​One of the many cartoons I watched as a kid (probably would again if it were on) involved a Mr. Wizard and his young protege', Tooter, the turtle. Their adventures involved Mr. Wizard sending Tooter into the past to meet various persons and become involved in many a misadventure.  Once in the throes of such a catastrophe, Tooter would yell out, "Help Mr. Wizard!  I don't want to be a 'whatever' anymore!" Tooter would become enamored of some dering do he'd read about and ask Mr. Wizard to enable him to be such (cowboy, pilot, pirate, whatever) to fulfill his idea of life in whatever hero he wanted to become.  Invariably, Tooter would discover his dreams of being whatever would run afoul of reality resulting in his calling out for rescue.

​There is ample evidence of comparison between young Tooter and myself when I recall my adventures (and misadventures) as a youngster acting out many so-called heroic encounters with all manner of imaginary beings.  From Flash Gordon to Sgt. Rock, as well as a myriad of other heroes, I would be a hero saving humanity from whatever scourge or enemy my vivid imagination could conjure up.  These imaginary adventures were mostly harmless, and it amazed me, looking back, how much time I spent doing such things.  One time some friends and my two brothers built a raft (ala Huckleberry Finn) out of some pallets, two discarded fuel tanks from an aircraft junkyard at MCAS (Marine Corps Air Station) Cherry Point, NC.  We journeyed in our raft up and down Slocum Creek, which bordered the housing development where we lived.  Such trips usually were an all-day affair; there was something about lazing away a hot summer day doing nothing but poling our raft up and down this one section of Slocum Creek, imagining all manner of brave exploits.  Again, mostly harmless until one day, we allowed the current to capture our raft and take us to a point where the poles we had could no longer reach the bottom.  At that point, we were out of control and drifting slowly and inexorably toward the Neuse River.
We thought it just another neat way to further our experiences as young heroes, little realizing that once out of Slocum Creek and into the current of the Neuse River, our next stop could have been the Atlantic Ocean.  To say that our craft was not seaworthy is an understatement, ignorance being bliss we were enjoying ourselves.

​There is ample evidence of comparison between young Tooter and myself when I recall my adventures (and misadventures) as a youngster acting out many so-called heroic encounters with all manner of imaginary beings.  From Flash Gordon to Sgt. Rock, as well as a myriad of other heroes, I would be a hero saving humanity from whatever scourge or enemy my vivid imagination could conjure up.  These imaginary adventures were mostly harmless, and it amazed me, looking back, how much time I spent doing such things.  One time some friends and my two brothers built a raft (ala Huckleberry Finn) out of some pallets, two discarded fuel tanks from an aircraft junkyard at MCAS (Marine Corps Air Station) Cherry Point, NC.  We journeyed in our raft up and down Slocum Creek, which bordered the housing development where we lived.  Such trips usually were an all-day affair; there was something about lazing away a hot summer day doing nothing but poling our raft up and down this one section of Slocum Creek, imagining all manner of brave exploits.  Again, mostly harmless until one day, we allowed the current to capture our raft and take us to a point where the poles we had could no longer reach the bottom.  At that point, we were out of control and drifting slowly and inexorably toward the Neuse River.
We thought it just another neat way to further our experiences as young heroes, little realizing that once out of Slocum Creek and into the current of the Neuse River, our next stop could have been the Atlantic Ocean.  To say that our craft was not seaworthy is an understatement, ignorance being bliss we were enjoying ourselves.

​The rest of my life up until March 6, 1988, remained the same as I blithely sailed along down the river of life, not realizing I needed rescuing most urgently.  When I left the Navy at the behest of my first wife, I initially went to NC State University in the Nuclear Engineering program there.  I discovered through interviewing at various power plants located in Virginia, North, and South Carolina that these plants were NOT built or run to the standards that I'd been used to while a nuclear-trained electrician in submarines.  As I had been enjoying my volunteer activity as an EMT (Emergency Medical Technician), the choice made was to change majors and schools, transferring to UNC and working on a major in nursing instead.  Concurrent with that, I also earned my paramedic license, something which, together with working as an RN in emergency departments, fed into my desire to be heroic.  As it turned out, my talent to remain calm in stressful situations and to assess and treat patients, did much to advance me in the eyes of superiors wherever I worked.  I was excellent at my job; the trouble was that I knew it.

