A Spirit of Priest-craft

 

My husband and I had a wonderful get away for our thirtieth wedding anniversary. We were able to spend time alone with each other, and re-bond as husband and wife.

When we returned home, things were just as good between us, until one evening, we found us at each other’s throats. The abruptness of it startled both of us, and the severity of angry emotions we had not experienced in years made no sense.

The arguing was over silly small stuff, such as if we should drive a half a mile over to the next store, or if we really needed that item on the grocery list. My husband yelled at me, and I wanted to slap him! We just don’t experience those kinds of emotions anymore in our marriage, for we know well who they are really from. Even knowing this, it took several minutes to push away the attacks and reach out to each other in love. We promptly cast out the demons we thought were attacking us, in the name of Jesus. We had forgiven each other, but it still felt testy between us. I could not understand what had happened, for such an attack upon us to take place. Yes, we were away from the home, but we went to the same old places that we had no problems with before, and we bound up any demons that were in the stores as we walked through them.

So it really confused me, as to why we were attacked like that.

When we got home, we were told that our oldest son had run into that Jehovah’s witness, the mom of my other son’s friend, (yes, the one who cast us out of her home during the fire,) at the local coffee shop. She tried to manipulate my son into agreeing with whatever she said, (apparently for some reason she still blames me for what she did,) and then tried to convert him over to her religion. My children were brought up to respect their elders, so he did not know how to handle it, when she argued with him over the scriptures. He tried to stick up for what he believes, but it was not easy for him. Finally, before she left, she reached out and gave him a hug goodbye.

When I was told this, the puzzle pieces fell into place. My son and I exchanged notes on when she hugged him, (he looked at his watch just seconds afterwards,) and we then realized that hug must have taken place just moments before we were attacked. Yet it still confused me, for we were many miles apart from each other. When I went to the Lord, He told me that we were attacked by a spirit of priest-craft. These kinds of demons are found in every Jehovah’s witness, (they come from the elders in that cult,) and they are known to cause problems and fighting within marriages. Even their literature left at the front door of a home can cause issues for those who reside within. I cast them from us in the name of Jesus, and the last testiness between me and my husband finally left us.

What amazed me, was how having the woman hug my son, opened up a doorway for her demons to attack me and my husband all the way across town! I used to think that a person’s demons could not so easily transfer to you unless you were physically close to them. How wrong I was! All it took was a physical touch to my son, for her demons to attack us.

Again, the scriptures that comes to mind, is “lay hands suddenly on no man , neither be partaker of other men’s sins: keep thyself pure. ” (1 Timothy 5:22 KJV)

A Strange Dream Of A Stranger

     A strange dream- of a stranger.
     Only an hour or so long in reality, but a lifetime in the dream.
     He was an old homeless man who lived out of his car. (The car had deep red seats that could change into a flat bed.)
     He looked like my grandpa, but reminded me of my father.
     He did not believe in Jesus, for the seed of faith that had once grown within him, had been trampled upon and died. (I sensed this had happened in his Catholic past.)
     I met him one day upon my travels, and offered dinner with my family to him. He paused, and I knew then if I ever remarked on his homelessness, he’d be gone. So I did not, but it was hard.
     We grew close to each other through the days, I, the daughter, like the only child he wished he could have had, (he never married or had kids,) and me, he was the father, the relationship, I could have had with my father, had things been different. (If he had known that I forgave him of the physical abuse and that I still loved him.)
     We reminisced, and debated life and God.
     Through the days shared, he seen me work for God, and I could sense him soften somewhere inside. But he never made the choice for God, at least while I was with him.
     Then one day, as I was thanking Jesus out loud, for the seasons of the world – all of them – (it was raining hard,) I stood in the storm shower, and thanked Him for the sun, the storms, the snow…especially the soft crystal-globe snow, that falls like a kiss on the cheek,…-
     He came to me to say goodbye.
     I cried and cried, not wanting him to go, (I loved him deeply already,) but he told me it was his time to go, “he must be moving on,” and as we embraced, I felt the heat of his skin as if it was on fire, and knew that he was sick, and would die. I cried all the harder, all the more, and pleaded with him to stay. But I think he knew, though the words remained unspoken, that I would end up caring for him till he died. And he did not want this – pride or reasons, remained unsaid. And a part of me realized the truth in the unspoken; that I should be about my family’s business, (not consumed by his,) but I still cried and it still hurt.
     I knew then, that his mind was made up and that he would leave to go die.
     So I grabbed his face in my hands, turning it to meet mine, and asked him point blank, “So, will I see you in heaven someday?” And cried all the harder when he would not answer.
     “Well…” he hinged, as he seen the grief in my heart that his answer brought me, and I knew he was going to say ‘yes’ just for me, so I stopped him.
     “No, don’t say it unless you really mean it.”
     He paused and admitted to me, “I don’t know,” and I knew he thought of his past and the church.
     “Don’t let the Catholic Church do this to you!” I said, and sensed it had been like a mantra between us.
     Then he said, “It’s my conscience, you see; there’s something in there still, and it won’t rest.”
     Then I sighed as my heart lifted a little, for I knew then there was hope still that I would see him someday in heaven.
     So we said our goodbye’s and parted, and I cried and cried and cried for days.

