Sons of God's Generals: Unlocking the Power of Godly Inheritance (13 page)

The moment I said that with my heart and soul I walked through the tunnel and was instantly struck with the power of God. Words cannot describe what I felt or experienced. My depression instantly dissipated and I felt freer than ever before. It was as if I had been living my whole life in black and white and suddenly everything was in color. There was such an engulfing love that permeated every fiber of my being. All of my senses were heightened as if I was living in a cave and walked out into the promised land. I could see and sense every spiritual thing around me, and God’s voice was as clear as day. The manifestation that I had so longed for as a child came like a rushing wave. It felt like I was going to explode because my body couldn’t handle the strong presence of God. For three months after my deliverance I lived in the heavenly realm where my true identity as a daughter of heavenly Father was fully revealed.

Since that day, my life has changed. The second greatest miracle after my deliverance from depression was my reconciliation with my parents, beginning with my mom. Kneeling at her feet, I cried into her lap and repented for the years of pain I caused her. As she forgave and embraced me, I felt the Spirit lead me to ask her for a mother’s blessing by imparting her spiritual mantle. She prayed over me that I would receive everything and more that the Lord had given her. A shift in my life ensued. I received a higher calling on my life to serve similarly to how He has called my mother to care for women and orphans in developing nations.

Later, in 2003, my dad and I were driving back from church. As we pulled into our driveway, before he got out of the car, I stopped him and told him we needed to talk. God had been speaking clearly to me that I needed to reconcile with my dad, but I was too nervous to do it until that point. I began to repent for my rebellious years, dishonoring him as my father and my spiritual covering. In the same way the Lord led to me ask my mom for a blessing, I asked my father for his blessing and to impart his mantle. We both wept together in the car as he imparted his God-given mantle upon me.

Looking back ten years since receiving my parents’ mantles, I still don’t know the full extent of what it means. I was simply obeying Holy Spirit. What I do know is that from the time I reconciled with my parents, my relationship with them has dramatically changed. After high school graduation, the Lord instructed me to serve both of my parents where I was, working for my mom in the children’s ministry department and my dad as his assistant. It was as if God wanted to take my healing deeper. After I was able to serve and be under my parents’ authority and covering, I felt the Lord release me to pursue my own destiny.

Today I am constantly reminded of the Father’s amazing love for me. I now live in complete freedom, knowing that He paid the greatest price! I have never fallen back into depression since that Halloween night when heaven came down and the Holy Spirit wrecked my life. As for my relationship with my parents, this one chapter cannot hold the words of love that I have toward them. To date, the reconciliation with my parents is by far the greatest miracle I’ve experienced in my life. When I thought all was lost, the Lord proved me wrong with His abounding grace and love.

I was recently reminded of how far my relationship with my father has come when I went to see a film adaptation of our family’s favorite musical—
Les Misérables
. Sitting next to my dad, I turned to catch a stream of tears falling down his face as Jean Valjean, played by Hugh Jackman, is forgiven by the bishop for stealing the convent silver. As Jean Valjean ended his song devoting his life to be a good and honest man, my dad turned to me and whispered, “This movie is such an example of God’s unconditional love by sending His own son to die for our sins.” It was true;
Les Misérables
is a picture of Christ and how when we don’t deserve to be forgiven and to have second chances, God in His great love and mercy turns around and gives us what we don’t deserve—a life of freedom and joy. Jean Valjean’s closing remarks still resonate in my heart. He said, “To love another person is to see the face of God.” I have been forgiven and redeemed by the unconditional love of my heavenly Father, and therefore I am able to unconditionally love myself, my parents, but most importantly, God.