The years passed, and my pride in my efforts continued to build; me, myself and I are as unholy as any three things can be.  One day, that pride led me to a decision that would forever change my life, ending my career as an RN and paramedic and sending me to prison for almost 24 years (23 years, seven months, and 25 days to be exact).  As when on the raft floating down the Slocum Creek, my life was floating downstream (like any dead fish), headed for destruction.  To many, that destruction was my going to prison; most of my so-called friends abandoned me when this happened, and I found myself at Central Prison in Raleigh, NC, without hope of ever getting out.

​In such an environment, I came to realize that this was the place for me. Pride had led me to believe my dreams were real and that all that "I" had accomplished was because of my abilities.  Silly, but no less stupid than my fantasies as a youngster.  In this dark, dangerous place where hope was dead, and existence was more survive than thrive, I had nowhere to turn to for help.  An invitation to attend the weekly worship service in the chapel was welcomed, not for any recognition on my part of my need, but to get out of the crowding for a time.  The next week I attended the service again (same reason, the overcrowding in the processing dormitory was beyond imagining), but something unexpected happened to me.  That "...still, small voice..." whispered my name, and I surrendered to His call.

​My journey of faith has been like the screen of an oscilloscope, no straight line, but a confusing multi-directional squiggle that lacked definition.  Even today, with the areas in which struggle goes on, failure is a companion that, while I may not embrace, I am all too familiar.  Thankfully, God does not leave me there.  To lose my career that was satisfying and rewarding for a life of unemployment (were it not for my wife remaining with me and welcoming me into her home when I was released, I would be homeless), but I can go on because of Whose I am.  One book I read while in prison impacted me greatly, and the words from the author continue to reverberate in my heart.

​Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn: "Bless You, Prison!""Solzhenitsyn in the 1950s at the Kazakh prison camp that inspired 'A Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich.'"
Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn: It was granted to me to carry away from my prison years on my bent back, which nearly broke beneath its load, this essential experience: how a human being becomes evil and how good.
In the intoxication of youthful successes, I had felt myself to be infallible, and I was, therefore, cruel.
In the surfeit of power, I was a murderer and an oppressor.
In my most evil moments, I was convinced that I was doing good, and I was well supplied with systematic arguments.
It was only when I lay there on rotting prison straw that I sensed within myself the first stirrings of good.
Gradually it was disclosed to me that the line separating good and evil passes not through states, nor between classes, nor between political parties either—but right through every human heart—and through all human hearts. . . .
That is why I turn back to the years of my imprisonment and say, sometimes to the astonishment of those about me:
"Bless you, prison!"
I . . . have served enough time there.
I nourished my soul there, and I say without hesitation: "Bless you, prison, for having been in my life!"
—Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn, The Gulag Archipelago: 1918-1956, Volume 2, pp. 615-617.

The time in prison and the loss of career and respect is a paltry price to pay for an eternity with my King.  I'm not Home yet, and I continue to fail my King, but one thing I do...I press on.

The journey continues...

There are times when no matter how mature we think we are in our walk with Christ, words spoken that cause harm and grief to another happen and we are left to wonder from where such had come.  Words that were not expressed in anger or overt discrimination, but did in hindsight, convey a message that is all too common in society throughout the history of the world where one culture or ethnicity considers another less than itself.  Racism is an ugly word and one that has been bandied about recently for political gain by far too many; it is something that all who are human struggle against, yes even those in Christ.

Jonah was a man called as a prophet of God and that gives me hope.  Why him, you may wonder?  Pastor Swindoll of Insight for Living has been teaching through that book in the Old Testament and has not pulled any punches about this less than charming and likeable Jew.  Jonah was a man who was called to go and preach a message to a people he HATED and he went in the reverse direction in direct disobedience of God’s command!  God said to go East to Ninevah and Jonah went West, going down to Joppa to find a ship bound as far as he could get from there as he could get by going further West to Tarshish (modern day Spain).  Finding himself such a ship, he goes on board and goes down into the hold and goes to sleep, figuring his troubles are over.

