The Call to Counsel

Chapter 1

The Beginning of My Journey

You are reading this book because it has been written for you. I believe that there is a meaning behind every experience in life and every experience is part of the intricacies and complexities of humanity. Therefore, I welcome you on this journey with me; it was divinely orchestrated between us. It is an account of my journey seeking purpose and fulfillment as a Christian; seeking an understanding of the call to ministry while determined to hold on to hope.

My journey is probably not vastly different from yours: euphoric times mixed with turbulent years such as my battle with cancer, a divorce, and then the murder of my only son. All of these traumatic occurrences within a span of two years. Now, I exhale as I reflect on an awesome spiritual journey.

The beginning of a spiritual journey is perhaps subjective. According to Yahweh, Jeremiah’s spiritual journey was before he entered his mother’s womb. He entered the world ordained as a prophet (The Thompson Chain-Reference Bible 2nd ed., Jer. 1.4-5). Perhaps mine began earlier than I can recount; however, I will share significant milestones that reflect my transformation. The chronology includes childhood memories, early adolescence, young adulthood, and senior years intertwined with spiritual transformative experiences.

First, I must share with you the catalyst to writing this book was the brutal murder of my son. The agony of his death was preceded by a mini vacation in the beautiful state of Florida. It was his voice that I listened to before falling asleep on the night of August 2nd, “Mom, I am in Maryland, I’m calling to wish you happy birthday.” That was the last time I heard his deep baritone voice. “What a wonderful way to end the day,” I thought as I fell asleep. Certainly, a paradox, it could not have been more than a few hours later when I was awakened by a dream or perhaps a vision. I am not sure what it was. But I remember it as if it were only yesterday and as if it was in real-time rather than in the subconsciousness of my mind. A beautiful white dove – the prettiest thing I had ever seen, appeared in my reach. I picked it up, and it fell out of my hand. I picked it up a second time. Again, it fell from my hand. A third time, it touched the palm of my hand before it soared into the heavens. Now awakened by this experience, I sat abruptly upright in the bed. I wondered was it really a dream or a premonition of a death. At least that is how this experience would be interpreted by the elders of my family of origin. Someone close to me had departed, died. I was shaken. I had to get back home on the next flight from Florida. It was a vision at his birth that compelled me to start a journal chronicling significant experiences that transformed my life. I had no idea that again, a vision, but this one marking his death.

I arrived home and learned that my son had been murdered. The agony of my cry, the bellowing of my voice yelling up to the heavens “no, no, no,” emptied my lungs, elevated my blood pressure, and yielded me lifeless as I collapsed on the floor of my home. There was no minister at my door, not even a police officer to bare the bad news, just the voice of an investigator on the telephone who had found my son’s body abandoned in a park with his military tags around his neck. He had called to ask me to come to confirm his identity. My son was dead, my only son, my baby boy: murdered, abandoned, and left like an animal in a park in Maryland.

There were numerous events that suggested that my life was more than the physical experiences. But my search for meaning and understanding of God’s purpose for my life began around the time of the birth of my son. It was early summer of 1978, at the break of dawn. My son was no more than two-months old. We were alone in our apartment. My husband had departed weeks earlier for a military tour in England. My four-year-old daughter was visiting in-laws. What happened that morning ushered me into a wilderness experience, a journey without a map which intensified when BJ died.

Visions and transcendental messages were associated with my son’s birth and now again with his death. Vexed and driven into a wilderness experience, my wilderness was a spiritual walk without directions, bible knowledge without insight and a Christian faith without power. It was easier to conclude that the vision and the experience that lead me into this wilderness was not about me but about the destiny of my son whom at the time of the vision laid innocently in his bed, swaddled in soft powder blue blankets. Perhaps he would be a prolific end-time evangelist or prophetic preacher of the gospel. And it was my responsibility to nurture, guide, teach, and to protect him until he entered into his ministry and divine purpose. This is what I believed for 30 years, and then he was murdered at age 31 forcing me out of the wilderness and determined to find my answers to this enigma called life.

The vision and words spoken burned deeply in my heart, illuminated the grief, prolonged the bereavement, and held me captive to the agony that I felt from the loss of his life. Unable to see his smile, hear his laughter and touch him; the last words that I heard from him was “happy birthday mom,” and just a few hours later, less than 24 hours, he was found dead. There is no relief for this pain other than writing about this journey.