Wild Awakening

by Greg J. Matthews

  During the game, Janelle played shortstop and I played third base. In between batters we had a chance to talk and get to know each other a bit. By the time the afternoon was over, I was sure that the attraction I felt was mutual. When Janelle asked if I would be going to the Wednesday night youth group, I had no idea what that was about, but there was no question in my mind that I would be there.

  Janelle attended a private high school and I was going to the Chaparral continuation school, so we didn’t see each other on weekdays. But it wasn’t long before I was sitting with Janelle and holding her hand every Sunday morning and Wednesday night. I was hooked.

  I was also intrigued by what I was hearing at church. At the end of each Wednesday night meeting, Barry talked about the truth found in the Bible’s gospel message and about Jesus—that he loved each of us so much that he gave his life for us. It sounded like a love that would never leave you and never hurt you. It was the kind of love I thought I had as a kid until that moment I watched my dad drive away.

  I still wasn’t convinced, however, that Jesus could love me like that. I’d made too many mistakes and let my dad down. Surely I had let God down too. I didn’t see how he could overlook everything I’d done.

  The last thing Barry did on those Wednesday nights was invite anyone who wanted to give their heart to Jesus to come forward. Part of me wanted to stand, walk to the front of the room, and do exactly that. Yet I was conflicted, so I held back. I’d given my heart away before and been burned. I needed to know more.

  * * *

  A COUPLE OF MONTHS AFTER we met, I sat with Janelle during a Sunday service. She suddenly leaned over and whispered, “Hey, my parents would like you to come over for lunch.”

  I was instantly terrified. I’d met Janelle’s parents before, but this was taking things to a new level. I’d shared a little about my background with Janelle. She knew my parents were divorced and that I’d lived on my own. But I was afraid to reveal too much, especially to her parents. They were committed Christians and I wasn’t. They might say, “No, you two can’t see each other anymore.”

  Yet I couldn’t think of a good excuse to decline the lunch offer. An hour later, we pulled into a long driveway that led to a well-kept split-level home. Janelle parked and put her hand on my knee. “Hey, don’t be nervous,” she said. “You’ll love my parents.”

  It turned out she was right. When Janelle’s mom, Sandy, greeted us at the door, she threw her arms around me and said, “I’m so glad you’re here. Welcome to our home.” Her husband, Dave, seemed just as pleased to spend time with me.

  I was struck by this family’s obvious faith in God. It seemed as if there was a Bible in every room. Scripture verses were posted on the fridge. They prayed before every meal. It was so different from anything I’d been around before. I could sense a spiritual presence in that home.

  It wasn’t long before I was spending a lot of time at Janelle’s house. Sandy and I sometimes talked about my God questions. She’d pull out a Bible and turn to a specific verse to guide her answer. What she said made sense. One inch at a time, my heart was opening the door to the idea that Jesus and his love were real.

  I was at Janelle’s house one day when Sandy said, “There’s a pastor who’s going to be speaking in town in a couple of days. He has the gift of prophecy. Would you like to go with me and hear him?”

  I wasn’t sure what to think of a guy who claimed to hear from God. I was still digesting what I was learning about prophets who lived centuries ago, during Old Testament times. But I trusted Sandy. Everything I’d seen and heard so far with her family felt right.

  “Sure,” I said. “I’ll go.”

  Janelle was at work that day, so just Sandy and I attended the pastor’s talk at a local church. After delivering his message, the pastor invited people to come forward to be “prayed over.” Sandy wanted to do it, so we joined about thirty people in line. When we reached the front of the line, we stepped onto the stage. The pastor, a clean-shaven, sixtyish man in a white shirt and gray sport coat, put his hand on Sandy’s head and said a prayer. I stood behind Sandy and tried to blend in. I was only there to support Sandy. I wasn’t planning on talking to the pastor myself.

  When the pastor finished praying, however, he turned toward me. “Who is this?” he asked. Sandy introduced me.

  “Come closer,” the pastor said. “I have a word for you.”

  I wasn’t sure what a “word” meant, but I stepped forward. The pastor put a hand on my shoulder.

  “You are a man like David,” he said. “You’re a man after God’s own heart.”

  I don’t know what I expected to happen—maybe that the pastor would offer a piece of spiritual advice that I could go home and ponder. Instead, however, it was like he’d set off a bomb inside me. I had held back so much pain for such a long time. For some reason it was suddenly pouring out. I began to sob and couldn’t stop. I was overwhelmed. Sandy put her arm around me and we walked off the stage.

  But there was even more to it than that. I didn’t comprehend it at the time, but a man who didn’t know me had put into words what would become my foremost desire. That simple sentence—“You’re a man after God’s own heart”—was both exhortation and forecast. For the first time, I could picture myself as a person who belonged to and with God. I somehow knew that I would spend the rest of my days seeking his will for my life.

  I considered the pastor’s words often over the next several days. I also looked up David in the Bible and read about some of the powerful ways that God had worked in his life. I knew that there was something tangible here.