Jonah continues his downward spiral, finally landing within the belly of a great fish that God prepared for his racist prophet who stewed in this fishes juices (and his own) for three days before repenting.  At this point the fish apparently had all of Jonah he could stomach and landed this racist prophet on the beach where he received the same command from God a second time.  This time he obeyed…sort of.  It was a message of destruction for his hated enemies after all; one he must have loved to deliver.  So Jonah delivers the message then camps out to the east of the city to await the promised destruction…

You all know the story; from the king to the lowliest peasant a fear of the judgement of God leads to repentance and a turning away from the evil that characterized this people.  Jonah was livid!  The most successful evangelist and prophet in history and he was upset because although he had obeyed God, his heart just wasn’t in it.  He still was a racist; he still hated the Ninevites. 

What is the take away from a study of this book of the Old Testament?  How are we to apply to our lives such a story?  Thinking about this after listening to Pastor Swindoll and that “…still, small voice…” there are several things that come to mind:
 

1. Jonah tried to run away from God, to avoid the plan that God had for him to do.  He who holds the universe in his hands…impossible, yet this prophet tried to flee from God!  Ridiculous, yet how often have we done the same?  How often have I run from the one who has called to me over and over as he sent his hound on my trail throughout my life?  Even once I had surrendered, time and again I have sought to turn away to my own way…just like Jonah.
2. Jonah surrenders (sort of?) in the belly of the fish.  He does recognize his plight, that there is no one that can save him from death.  In 1987 I was indicted and subsequently convicted for murder, sentenced to life in prison and thus entering my own ‘great fish’ wherein I expected to spend the rest of my life.  Raised in the Catholic church I had little to no exposure to Scripture other than a brief time when I went to the Chapel Hill Bible Church while attending UNC.  Still, my heart was dark and I remember looking up at the outside wall of Central Prison that cold, sleeting February night when I arrived and thought, “This is where I belong.”
3. God’s word or call comes a second time to Jonah and this time he obeys…sort of.  It is a word of judgement against Ninevah and that suits this racist prophet very much;“Yet forty days, and Nineveh shall be overthrown!”   (Jonah 3:4 ESV)  In my case my being within prison walls was as if Jonah had suddenly been transformed into becoming an Ninevite.  All my life I had been one of the ‘good’ guys; this had been reinforced when working as a paramedic; the old line from the TV series Beretta came back to haunt me over and over, “If you can’t do the time, don’t do the crime.”  Here I was, in Ninevah though a Jew (as it were).  The first weeks are now a blur; it wasn’t until someone invited me to the weekly worship service in the chapel that anything really changed (honestly I went to escape the crowding in the dormitory…picture the Chicago stock yard).  The first week, nothing much happened; the second Sunday, Chaplain Eugene Wigelsworth was preaching (to this day I have no idea what he said, only that a ‘feeling’ that at the end of his sermon it was ‘now or never.’ 
4. So, Jonah obeys and preaches the sermon (gleefully no doubt), then sets up outside the eastern part of the city to await the destruction to come.  BUT GOD…. His plan was very different from what Jonah was hoping for; instead of death, there came life to the Ninevites.  Jonah’s self-pity and anger at God reflects how his heart was NOT changed, but what about my heart?
   

We all must set a watch over our lips (as Scripture enjoins us), especially in these turbulent times.  Offense, even when not intended, is difficult to overcome and impossible to forget.  It will taint a relationship and can harm or destroy fellowship within a church community.   Please, let our words bring healing and not hurt. 

