Sons of God's Generals: Unlocking the Power of Godly Inheritance (12 page)

Every day as I stood in that line, I too expected the Holy Spirit to move. Yet every time I received prayer, while everyone else around me was experiencing manifestations of God’s presence, I felt as if I was playing a continual game of “last (wo)man standing.” I would stand there with my eyes closed more than ever, hands raised a little higher and palms opened a little wider, severely sweating at that point. I was desperate for something, anything from God. I remember that at times I felt so frustrated and embarrassed that I never felt the strong presence of God I would fake being slain in the spirit. I like to call it a “courtesy fall.” You know, when you feel so bad for yourself, and even worse for the poor person who’s praying for you diligently, hoping the Lord will touch you. It was times like those that I simply became plank-like and fell directly back always peeking behind me to see there was a catcher. If I was going to fake being slain in the spirit then I better be safe doing it! This continued for several years. I would receive prayer and wouldn’t feel anything. But I got up, kept believing, and kept asking.

Later in my life, the Lord revealed to me two reasons why I never felt Holy Spirit during those days of renewal. First, I was so consumed with the hype of manifestations that I lost focus on His face and heart. Second, the Lord showed me that He was stretching me to go deeper in my identity in Him. If I could sum up my experience of those renewal days, I would describe myself as a bystander. I was there every day and participated, and yet there was something deeply missing in my heart. I witnessed signs and wonders that I had only known and read about in the Bible or in past revival biographies. My identity was wrapped up with the desperate need to be a part of that movement—to be at every meeting, to experience manifestations of God’s presence, to worship with all of my heart—but I was missing the simple yet profound message of my heavenly Father’s love. My relationship with Jesus was surface level. I was so fixated on the glitz and glam of the renewal that I bypassed the peaceful, steadfast quietness of the Father’s love.

In 1997, I eagerly begged my parents to allow me to go to a “regular school” for junior high. Up until that point, all of us were being homeschooled by my mom, a professional teacher who graduated from George Washington University. As the renewal meetings began to slow down, there was such insecurity in my heart in that I wanted to be like my peers. I thought that if I went to a regular school that I would be able to prove my worth and myself. The school my parents enrolled me in was a prestigious private Christian school, and it was during my junior high years that I first fell into deep depression. I remember the first day of school and how awkward and uncomfortable I felt. I didn’t know anyone at the school. I was dreading lunch hour when I would pretend I was busy in order to avoid feeling alone for that 30 minutes. Let’s just say I spent a lot of my time hanging out in the bathroom stalls, wasting time. However, it really wasn’t long before I was able to meet friends, many with whom I still stay in touch with today.

Nevertheless, I gradually grew more and more depressed, and this not only took a toll on my family but my schooling as well. I remember that no matter how hard I tried, I kept falling behind academically. From my junior high to high school years, I separated myself from my family, especially my parents. I was angry, so angry that I refused to have anything to do with them. I was verbally abusive toward my mom and too frightened to be anything other than silent toward my dad. I communicated less and less, seldom showed affection toward my parents, and overall I hated my life.

My resentment toward my parents escalated during high school within my partial lens of my father choosing ministry over family, and equally with my mom for not stopping him. In October 1999, during my freshman year of high school, my father called our whole family together for a meeting. It wasn’t abnormal for our family to meet on a consistent basis. In fact, ever since I can remember we’ve had a once-a-week family day, which typically falls on a Monday. I attribute these family times to the influence of my mother’s Filipino culture, where there’s always lots of food and noise. With four females in our family, it’s an absolute miracle that my brother and dad were able to get a word in edgewise. My dad learned to be heard by just continually talking as if we were actually paying attention. My brother, on the other hand, would employ a different strategy. He would ask the same question over and over again until someone answered him. His approach often failed in frustration and he’d forfeit eventually and quit asking. I never really felt bad for him, because it was, of course, all part of my plan to train my poor, sweet brother for his future wife.

