would have a narrow escape from some catastrophe, and I would exclaim, “Thank God!”  That or I would see a beautiful sunset or other natural beauty and think, “Good job, God!”  But for some time, that was the extent of my belief.

​Once I was out of the Navy, I initially attended school at NCSU but transferred to UNC to complete a Bachelor’s degree in nursing.  While there I worked in the Emergency Department at NCMH (very different from the ED at UNC Hospitals now) as a nursing assistant.  One of the many folks I got to know there was the night secretary named Malcolm MacGregor.  While being rather odd in appearance (his hair, beard, and mustache seemed wiry and uncontrollable), his gentle nature and sense of humor drew me to him.  He would, on occasion, share his faith in Christ; I usually tried to put him off by saying I was already a Christian, but he persisted.  It wasn’t all that intrusive; we built a friendship that lasted for many years during that time, and I grew to respect Malcolm for the manner in which he lived.
He’d ask me almost every week if I wanted to join him at Gerrard Hall on campus at UNC where the Chapel Hill Bible Church was meeting at the time.  I finally caved and continued to join him there each week, not necessarily because I was intrigued by Jim Abrahamson’s sermons (though that was true), but because (as a former sailor) I noticed that it was a ‘target-rich environment,’ filled with many lovely young ladies.  Regarding issues of faith in Christ, I didn’t have a clue!  I remember after one service when many gathered outside Gerrard Hall, seeing Jim and complimenting him on the lesson that day.  His response, “Well praise the Lord! ” threw me off.  I remember smiling and moving on to see if I could engender any interest from the co-eds gathered there.  Jim even had me come out to his home on occasion, possibly at the behest of Malcolm, to engage me in conversation.  

​When I graduated from UNC, Kathy and I moved to Pensacola, FL; I lost touch (not that I tried) with everyone at the Chapel Hill Bible Church and the memory of all that I’d heard there soon faded into the background.  But, there was an ‘itch’ that is hard to describe that remained with me through the intervening years.  When I would reconnect with the Bible Church and told them of my journey, they remarked that a seed had been planted and took some time to sprout.  The ‘germ’ that caused this seed to sprout was my being sentenced to life imprisonment in 1988.  I remember my first night at Central Prison (the building I was in has since been torn down); the lights from “the wall” that surrounded the prison glared through the windows so there was no chance of sleeping in the dark (that would remain true until my release in 2011).  I had arrived, been processed and in my bed assignment (three-high bunks, mine was the top) by about 1 AM.  I wasn’t sure if I would be raped, murdered or both if I closed my eyes, so wasn’t all that interested in sleeping.  A Bible that I’d had for years (bought it while going to the Bible Church) was the NIV that Kathy had thoughtfully (and wisely) included in the bag of belongings she sent with me.  I took it out and turned to the Psalms and read it through before the lights came on at 5 AM for the count.  At that point, I can honestly say that I wasn’t necessarily searching for a Savior as much as some form of solace in the dark place that my actions had landed me.
My second Sunday there I went with a few others to the weekly worship service in the prison chapel.  The head chaplain, Skip Pike (never did learn his real first name), gave the lesson, but it just bounced off.  It wasn’t until the next Sunday (I went just to get out of the dormitory for a time), and another chaplain was there.  His manner of speech reminded me much of Malcolm; to this day I cannot recall what he spoke on for the sermon.  All I can say is that when he gave an invitation to receive Jesus as Savior, it was as if I’d heard a voice tell me, “Now or never, Shook.”  The following weeks, Eugene Wigelsworth mentored me, encouraging me to grow in my new found faith.  

​Another factor that helped me to grow as a babe in Christ was my ‘happening’ upon the local Bible Broadcasting Network station.  The music and teaching was a balm to my heart and helped me to realize that it wasn’t anything that I had done, it was all that Jesus had completed.  Throughout the next 23 years, I would blow it (sometimes in a rather spectacular fashion!), but His grace always brought me back.  Volunteers who came into the prisons I was housed in showed me the true love of the Gospel and encouraged me to keep on. 