The last week or so has been 'interesting' to say the least, both from a spiritual and personal viewpoint (and sadly, despite walking with Christ since 1988, there are times when I do seem to want to keep the two paths separate!). The image shown is of two paths or roads diverging in a wood (much as my favorite poet in his poem, "The Road Not Taken" by Robert Frost. In this case, both from what has happened in the spiritual and 'physical' realm, both have seemed to converge and, with apologies to Mr. Frost, "...that has made all the difference."

The week long fast (from food, television, Facebook.  I did post some things but did not peruse through at al. No electronic media of any kind other than that required by work...more on that in a bit; all of this combined to heighten my sense of God’s presence in my everyday (man, why not do this on a more regular basis Shook?  Talk about an Urkel moment!  It seemed easier this year than last, but also more challenging because of another battle that I was in danger of losing at work (and, in actuality, had already lost). 

One of our clients there was rather adept at getting inside my head and maneuvering me to do favors for her; things that seemed innocent on the surface, but over time began to push further and further over the line between acceptable and unacceptable behavior.  Honestly, it was a big ego lift for this 20-something lady to be hitting on me (even if in my own mind); looking back, it is terrifying to think of how far this could have gone.  My surpervisor saw what was happening and warned me (twice!) and on the observed third time, I left them little choice but to terminate me as an employee.

Shame, regret and deep remorse for the loss of what could have been a witness for Christ in that dark place.  Instead, I allowed the enemy to subvert me into a trap that is all too common in and out of Scripture.  Time spent with Pastor Ethan and my wife began the healing; the Friday night of worship was a catharsis that continued the healing, particularly one song, “I AM a Child of the King” (emphasis intentional)! 

Today, while sitting at the bar in Breakthrough Nutrition, an impulse hit me to share with a college student sitting next to me who works some part-time helping out Nick and Blair in the store.  I had some cash in my wallet and just felt that she could use it for whatever; to see the expression on her face when I gave it to her let me know that I had ‘heard’ correctly.  Leaving right after that, as I walked to the car I sort of remembered hearing the phrase about doing as much good as you can while you can.  I could not remember the whole thing or where it came from, so I looked it up:

This idea or compulsion is, pushing me now to do so with my time, talent, as well as finances.  I’m not sure why NOW.  It could be the looming surgery in February or something else that only God knows about (and I like it that way), but those words seem to me to fit with not only what Ethan has been sharing, but what God has been sharing since, “In the beginning…”

Let’s see what happens.

This time of year we celebrate the birth of a single baby; many would have him remain such as a baby is not at all threatening to the world and its’ ways.  The fact that he did become an adult, minister in and around Israel and Judah for about three years, performing feats that even extra-biblical sources extolled was the hinge on which history turned.  From that point on, mankind would have real hope that had been given away long before in a garden; not because of his life, but because of who he was, how he lived and died and his physical resurrection from the dead.  But that is not the focus of my thoughts here; instead, it is how God did invade his creation, not in might and power, but in weakness and humility.

Think of it, had the Son come to earth as the mightiest,  most majestic ruler of all time; taking the physical form to walk among men, even then that would have been a humbling beyond our imaginations.  God in the flesh; try to wrap your mind around that!  From eternity past, the Father, Son, and Spirit had reveled in the relationship they had as God and from their great love overflowed creation.  But also from eternity past, he knew of man’s fall and had a plan (not a Plan B as some suggest) to restore the broken relationship even before creation, before it happened; amazing grace indeed!

This plan was something that would never have occurred to any human as it seems the reverse of what was needed.  As with the conquest of Jericho (Joshua 6), this plan appears insanity itself and any who would believe it right equally crazy.  As with God commanding Joshua to have Israel march around the city in silence until the last day, then just shouting?  Ridiculous any sane military mind would say.  But it worked!

