50 GOOD MORNING, HOLY SPIRIT
rock this time. It was a different kind of pain. But the hurt I
felt was for my family. I loved them so much and agonized
for their salvation.
Actually, it was my fault. My daddy had warned me,
"You mention the name of Jesus just once again, and you'll
wish you hadn't." He snarled with hatred as he threatened to
kick me out of the house.
I began to tell my little sister, Mary, about the Lord.
Somehow my dad found out about it, and his anger boiled
over again. He forbade me to ever talk to her about spiritual
things.
Time for the Psychiatrist
Even my brothers persecuted me. They called me every
name under heaven—and a few below the earth. It went on
for such a long time. In my room I prayed, "Lord, will it
ever end? Will they ever come to know You?"
It got to the place where there wasn't a member of my
family I could talk to. I didn't have to look up the definition
of ostracized.
They flew my grandmother over from Israel just to tell
me I was crazy. "You are an embarrassment to the family
name," she said. "Don't you understand the shame you're
causing?"
My father made an appointment for me to see a
psychiatrist. Evidently Dad thought I had lost my mind.
And what was the doctor's conclusion? "Maybe your son is
going through something. He'll come out of it."
His next tactic was to get me a job that would keep me
so busy that I wouldn't have time for this "Jesus." He went
to one of his friends and said, "I'd like for you to offer my
son, Benny, a job."