Out of a dark night

The words scrawled in marker on the glass of the front door made me pause. What was this about?

I had been deep in thought, partly because of an unresolved matter I had left in my counselling office at day's end, and partly because of a concern I had left at home that morning. My son Tom had been driving the family car the previous evening. I was sure that I had detected the musty odour of marijuana when I drove to work.

For a moment, I stared at the words. Then I grinned, remembering advice I had given to parents of two mischievous juniors: "Don't try to analyze everything your children do. Look for a simple explanation first." Of course! My teenagers were always trading whimsical insults. Perhaps Tom's younger sisters Betty and Jeannie had scrawled this for him to see when he returned from his after-school job. I breathed more easily.

Left with a houseful of children when my wife had died, I faced challenges which taxed my ingenuity to the limit. Sometimes I would go to bed saying, "Lord, I'm at the end of my rope!" But I found solace in prayer and the promise "My grace is sufficient for you."

I found Tom in the livingroom. He glanced up. "Something wrong, Dad?"

"Well, maybe not . . . but I'm puzzled about something, Son. There was an odd odour in the car this morning. It made me think of marijuana."

Tom grinned. "I picked up a couple of hitchikers last night, and one of them had definitely been smoking up. The windows were open, but I guess some of the smell stayed. Sorry about that, Dad."

The simple explanation! I had no reason to believe that Tom was using marijuana. His story was plausible. I was satisfied.

Several weeks went by with nothing more than the usual uproar in a household of teenagers and their exuberant friends. Having fixed up my large bedroom as a retreat and office for writing, I had learned to block out the noise of the younger generation. Perhaps I blocked out too much.

Once again, I was brought up short at the front door. This time, the marker had traced three sixes around a central star. An alarm bell rang faintly in my mind--the number of the Beast! "Look for the simple explanation," I reminded myself.

The girls were surprised when I showed them the markings. Tom showed equal mystification. "Might be one of the girls' friends playing some kind of trick," he ventured. It could be. Still, I was uneasy.

Records were always appearing and disappearing in the house. Ownership seemed an illusive thing among the young people who came and went without leaving in my mind a firm impression of who they were. One day, while restoring records to their shelf, my eye was caught by a title on one gaudy jacket: "The Number of the Beast".

It could be that innocuous lyrics, popular for a few weeks on the charts, were the inspiration for the markings on my window. That might be the simple explanation. Still, I was uneasy. I promised myself that I would have a family discussion on the suitability of some popular records.

Busyness at work pushed the matter to the back of my mind, and the family council did not take place. I thought no more about it until another mystery appeared.

Raking the lawn one day, I spotted a circle of grass sprayed with black paint. I decided that someone had spray-painted something round and about eight inches in diameter. I decided to investigate.

The painting had been done outside the rec room door, so that was where I started. I found nothing--until I closed the door. On the back of the door was a round wooden plaque painted black. On its back, I found the words "Christian Book Store". It was the plaque Tom's grandmother had given him on his 12th birthday. It had read: "Trust in the Lord with all your heart."

The pieces began to fit together: drugs, the Beast, 666, a Scripture verse painted black, Betty saying a few days before that a black stain on Tom's jeans had not come out in the wash. I was not a stranger to the occult. In my office I had counselled families who had a child dabbling in Satanism. Was it my turn?

"Tom, we need to talk!"

Tom turned from the TV screen, a half-amused look on his face. When he saw the painted plaque, the grin was replaced by a guarded mask.

"Tom, do you recognize this?"

"Yeah."

"Does it have something to do with the marks on the door?"

"Could be."

I tried to keep my voice calm. "Tom, what's going on? All this makes me think you are connected with someone involved with Satanism."

"And if I am?"

"Why, Tom?" The mask, his coolness was getting to me.

"Look, Dad, you have your beliefs--I respect that. I don't think you should dictate what I believe. How about leaving me alone--okay?"

"No, Tom, it's not okay. I think you are getting into something over your head. Let's talk about it."

I was unprepared for Tom's reaction. He leaped to his feet, and his face contorted into an angry scowl. "Will you stop trying to shove religion down my throat?" he shouted. "Can't I have anything of my own?" Brushing by me, he slammed out the front door.

Next morning, I called our pastor and shared my anxiety. Jim Jamieson was supportive and reassuring: "Young people explore odd ideas, just like they follow clothing fads. It's usually tied in with their search for independence from parents. Just the same, I can understand your anxiety. Would you like me to have a chat with Tom?"

"Could you please?" I replied. "Perhaps Tom will tell you what's going on in his life."

But Tom didn't come home from school that afternoon, and it was after midnight when I heard him come in. I knocked on his bedroom door. "May I come in, Tom?"