Paul, once the up and coming Pharisee Saul, put it like this;

“ 5 Have this mind among yourselves, which is yours in Christ Jesus,[a] 6 who, though he was in the form of God, did not count equality with God a thing to be grasped,[b] 7 but emptied himself, by taking the form of a servant,[c] being born in the likeness of men. 8 And being found in human form, he humbled himself by becoming obedient to the point of death, even death on a cross.”  Philippians 2:5-8 ESV

Scholars have wrestled with what it meant when Paul wrote, emptied himself.  One source within Bible Gateway Plus seeks to explain it in the following manner;

2:7 made himself nothing. Or “emptied himself.” He did this, not by giving up deity, but by laying aside his glory (see Jn 17:5) and submitting to the humiliation of becoming a man (see 2Co 8:9 and note). Jesus is truly God and truly man. Another view is that he emptied himself, not of deity itself, but of its prerogatives—the high position and glory of deity. nature of a servant. Emphasizes the full reality of his servant identity (see Mk 10:45 and note). As a servant, he was always submissive to the will of the Father (see Lk 22:42; Jn 4:34 and note).
NIV Study Bible Notes
NIV Study Bible, Copyright © 1985, 1995, 2002, 2008, 2011 by Zondervan.

God in diapers!  In this weak form, this helpless form, Christ came to his creation, growing into adulthood while remaining a carpenter’s son until the time for his ministry came.  John the baptizer introduced him at the river Jordan, and he began to gather disciples even then.  Walking in the middle of the Jewish people, unrecognized by most as he just did not fit their preconceived ideas of who Messiah would be.  Finally betrayed and denied by those closest to him, he was executed by the Roman government at the behest of the religious rulers; but there the story does not end, it was only beginning.

His-story (history) continues today; an inexorable march to an end he predicted through prophets long ago.  This God in diapers is helpless no longer, but mighty to save for any who seek him.  Sadly, for many, the day is coming when they will be forced to kneel to this King of kings; those who refuse him now are in that majority condemned forever. Until then it may seem the world is out of control, but the story (His-story) is not yet concluded.

David's song, written some say during his flight from Saul, echoes a heart that longs for God; not so much for the things or presents God may give David (relief from Saul's persecution or to be elevated to the throne as had been prophesied over him so many years before).  No, David's heart longs for God's presence​, not the things God may give. 

Matthew Henry's commentary on this Psalm echo what God has been speaking to me through it;
"This psalm is David’s profession of humility, humbly made, with thankfulness to God for his grace, and not in vain-glory. It is probable enough that (as most interpreters suggest) David made this protestation in answer to the calumnies of Saul and his courtiers, who represented David as an ambitious aspiring man, who, under pretense of a divine appointment, sought the kingdom, in the pride of his heart. But he appeals to God, that, on the contrary, I. He aimed at nothing high nor great, Ps. 131:1. II. He was very easy in every condition which God allotted him (Ps. 131:2); and therefore, III. He encourages all good people to trust in God as he did, Ps. 131:3. Some have made it an objection against singing David’s psalms that there are many who cannot say, “My heart is not haughty,” etc. It is true there are; but we may sing it for the same purpose that we read it, to teach and admonish ourselves, and one another, what we ought to be, with repentance that we have come short of being so, and humble prayer to God for his grace to make us so." 

How many times I have cried  out to God for His presents, but how often have I really only wanted His presence as a child no longer desiring the breasts from which they received nourishment, but only to be with or to be held by their mother?  My 'Professor of Theology,' has been at it again.  Many times through  the day she will seek me out, crying so piteously that you'd think she was in severe pain.  As soon as I pick her up, the purring begins as she just snuggles into my shoulder.  She wasn't hungry or thirsty; she just wanted to be with me!

Do I pursue God as C.J. often pursues me, longing only for His presence?  In  his book, The Pursuit of God,​ A.W. Tozer speaks to this subject much more  eloquently than I ever could, but many of the themes in there echo deep within me whenever I re-read it.  I long for God, but often wonder is it because I know He is such a gracious giver.  My heart longs to be of a mind that I seek Him throughout the day only to be with Him!  Many times C.J. will seek to interrupt me in something I am doing, touching my knee with her forepaw seeking to gain my attention.  How can a loving servant (some would say owner, but cat servants know) say no to such an appeal?  So, I know that whenever I call to my King, He will be there to listen, to 'hold' me, and to provide the best  gift of all; His presence in my life.