*   Then I woke up.
     No tears were upon my face, (not yet,) but the grief within me was hollow, real, and sharp.
     “Was he real, Lord?” I asked out loud, but got no answer at that time. I sensed though, that it was best I pray for him, just in case it was.
     So I went down on my knees before my God, and pleaded his case to Him. “His faith did start to grow, Lord,” I pleaded with Him, “It just got trampled upon by the church. And some of it did survive Lord, for how else could he have come to care for me? Have mercy for him for my sake Lord, please? I’d like to see him in heaven again some day…”
     And as I write this, to record the dream, I cry.
     I cry and wonder, was this a soul on his way to heaven, given a last chance to be loved by another, through my dream?
     Reality enters, guilt washing over me – oh how silly this is, crying for someone I never knew except for in a dream… People would question my sanity, and think I had gone insane. But the energy-in-motion, still deep within me, cries out past those thoughts, and says out loud “Lord, if it be so, then let him in! Let him be with You. Set his spirit free…”
     I sensed a presence in the room beside me, slight, (not overpowering as my father’s had been,) and knew it was the old man from my dream. I sensed him say “thank you,” then give me another hug, and then leave.
     So, o.k., am I nuts? Just the imagination being over active?
     Sigh. All I do know, is that one day in heaven, I will know for sure.
     He sure was ‘neat’ though.
     And in the back of my mind there is a response: “You were to him, too.”
     Later on in the day, as the dusk descends, I recall and remember the odd dream. I remember and cry. I cry for him again, for his story, his life, touched me deeply. I’d like to think (if it really wasn’t ‘just a dream’,) that my tears, my caring, my prayers was not ‘just a waste’ from ‘just a dream’. Was it real? Did a soul, embarked on its journey, stop to reach out to mine in a dream?
     It caused me to pray for him, whoever he was, wherever he spent his life.
     My God answers my prayers; so if he did exist, my prayers were not for nothing!
     But what if it was only a dream? Not real? What then? Have I not just wasted all this time?
     Then my God answered me, softly, surely.
     He placed His conviction upon my heart, and I smiled.
     “I waste nothing.”
     I felt His great peace settle upon my heart once again.
MY GOD WASTES NOTHING.
*

Further Down The Line

A dream…

 
I am a young mother, in my mid to late twenties, with shoulder length maybe longer, wavy/curly black hair. I’ve been married to one man for about three years or so,
And we have one sweet little girl, less than two years old.

The weather is brisk, as it is getting closer to nightfall, so I had dressed my daughter in one of those cute little white and blue colored bear onesie sleepers, with the fake fabric ears sewed on top of the drawstring hood, and fake paw prints printed on the plastic footed booties, and fold-over hand covers.

People everywhere were gathering; all walking towards the signs that promised “free food”, and following the arrows pointing them towards the waiting lines. We followed along with the crowd, as the guideline rails that had quickly been put in place
Began to narrow further, till they were the width of only about four people wide.

Some of the people dropped and could go no further, for they had gone without food for a long time. Most however, made their way into the long lines of waiting people, in the hopes that they would be fed soon.

As the line slowly moved forward, We found that the barriers alongside us, became metal poles and fencing, funneling the people into one direction. At one point, some of the people decided they didn’t want to be forced to go in one direction, but when they turned to go back, they found armed officers of some kind, (claiming to try and keep the peace,) pulling out their guns, and ordering those people to keep moving forward.