Everything considered, our family times have always been memorable, but this particular family gathering had a different tone. I always knew when we were going to talk about something serious because my dad started the conversation with, “Your mother and I have been praying…” or, “I got a prophetic download.” This time was the latter. With all six of us gathered around the small kitchen table, my dad shared how God had asked him to stand with his covenant brother, Lou Engle, and help mobilize for TheCall, Washington DC. TheCall was a massive prayer gathering on the Washington Mall, where 400,000 young people gathered on September 2, 2000 to pray for our nation. All of us, including me, honestly and truthfully released him to obey what God had asked him to do—to serve Lou and to serve TheCall. My relationship with my dad at this point was stagnant. I gladly released my father to mobilize for TheCall, but actually I couldn’t have cared less. I didn’t understand that the very thing I thought I desired—to be as far away from my dad as possible—was the very thing that would tear me apart within the midst of family-wide crisis. I barely saw my dad for the next three and a half years, the years I was discovering who I was. My depression grew deeper as I wept daily, angry with God, frustrated at my father, and resentful with myself.

My depression escalated and I coped by absorbing myself in school and work. I have always been a person with a strong personality. I used to get comments on my report card that said “often challenges authority” or “disrespectful to leadership.” Of course, I never thought I was disrespectful. The way I saw it, I was simply speaking my mind when I thought something was unjust or just plain wrong. During this time, if I wasn’t at my friend’s house or at school events, I was at work at the local bagel bakery trying to save for my dream car, a red Chevy Blazer SUV. Being the class president and school vice president for three out of my four years in high school mandated that I go to every school event. Naturally, I didn’t mind going because it was an excuse to skip certain classes—typically Bible. I figured I grew up being a pastor’s kid and had all the Bible lessons I needed. I soon realized that wasn’t true when I had to cheat during major tests because I didn’t know the material. Later, after I graduated, I confessed to my teacher that I cheated and he forgave me and actually thanked me for repenting. It’s funny how life works.

The time I did spend with my parents was limited. I rarely saw my dad, and when I did I wouldn’t speak to him. Physical affection between us eroded to the point that I didn’t even allow him to touch my shoulder. With my mom, it was a daily battle. I remember her constantly crying because of the harsh words I would say as I purposely wore her down. The thing that I remember most about my mom was the drive home after I was in detention, or after she had to meet with the principal on my behalf. I recall often getting called into the principal’s office for too many tardies (my sister and I would stop at Starbucks on the way to school every day) or for being disrespectful toward my teacher. Because I was on student council, the principal made it clear to me that I had to set a good example with my actions, and therefore I had harsher punishments. He called it “Leadership 101,” and I called it unfair.

There was never a moment when my mom was angry with me after I had been disciplined by my school. In fact, it was the opposite. There’s something about the compassion of a mother that melts the anger of any child. When I deserved further punishment from her, I received love instead. She knew that I was already punished enough with embarrassment and shame. Looking back on my actions I am overwhelmed by the grace and mercy that my mother bestowed on me.

Likewise there were times, during my high school years, when I saw my father’s unconditional love. Although I was angry and bitter toward my father, there was something within my heart, like any child, that longed for my father. But with my strong will and pride, I regularly kept him at arm’s length. On New Year’s Eve 1999 my friends and I were getting ready for the biggest New Year’s of our life—2000! Traditionally, our church had a service to enter into the New Year with worship and praise. As a freshman in high school, I made it very clear to my parents that I did not want to be there.

As my parents entered the church service, I devised a plan with two of my friends to ditch the meeting, walk over to the local liquor mart, and pay an adult to buy us a bottle of Smirnoff vodka. I will never forget what the man said to us when we asked him to buy the vodka. “Wow, kids these days are drinking pretty hard stuff.” Later I came to full realization of what he meant. Keep in mind, I had no idea what I was doing. This New Year’s craze wasn’t me. After all, up until this point I had little to no knowledge about alcohol beyond a Bud Light. We rushed back to my house and began to pass the bottle around. When it came to my turn a deep conviction fell upon me, and I suddenly realized what I was doing and refused to take a swig. Looking back, I know it was God because if I had not been sober during what took place next, I would have either been poisoned by alcohol or too incapacitated to seek help for my other friends.