I have been taught different truths before by C.J., our somewhat brain-damaged cat, but this morning was particularly wondrous.
​

​My mind awakened this morning running at warp 12; it just wouldn’t  shut up and let me get back to sleep.  Finally surrendering to the inevitable, I got up and went into the ‘reading room’ to spend some time just trying to calm my spirit.  C.J. normally follows me around in my morning ablutions and medicine taking, waiting (impatiently) for me to pick her up and hold her on my shoulder.  It had never occurred to me how persistent she was throughout the day in having me do this; yes, she liked it when I refilled the food bowl or put fresh water in the water dish (with some ice mind you), but mostly just to be held on my shoulder and stroked.  To be completely honest, at times it was rather distracting, even irritating to be pursued by this little creature.  She would not stop crying until I acquiesced to her demands and picked her up!

​Then, finally, this morning…

​Awakened by a multitude of worries and problems, I just couldn’t go back to sleep.  Getting out of bed and getting dressed, I wandered out into the ‘reading room’ and sat down to begin my daily devotions.  It seemed that something was bothering me deep down and it just escaped me.  Opening my web browser on my laptop, I connected to Bible Gateway and began searching for a study or devotional centered on the Psalms.  Not finding what “I” was looking for, I just started looking for what was there and found Eternal Words, a series that combined Scripture readings with music designed to, “…bring Joy to your heart and Peace to your soul…”  I opened the first one, and within it, a quote from Psalm 131 struck my heart as what I’d been looking for;

But I have calmed and quieted my soul,
    like a weaned child with its mother;
    like a weaned child is my soul within me.
​Psalm 131:2 ESV

Okay, but what does that have to do with my roiled thoughts and anxiety this morning, and how does that fit in with C.J. normally following me around and crying to be picked up.  Wait a minute; it’s been over 30 minutes since the bed spat me out and no C.J.  Then it struck me; she wanted nothing more than to be held and cuddled by me.  No treats, food, water (even ice!); she just wanted to spend some time being held on my shoulder.
​

​A weaned child wants nothing so much from the mother other than just that thing. They may be hungry (especially once they are teenagers!), but the Psalmist is speaking of the desire for God’s presence rather than His presents.  Magically (stop your laughing!), C.J. appeared crying to be picked up.  We spent over 30 minutes with my holding her close to my shoulder as we both reveled in the time spent together.

​That is what God seemed to be telling me; more than all that He has already gifted me with, He desires my heart to long to be with Him, to pursue Him and for that to be not only sufficient but to be completely satisfying to my soul.

Amazing how my little professor of Theology has once again taught me so much.
​

Last summer a good friend invited Kathy and I down to Emerald Isle to enjoy a stay at the beach.  The house was located on the beach with its own boardwalk out to a gazebo with stairs down to a path to beach; for this old sailor and former surf bum, it was close to heaven.  The next few days were filled with laughter and fun with Tom and Bernadene as we lazed time away enjoying the beach and just relaxing with good friends.
​
As our time to leave approached it seemed that I needed some alone time to just enjoy the sound and smell of the surf.  I awakened at 4:00 AM and got dressed (well, as dressed as any sensible person does at the beach), went downstairs to make coffee, then went out to the gazebo to sit.  It was pitch dark, some lights scattered up and down the beach from the different houses, but looking out over the ocean was without any light source.  While I could hear the waves and occasionally glimpse the froth of the surf, it was as if I was within a warm, salty cocoon. 
​

As I sat there I began to think of the way that God had moved in my life to bring me to this moment.  Over and over the idea of a God who made all of what I was sensing, whose hand held the universe, but whose attention was focused so singularly upon me when I was so adamant at remaining rebellious that only grace could begin to explain what had happened in my life leading up to that moment.  An overwhelming feeling of gratitude and awe that after all that I had done and all that I’d been through, God loved me!
​