Some moved back into the line, But there were those who refused, and still fought to be free. They were shot and killed.

This changed the mood of the people watching the exchange, and they started to ask more questions. “Is there even any food to be had? Or is this just a scam?”

The officers said that they would indeed receive food, but that they just had to keep moving along in the line. Others then asked “When will we be able to eat?” But that question wasn’t really answered. The only thing they would say is: “When you’re further down the line.”

At this point, there was another group of people jostling and fighting, and the guards quickly pressed the crowd apart into two different lines that funneled apart from each other. They then shot those who were resisting. Their bodies lay on the ground, and those behind had to walk around them. Those that refused to move forward and instead stayed behind to mourn their deaths, were also shot. Some who were shot, were still alive, and were crying out in pain, asking for help. These people were shot again, (this time through the head up close,) effectively silencing them. 

My arms had weakened, from carrying my little one for so long, so I had given her over to her father to hold for a while. She was such a sweet baby, seemingly content with the little that my body could give her. She was a spot of sunshine in our lives, and I thanked Jesus for her frequently.

Now, suddenly, to my great distress, I found myself being pushed forward, and separated from my family. The armed gunmen divided us up as if we were cattle, without regards to family ties. I tried to say something to one of the gunmen, but he looked right through me. I looked at my husband still holding my child in the other line, and as our eyes met, I could see the desperation, love, and hopelessness, within me reflected in his. 

We were given no time to say goodbye. The line with my husband and child moved forward with a surge, and my eyes followed them till they disappeared from my view.

My grief was overwhelming. I thought of never being able to see my baby’s sweet face again, and I wanted to die. What value was there in living now? As the line I was in began to move forward once again, I knew I could simply cause a struggle, and I would soon be shot, putting myself out of my misery. But something kept me from doing so. Then that  voice within, told me that He still needed me, and that I was to keep moving forward, despite my grief. He told me that He still had work for me to do for Him. I wondered how I could be of any use to Him with this grief, but His voice within me was insistent.

So I stumbled forward with the rest of the crowd, without much will or strength left, till we found ourselves herded into a long dark metal box. They packed us into this container tightly, leaving no room to spare, and then swung the door shut, locking us in.

The container was then lifted by a crane, onto a ship of some kind. We heard the sound of the boats engine shuddering to life, and felt the rocking motion of the boat upon the water. I spent hours upon hours in that darkness, with heat, bodies, and the stench of urine and feces around me. Then our container was lifted up in the air again, and was deposited on solid land. Shortly after, the doors swung open.

A gray light filtered through to where I was still standing. People rushed forward, almost falling out of the box. Those that had died along the journey now fell to the floor, and the others stumbled over them to reach the door.

As I moved forward, I could see that it was day, but there was no sunshine, just pouring rain. All around was dark, dreary, and gray. A group of people, larger than ours, stood off to one side, huddled under a corrugated metal overhang, silently watching. We stumbled towards them, as the foreign-looking gunmen, speaking in a strange language I did not know, pointed their guns in this direction. But their guns seemed out of place, for no one fought anymore. Resistance had already been removed from us.

I could see that our box had been placed next to some other boxes, and that they were actually overseas shipping containers, the kind that had filled up the ports and stockyards of the USA to overflowing. Foreign countries overseas had used them to ship goods and products over to America. Now I sensed that they were being returned to their owners, filled to the brim with American slaves. I knew then, that I would never set foot upon my beloved homeland again.    

Just then, a high-pitched squeal filled with happiness and delight, sounding so out of place, rang out into the cement courtyard. I looked up and could see a tiny figure struggle to be free from being held, dressed in blue and white, break from the others and run towards me. My heart pounded with recognition, but I found I was afraid to hope. Was it really my little baby bear? Joy filled my heart and tears flooded my eyes as I listened to my baby’s distinctive voice cry out “Me ma me ma me ma,” as her little feet pounded the pavement. She ran into my arms and we embraced. My mate then came up to me as well with tears in his eyes, and hugged us both. “Thank you Jesus!” I whispered under my breath, as I embraced my family once again. 

 
I then woke up from the dream.