Before long, both my friends had almost consumed the whole bottle of vodka. One instantly began to vomit in the toilet and the other one blacked out. Panic set in for me as I tried to get her to wake up. By this time it was New Year’s and I knew that my parents would be coming back any minute from the meeting. The downstairs house door opened and my parents voiced a call out to us. I ran downstairs to seek my parents’ help, and they rushed upstairs to aid my friends. As I was crying in fear and regret, my dad took me into my bedroom while my mom cared for my friends in the other room. In the morning my parents told me that my friend had alcohol poisoning, and if she had not vomited, she would have been in severe danger.

Once alone in my room, thoughts began to race through my head. It was because of me that my friend almost died. As I cried on the floor of my bedroom, my dad walked in and sat next to me. He wrapped his arms around me and I allowed myself to fall into his chest. I was at the end of my willpower. I had no pride, no anger, just shame over what I had done. What my dad said next still astounds me. He began to repent and ask me for forgiveness for not protecting us better. He said he felt his lifestyle before he was saved had opened up a door for the enemy to get in. It was at that moment that I felt the intensity of my dad’s love for me. Here I was, culpable for what had happened that night, yet he was the one asking me to forgive him! In that moment, my father’s unconditional love broke the barriers around my heart. I began to pour out heavy burdens that had been weighing me down for so long. I told him how angry I was with him for choosing ministry over family, how I was so hurt that I never saw him, and how I felt that he simply didn’t care about us.

He looked me straight in the eye as I was weeping and said, “Mary do you think I want to leave you? It hurts me every time I leave and have to travel. If I had a choice I would be with you guys all the time, but God asked me to serve your Uncle Lou for TheCall and I need to obey Him.” He continued, “Mary, there are people who are suffering and are lost. If they don’t hear about the love of Jesus, how else will they be saved? God called me to witness so that His love could set the captives free.” For the first time in my 14 years of living, I finally realized the magnitude of my father’s calling and ministry. His love for Jesus and conviction to see the suffering set free and saved transcended his natural yearning to stay at home and be with us. In the end, he yielded to Jesus, placing God first and sacrificing his own desires, to see heaven come to earth. At the end of him sharing his heart in vulnerability, he asked me, “Mary, would you like to rededicate your heart to Jesus and live in freedom?” Eyes full of tears I said yes and my father led me through the sinner’s prayer for the second time.

I believe New Year’s 2000 set a spiritual precedent for the following years of my life. After I rededicated my life to Jesus, I was somewhat more at peace with my father, but there was still something deeply lacking in my heart. I did not understand and live out my true identity as a daughter of our heavenly Father. I quickly fell back into depression that was even worse than before. The rest of high school until late senior year was what you would call “a nightmarish blur.”

It was on October 31, 2002, Halloween, when I reached my lowest point. I was in my photography class. My teacher began to read the answers of a homework assignment we turned in to the class members aloud. He stopped at mine and announced to the whole class how ridiculous it was that I got a question wrong. As my teacher continued his criticism, I completely lost it and began to cry hysterically as I sprinted out of the room. I sat outside of school, not caring if I received detention, as I was done. You would’ve thought that I had walked off a set of the show
Days of Our Lives
. My depression enveloped me and I gave up on life, on my parents, and most importantly God. I went home early from school and slept the rest of the day.

Not wanting to be by myself that night, I joined my parents at our annual revival conference with speakers including James Goll, Jill Austin, and John Arnott. Later the parents of the other authors of this book would be added to our annual conference lineup. There was nothing special about this service. I was completely disengaged as I tried to recover from the day’s events. For ministry time my dad announced that we would be having a fire tunnel to ensure that everyone would be able to receive prayer. Because I was so weary of getting prayer and not feeling the presence of God, I had not received ministry in years. But on this particular night when I felt I could go no lower, I made a conscious decision to get in line for the prayer tunnel. In line I remember saying to myself, “Okay God, I give up. I can’t do anything more. I have nothing left.”