On September 18, 1981, I was well on my way to a night of drunken revelry in a Windsor, Ontario, tavern. Suddenly and for no apparent reason I was overwhelmed by fear. Rushing into the washroom, I tried to get a grip on myself. It was to no avail.
As though pursued by an unknown foe, I fled outside and raced away on my motorcycle. I was oblivious to my lunch pail and rain suit which fell off the bike. Minutes later, I pounded on the door of my parents’ home. Because it was late and there was no answer, I smashed my helmet against the house. Fear had turned into rage.
Without a helmet, I sped towards my brother’s house and drove right up to the front porch with my bike roaring. Obviously frightened, my sister-in-law refused to open the door. I lost control of my sanity and destroyed the lawn with my motorcycle before speeding away with no destination in mind.
Details of what followed in the ensuing hours have been gathered from relatives, my wife, and the police. Apparently I set out to kill myself by traveling down the white center line of several Windsor streets at speeds in excess of 90 miles per hour, without stopping for lights and traffic. The police considered it unsafe to pursue.
I crashed while trying to negotiate a turn at an impossible speed. In spite of the severity of the accident, I was totally uninjured. Viewing the damage, I cursed the bike, kicked it and threw my gloves at it before walking away. When the police apprehended me two blocks down the road, I crouched in terror against a building. “Please don’t hurt me,” I pleaded.
My wife Darlene was called to the accident site along with my dad and brother. As we drove home, I was suddenly gripped again by fear. Cowering against the passenger door, I pleaded with Darlene, “Don’t hurt me.” Seconds later, I jumped out of the moving car and ran behind some nearby buildings. The others gave chase, only to find me crouching in terror.
They pursued me to an empty gas station where I flew into an uncontrollable rage and threatened them with physical force. Wisely, my brother prevented my dad from trying to subdue me. I fled into the night.
During the next few hours, several policemen and family members were unable to find me. Apparently in that time I badly damaged a parked van by kicking and punching it in a fit of rage. For injuries incurred in that incident, I twice checked into a hospital that night but left before receiving treatment.
Upon my return home at dawn, I snuck into the back yard by climbing the fence. Immediately I was converged on by police with night sticks and guns drawn. I prepared to fight them until my father pleaded with the officers for a chance to talk me into the house.
The police withdrew, allowing my father to reason with me. After hours of fear and rage, my body was spent and I collapsed. When the realization of what had transpired hit me as I awoke later, I wept for two hours. “I could have killed Darlene, myself, and countless others,” I reflected.
“Why has this happened? Why am I safe and unharmed?” There could only be one explanation. God had to love me!
For the next two years, I quit drinking and set out to find God in the only place and way that I knew. Darlene and I poured ourselves into religion. To my dismay, God wasn’t in the place where I expected Him to be. God was nowhere to be found in religion.
Once again I grew restless and slowly withdrew from church involvement. Newly employed at General Motors, old habits were revived as I listened to the men on the assembly line brag about their weekend exploits. Then there was Bernie–a “religious nut” who was the object of ridicule and scorn by everyone.
Bernie never missed the opportunity to share Jesus Christ with me. I was getting fed up. “Leave me alone, Bernie” I warned him. After days of silence, Bernie said, “I have four questions to ask you.”
“Go ahead,” I grumbled.
“Do you believe in Jesus Christ? Do you believe Jesus Christ is the Son of God? Do you believe Jesus Christ shed His blood and died on the cross for your sins?”
To those questions, I answered, “Yes.”
Bernie went on, “Do you know, then, that you can know beyond the shadow of a doubt that you are saved?”
I hesitated, “Well, no. Don’t we all have to be judged?”
Then I understood what Bernie was telling me. If I received the Lord Jesus for myself, if I took Him personally as my own Saviour, I would be saved by His grace alone. Was I willing to do that?
At that precise moment, tears welled up in my eyes and streamed down my cheeks. Bernie wept, too. God opened my eyes and heart to see that the sacrifice of Jesus Christ on the cross was sufficient for my salvation. Bernie and I could not look at one another that day without great joy after having witnessed a miracle of God’s grace toward me.
I was wonderfully saved that day, December 22, 1983, on the assembly line at General Motors. A short time later, Darlene and our daughter accepted Jesus Christ as their Saviour through His grace exhibited in my life.
To God be all the glory.