  At Wednesday night youth group about two weeks after Sandy and I visited the pastor, Barry as usual ended the meeting with an altar call. The music died down and the lights dimmed as he said, “I sense that there are some people here who need to get right with the Lord or accept the Lord. Don’t be afraid of what God is telling you. If you want to receive the Lord, just come forward.”

  The same feeling I’d had when the pastor spoke to me began welling up inside. I saw one person stand and go to the front of the church, and then another. I felt a sense of destiny, that this night was meant to be. Then I heard an inaudible, insistent voice: You need to go. You need to go. You need to go.

  I stood and walked to the front of the room. Soon Barry and another staff member were talking to me. “Do you understand what this is about?” Barry asked. “Do you want to accept Jesus Christ as your savior?”

  I did. Once again, I was overwhelmed by emotion. I shed a few tears, but the sensation was different from what I’d experienced two weeks earlier. So many thoughts and feelings ran through me. My heart was full. I felt peace. Maybe my past did not have to dictate my future. Maybe there really was a higher sense of authority than my dad. Instead of feeling ashamed, maybe I could feel pardoned and all my mistakes could be washed away.

  I still had a thousand questions. I knew my relationship with Jesus was only just beginning and that I had a lot to learn. But I was thrilled. I had taken the first step of the journey.

  * * *

  DURING MY FINAL YEAR OF studies at Chaparral, I thought more and more about what I should do with my life. Considering my lack of academic success, my career options seemed limited. I respected my dad’s service as a police officer, but I didn’t want to follow in his footsteps. I’d always known that he had a dangerous job and I had always been afraid that he would come home hurt—or, worse, not come home at all. I didn’t want the people close to me to worry like that, to wonder if I would make it home from work. Yet it was important to me to do something to help and protect people. As the oldest child, I’d always been protective of my brothers. That inclination was still part of me.

  In the fall of that last year, at the suggestion of my stepmom, I visited a local fire station. I’d never even thought about firefighting, but just seeing the big red fire engine parked in front of the bay doors was impressive. I cornered a lieutenant and started asking questions. He invit
ed me to come back if I was interested in learning more, which I did. Within a week I knew that this was the kind of work I wanted to do.

  I began reading up and training to become a reserve firefighter. Just a few weeks after that initial visit, I qualified to start day shifts at the station. At this point, Dad and I were at least speaking to each other. We just didn’t talk about what had happened in the past. I’d buried the bad feelings and hurt as best I could. I still desperately wanted him to approve of me, which was another reason why firefighting appealed to me. I knew Dad would be pleased.

  A couple days before my first shift, I called Dad and said, “Hey, you guys have got to come down and see what I’ve been working on.” Dad and Brenda met me at the station on the morning of that first shift. I was giving them a tour of the facility, when the alarm tones went off. My first call! Dad later told me that my eyes were as big as saucers when I climbed onto the rig. He waved as we left the station. In that instant, I believed he was proud of me. It was a great moment.

  I continued my training and was certified as both a California state firefighter and a national registered emergency medical technician (EMT). After two years of working as a reserve, I hoped to land a full-time firefighting position with the city of San Diego. I aced the physical agility test and out of roughly two thousand candidates was ranked near the top of their list. But in my interview, I was told that I just didn’t have enough experience to qualify. It was a major disappointment.

  A friend suggested I consider firefighting in the military. I did some research and liked what the air force offered. The more I looked at it, the more it seemed to make sense. At the end of my four-year enlistment, I’d be qualified to serve with any fire department in the country.

  I also knew that it would make Dad happy. When I signed the papers, I was twenty years old.

  On the cool December morning that I had to report to the Military Entrance Processing Station in San Diego, Dad picked me up at four-thirty. During that short drive in the dark, we had one of the most meaningful conversations between us in my life. He told me about how nervous he was when he joined the Marine Corps. He said he thought I was doing the right thing and that he was impressed by the decisions I was making for my life. When we stopped at the station, Dad turned to me, smiled, and said, “You know what? I’m just really proud of you.”

  I basked in those long-sought words of approval. I felt like that little boy hanging out with his dad again, before everything fell apart. When we got out of the car, I gave Dad a big hug. He said, “I know you’re going to be awesome at this.” It gave me confidence to take on the big, scary world I was about to face.

  I would replay that conversation many times in the years that followed. Whenever I faced an important decision, even though Dad wasn’t there physically, I asked myself, What do you think about this, Dad? Are you proud of me? Is this what you want me to do? I wanted Dad to say it was okay.

  In truth, though, I was after something else even more. I didn’t have the courage to ask, but I longed for Dad to take me in his arms and forgive me for driving him away.

  * * *

  BEING WITH JANELLE WAS WONDERFUL, and both she and her family had done so much to point me in the right direction spiritually. But it became clear after we both earned our high school diplomas that our lives were on different paths. Janelle intended to go to college to be a doctor. I was starting to get excited about a career in firefighting. We parted ways, trusting that we would get back together if it was meant to be and thankful for what we had shared.

  In fall 1987, when I was twenty, another firefighter introduced me to a friend of his girlfriend. Mary Jo was a soft-spoken tomboy who loved horses, working on cars, and camping. She was also a Christian. I loved that she enjoyed the outdoors and could take care of herself. We hit it off right away.