When I reached Orange Correctional Center in Hillsborough and was able to begin getting ‘passes’ to get away for a time, I reconnected with Malcolm (we’d corresponded for a time while I was incarcerated) and Jim Abrahamson who kindly agreed to be a sponsor for me to take me out.  Sundays were always a day I looked forward to; the mornings Jim would take me to the Chapel Hill Bible Church and in the afternoon I got to see my beloved Kathy during visitation.  Upon my release we discussed where to go for a home church; Kathy had attended a Christian & Missionary Alliance Church in Winston-Salem for a time, and we both became close friends with the pastor there, Doug Klinsing.  Kathy had an apartment in Morrisville and had gone to a CMA Church in Apex (even took me there once when I was on home passes).  I suggested the Chapel Hill Bible Church, both because of my history there and because they had a new pastor named Jay Thomas.  We went there once and at the end of the service Kathy turned to me and said, “He makes me think!”  We became members and continue to enjoy learning and serving there.

I am not yet the man that Christ wants me to be, but my desire to be such grows with every day.  Yeah, I still blow it (and still, though thankfully, rarely) do so in a grand manner.  I’m not home yet and Philippians 1:6 is a verse I refer to often. 
“And I am sure of this, that he who began a good work in you will bring it to completion at the day of Jesus Christ.” (Philippians 1:6 ESV)

The journey continues…

​The wonderful folks at Harbor Reins (where I go for equine assisted psychotherapy for PTS) recently relocated from the Corral to a new location in South Raleigh.  It is a much quieter place (less traffic noise and few nearby homes), but sadly I had to leave my buddy, Bob the Belgian.  He and I had begun to mesh as a team, and I will miss this humongous horse.  Change is part of life and Amy (my therapist at Harbor Reins) has introduced me to a group of guys (horses, but you get my drift) at the new place.

For the first few sessions there, it was kind of a meet and greet where I went out into the pasture.  It was HUGE, lots of walking to help me make my goal each day.   Amy asked me to see if any of them seemed to ‘fit’ and, if so, to let her know which one.  I asked her for their names, but she was reticent to let me know them, I wasn’t sure why until I learned them later.  Apparently, she did this to avoid letting the names influence my choice.  To be honest, knowing their names now, I have to agree it would have done so.

I approached the gang, having no carrots I chose just to walk up to each and introduce myself and speak with them quietly while stroking them.  There were two who seemed rather stand-offish, but the other two seemed interested.  One in particular, what I think is a pinto with brown and white markings seemed very friendly and over the the time I spent with him, even began to follow me around.  The other one, whose name is Freedom, tagged along as I later learned they did so with each other.  Once again, had Amy told me their names, Freedom would have been hard to resist for obvious reasons.  When I was released from prison, I noticed that Kathy had a statue of a foal curled up on the floor in the living room.  I asked her if she’d named it and she said that was my job; I immediately called it “Freedom.”

So, once again Amy showed wisdom in how she allowed me to make a selection based solely on how each of the horses seemed to interact with me.  The pinto was much more friendly, coming when I called (sometimes when I did not); two different times he rested his head on my shoulder, something that touched me very much.  So, I turned to Amy (who was standing in the shade on the outside of the pasture) and told her that the pinto was my choice.  She smiled and told me his name was Commander; if I’d known that I would have saluted him when I approached the first time!
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We have now had two full sessions together; it is like the song, “Getting to Know You,” in that we both are learning about each other and how to work together as a team.  It is amazing to me how horses (and many other animals) seem so able to sense our emotional state and provide a means of relaxation.  Our cats (whom we serve with the utmost respect) had often come to me when I was upset and just been there and provided me with companionship.  Horses, though, seem on a different plane.  Looking into Commander’s eyes, it seems as though he can understand what I’ve gone through and is telling me that TOGETHER, we can work this out (reminds me of an old Beatles’ song).

We continue to work together; today was a pretty good session where I learned some more about my new buddy and team member.  It promises to be the beginning of a beautiful friendship (with apologies to Humphrey Bogart).

The journey continues...