"All right, Dad." He was sitting on the edge of his bed and wore the resigned expression he put on when he expected a lecture.

"Tom, I realize you're at the time of life when you want to explore other ideas. I'm not going to jump all over you for being different. I'm really concerned, though, about this occult business. Could we please talk about it?"

"What would you like to know, Dad?"

"I'd like to know where you are finding these ideas, and what place they have in your life."

"Dad, you've always told us kids how important faith is. Your faith in God is important to you. Can't you understand that my faith is important to me, too? Only I believe in a power that's not the same as yours."

"What do you mean by power?"

"We both know there are two different powers in the world. You've told me that. I learned about it in Sunday school. The Bible talks about `powers and principalities'. Well, you follow one power; I follow another. Can't we leave it at that?"

"No, Tom, we can't. If you were using some harmful drug, as your father, I'd have a right to be concerned. Satanism is an idea as harmful to your faith as drugs are to your body. We need to talk about it."

"Your mind is already made up--there's no point in talking to you." Tom's voice began to rise, and the angry scowl was back.

"All right, Tom. If you don't want to talk to me about it, will you talk to Mr. Jamieson?"

Again I was startled by Tom's reaction. "Will you get off my case? Can't you leave me alone?"

Tom rose to his feet, fists clenched and facial muscles twitching. Then, to my amazement, his eyes seemed to glaze over. When he spoke, it was the voice of a stranger: "The Beast will rise, hear me? The Beast will rise, and he will know his own!" Tom bolted from his room. Moments later, I heard the front door slam.

The next few weeks were stormy. I was anxious and at times angry, ready to make mincemeat of whoever was poisoning my son's mind. Tom no longer avoided me, but our sessions together were characterized by more heat than light. Tom steadfastly refused to tell me who his associates were. He babbled about "the number of the Beast" and quoted scraps from Revelation, usually so garbled and out of context that I was sure he had not studied the book himself. There were other times when a mask came over his face and his voice took on that strange timbre. I was frightened and wondered whether I was dealing with mental illness or demon possession. He refused to see either Pastor Jamieson or a psychiatrist.

One night, I insisted that we sit down and look at Revelation. To my relief, he agreed. In a quiet voice, I read from chapter 1 all the way to the end of chapter 22. Closing the Bible, I bowed my head and prayed, "Lord Jesus, give us Your Spirit of truth."

I looked up to see Tom's face twitching, but the scowl was gone. Instead, he seemed to be caught in an internal struggle. His eyes flashed from despair to hope and back to despair.

"Tom." I stood and put my hand on his shoulder.

"No!" It was a strangled cry. "No, you're wrong! You're wrong!"

He was gone. The slam of the front door echoed through the house. Should I go after him? "Lord, I've done all I can. Please--he's one of Your children, too!"

Long after midnight, I heard a tap on my door and sat up in bed.

"Dad, can you help me? I've cut myself." It was Tom's voice.

"There are bandaids in the medicine chest."

"You don't understand, Dad. I cut myself!"

There was an urgency in his voice that made me switch on the bedside lamp, then gasp in horror. Tom had a white towel wrapped around his hand. Crimson blood oozed from its folds to drip on the floor.

"Tom!" I sprang to his side and unrolled the towel. His wrist was slashed in two places, not deep, but deep enough. I snatched a handkerchief and wound it tightly over the wound.

It was only a short drive to the hospital emergency ward, where an intern quickly stitched up the wound. "If I were you, I'd get this boy to a psychiatrist," he said.

"I will," I said. "Let's go home, Tom."

Tom seemed in a daze, but he followed me to the car and said nothing on the way home. I put him on the living room couch and covered him with a blanket, then pulled the other sofa across the door and lay down on it myself. My mind was in turmoil, but I could think of nothing more to do this night but pray.

Tom was quiet and cooperative the following few days. The anger had gone out of him, but it was replaced by a passive despair that left me almost as disturbed as before. The girls agreed to take turns staying home with Tom so that I could go back to work.

One afternoon, I returned to find a smouldering fire by the driveway. In it I found the remains of several books and a warped black blob that clearly had been a record in its jacket. Enough remained for me to trace the title "The Number of the Beast".

Tom was sitting at the dining room table with his Bible opened before him. He looked up and smiled. Then his face was serious again. "Dad. . . .I feel like I've come out of a dark night! It's like waking up from a nightmare. But it's over! I know there's a power of evil, but it's not as strong as the power of good. I'm sorry I put you through this, but I think you'll be pleased to know that I believe in Jesus now!"

I couldn't speak, but I could put my arms around Tom and give him a hug. From my heart came a grateful prayer: "Thank you, Lord Jesus!"

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