  Our relationship progressed quickly. Once I decided to join the air force, it felt as if everything in my life was playing at fast-forward. Mary Jo seemed a natural fit, another piece of the puzzle. I realized I wanted a companion to join me on the exciting and daunting journey I was about to begin.

  In February 1988, I returned to San Diego after basic training. One day Mary Jo and I drove to the Ocean Beach area. As the sun set and the waves broke against the sand, we took a walk on the pier. To Mary Jo’s surprise, I suddenly got down on one knee and pulled a small box out of my pocket. “I don’t know what being in the military is going to be like,” I said, “but I know I’m going to have a career that could take care of us. I really would like to have you by my side. Would you accompany me on this adventure and be my wife?”

  With her eyes shining, Mary Jo threw her arms around me. “Yes,” she said. “Absolutely!”

  In May, I completed my training at the U.S. Air Force Fire Academy near Chicago. Later that month, we married in a San Diego church, and after a brief honeymoon I reported to my first air force duty assignment in Fairford, England. Mary Jo joined me a couple of months later.

  After all I’d been through, I almost wanted to pinch myself. It appeared I had somehow managed to break away from the awful, seemingly inevitable course that my life had been on. The picture I imagined for my future finally looked more like an idyllic postcard instead of a grainy mug shot. I felt as if my struggles were over.

  What I didn’t understand was that almost everything I was doing was based on a lie and a buried but deeply felt place of pain. My struggles were actually only just beginning.

  8

  * * *

  ALL IN

  We entered the land you sent us to explore, and it is indeed a bountiful country—a land flowing with milk and honey.

  —NUMBERS 13:27 NLT

  5:15 A.M., MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 21

  SKILAK LAKE

  Streaks of pink and red stretched low across the horizon. Skilak Lake was perfectly still, its surface a mirror reflecting images of pine trees rising up to the mountains. It was the morning after Matt and I had been startled by the unknown intruder activating our predator alarm. Any misgivings I’d had the previous night were already forgotten. I was just thankful that God had allowed me to be here for this moment. I couldn’t wait to get into the wilderness. It was time to hunt.

  Ice crunched under the weight of our feet with each step aboard the jet boat. The final pieces of equipment were loaded and secured. With a turn of the key, the boat’s engine sprang to life. We slowly motored east, keeping close to the lake’s south shore. There was no place to tie up here. Steep granite rock faces rose more than twenty feet out of the water, the view broken in spots by pine trees that had taken root within cracks in the formations. Farther up from shore, the granite landscape gave way to draws, meadows, and forested hills, which even higher up yielded to mountains. For the wildlife that lived in this region, the days were growing shorter and the nights colder. All of the signs that summer was coming to an end were present. The mountains were decorated in an array of colors, starting from deep green at their baseline and extending up to a dizzying mix of orange, blue, purple, and red.

  When Matt sighted a promising location, he turned off the engine and I grabbed my Swarovski binoculars. We each took our positions in the swiveling captain’s chairs and glassed the vast landscape. We traced the meadows, the forest, and the ridgelines for any movement that might reveal a moose in hiding—the flick of an ear or the glint of an antler. After an hour with no luck, Matt started the boat and we moved farther east.

  Each stop on the water turned out like the last. At one point I was treated to the sight of an eagle diving into the lake for a salmon, but onshore not a creature was stirring. Matt and I took our lunch break, downing sandwiches and Gatorade. We even pulled out our fishing poles and trolled for trout and salmon. But our fishing efforts weren’t any more successful than our big-game scouting.

  I hadn’t expected to see the perfect bull moose in our first twenty minutes away from camp. But I figured after hours of scanning that we’d see something, even if it was only a deer. �
�What is going on here?” I said. “Where are the game?”

  I had to remind myself that the country before me was virtually endless. We were concentrating on areas only two or three hundred yards from the water. But the sloping terrain stretched seemingly to the sky. The animals we sought might easily be five miles away.

  I reluctantly realized that I would have to be patient.

  Sometime after lunch, we aimed the bow of the jet boat toward Doroshin Bay at the northeast corner of the lake. Here were opportunities to bring the boat ashore. By the time our craft slid onto a polished-stone beach, it was 3 p.m. Where had the day gone? The sun was already making its downward course toward the western horizon. The massive mountains of the Alaska Range, which included Denali, North America’s highest summit at more than twenty thousand feet, appeared to reach up to drag the yellow orb behind the range’s jagged peaks. They would not wait for us.

  From our seats in the jet boat, leaning back against our life vests, my brother and I again scanned the area beyond the shoreline. The more I observed, the more excited I became. Just a hundred yards away was the edge of a five-acre pond that had formed because of a heavily fortified beaver dam. Young grasses and roots filled the edges of the pond. I was sure that many a moose had submerged its huge head and rack in the icy water in order to pull up the tender roots. Beyond the pond, a valley extended up into the hills. A small creek wound its way along the valley floor toward the pond. Young willows, a favored food source for moose, traced the course of the creek. The whole area was made up of the boggy terrain and thick vegetation that moose loved.