​Wonder! 
​

I began to sing some of the hymns I’d learned through listening to the Bible Broadcasting Network while in prison.  One hymn led to another as my eyes filled with tears and my heart overflowed with gratitude and praise.  I’m not sure how long this went on, but as the sun began to provide a glimmer of light on the horizon, my singing stopped and I sat and just reveled in the knowledge that I was not only free of the physical prison that had constrained me, but of the more insidious prison of my own making.  The freedom I obtained on release from prison was something that I had anticipated (and at times wondered if it would ever be mine), but even better was the sure knowledge that because of Christ’s work on my behalf, even while still incarcerated, I was more free than most of those outside of the walls that held me.  No more was I a slave to the old man and to experience that with my physical freedom (especially once I had satisfied the parole requirements that went with my release) was something I hope I never forget or take for granted.

As the sun showed itself, my wife and friends came out and we all sat and just enjoyed another day at the beach.  My wife kept asking me why I was smiling so much; I would just shrug.  The memory of that time still fills me with wonder and does not fail to bring a smile to my face.
​

When we moved back to North Carolina from Florida, we thought we’d found a new home in Winston-Salem, but events and my ego interceded and I found myself convicted of murder following the death of a patient I’d cared for in ICU.  I was convicted and sentenced to prison in February 1988 and thought my life was as good as over.  Convinced that I’d soon be stabbed, shot, raped or who knows what else, I settled into an uneasy ‘life’ in prison without any expectation that I’d ever get out.  BUT GOD (two of my favorite words) had not allowed that seed planted in 1980 to die and began nurturing that all but dead seed into life.  My second week at Central Prison, another prisoner invited me to accompany him to the chapel for a church service.  Not having anything else to do and looking for an excuse (ANY EXCUSE) to get out of the cacophony of noise that was K Dorm, I accepted. 
​

As I approached the conclusion of my time in prison, I was transferred to Orange Correctional Center in Hillsborough.  I had lost contact with several over my years in prison, but once at OCC I reached out to Malcolm (still had his address) and wrote him.  He wrote back that he was excited that I was so close and that he would let others know to pray for me.  Within a few months, I qualified for Community Visitor passes, but needed some sponsors willing to take me out.  I’d already connected with one of the Yokefellow volunteers (Bruce Dalton) and had been out a few times with him when the annual volunteer's banquet was held.  The yard was closed to all prisoners, but a guard came to my bunk (where I was reading) and told me that someone wanted to speak to me.  I went into the visitation area (where the banquet was being held) and saw Jim and Cecee Abrahamson; Jim standing with his arms wide open and a great big grin on his face.  We spoke briefly and he promised to start taking me out on CV passes very soon.
​
The next Sunday he and Cecee arrived to take me to the Chapel Hill Bible Church (no longer meeting on campus, but in a beautiful building off of Erwin Road).  Many of those in the Sunday School class he led knew me from BC (before Christ) and I have to confess to feeling more than a little trepidation at what kind of welcome I’d receive.  Very soon it became apparent to me that the doctrine of God’s grace was more than a textbook idea to the people there.  The warmth and welcome I felt amazed me after almost 23 years in prison.  In the following year and a half, I continued to bathe weekly in Jim’s teaching as my release date drew nearer.  Days before that happened I was transferred to Wake Correctional since my wife was then living in Wake County and so my parole officer was also in Wake County.  Soon after that, we became regular attendees of the services at the Chapel Hill Bible Church and then members; I won’t claim that I have arrived at being all that He wants me to be, but the atmosphere and teaching there had my roots going ever deeper and my heart filling more and more. 
​

Now, with our coming move to Wilmington, it is time to say goodbye or perhaps “Aloha” would be better.  So much has happened and so much has changed in who I was even since surrendering to my King.  New adventures await, but it is with a pang in my heart that we draw this chapter of my journey Home to a conclusion.  We had a saying we shared in the choir at Piedmont Correctional Institution as we concluded rehearsal on Wednesday night; “See you in the morning or in the clouds.”  I guess that’s as good as any way to speak to my family at the Chubby-C. 

Shalom.
​
The journey continues…
​

“I know my Redeemer lives,
and at the last He will stand on the earth.”
Job 19:25

​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…