Although this is my own experience being the daughter of Pastors Che and Sue, I pray that all will find freedom in areas of bondage through the revelation of our great and loving heavenly Father. We, I included, still fall short and struggle in many areas, but the difference between now and ten years ago is that I hold true to the knowledge that I am loved by Jesus no matter what I do or do not do. As Second Corinthians says, “But we all, with unveiled face, beholding as in a mirror the glory of the Lord, are being transformed into the same image from glory to glory, just as from the Lord, the Spirit” (2 Cor. 3:18). As we become more like Him, discovering our true identity within, we too can share in His glory and all He has for our lives.

The story of Abraham’s sacrifice is an amazing display of faith and obedience. Confident in God’s promises, Abraham believed, if need be, God would raise his son from the dead to fulfill His promise. Thus, Abraham becomes the ultimate example of a man justified by faith—the father of us all (see Rom. 4). Given the celebrity position Abraham holds throughout the Bible, it’s easy to read the above passage and forget about the other character—a child, bound and placed on an alter, watching his father hold a knife poised to kill him. Regardless of Abraham’s faith in the matter, it is unclear whether Isaac believed similarly. And while much ink has been spilled detailing the “sacrifice of Abraham,” next to nothing has been spent seeing the world through Isaac’s eyes.

What follows is my personal story, along with what the Holy Spirit is teaching me—daily—about the importance of reconciliation and relationship. In sum: how to live life
after
the altar.

Random, well-intentioned conference attendee: “So, what is it like living with your dad?”

This question, and its infinite permutations, has dominated my life. Like clockwork, within seconds of discovering my identity as Randy Clark’s son, people would ask about my experiences. I get it—inquiring minds want to know. Undoubtedly. You are, in fact, reading this book.

Still, as a young boy, I couldn’t help but wonder—
why?
Or, more aptly,
To what end?
To those merely curious (this was before reality TV sated our voyeuristic desires), I wondered,
Why not go buy one of the many books off the table in the back?
It felt like much of our lives was detailed in my father’s books and newsletters. Stop being lazy, or worse, cheap. To those looking for comfort, solace, or any other equally significant experience, I failed to see how my story could help. I viewed my experiences as mine. Whatever stuff I dealt with or privileges I received, that journey was mine. The circumstances of my youth were proprietary, or so I thought, and my victories and failures ill-suited for alternative application. I didn’t think my life was special or “better than.” Merely mine. My cross to bear, my road to travel. Accordingly, my standard response to the above interrogatory was a nondescript, “It’s normal.” Only rarely, when I sensed growing dissatisfaction with that answer, would I cheekily add, “Just kidding. It’s everything you’re imagining and more. So much more.”

Don’t worry. I’ve long since repented for these youthful transgressions. Additionally, I’ve come to realize the value of my story.

In Second Corinthians 5:18, the apostle Paul writes that the reconciled have become reconcilers. My personal belief is that the experiences, struggles, defeats, and victories one has along the road of life inform the reconciliation process. They fill the process full with meaning by answering the question, “What have we been reconciled
from?
” We are particularly well-suited to reconcile those who are similarly situated. One’s pre-reconciliation weaknesses become his greatest post-reconciliation weapons against the powers of darkness. I recognize that I have been reconciled from a life—similar to many, both secular and Christian—replete with issues of doubt, abandonment, and disillusionment. It is for those that struggle with these afflictions that I write, in hopes of planting (or watering) seeds of reconciliation. To that end, the stories contained herein are the complete (to the best of my ability) retelling of the formative events of my life. In full disclosure, this is not intended as a biography and many wonderful tales have been omitted; those experiences, memories, and stories not relevant to the topic of reconciliation will remain mine, until the Holy Spirit requires them in writing.

I was born in southern Illinois to a loving mother and a playful (and equally loving) father. Regrettably, time has wizened my memories of this era, but a few precious remnants remain. Regular trips in my Radio Flyer wagon along undulating—and to a five year old, never-ending—cobblestone roads; an entire room filled with electric trains and tracks; little green Army men platoons, complete with Lincoln Log bunkers, sprawled along the family room floor. In all these memories, there is one constant—my dad. He pulled my wagon without tires, constructed train track configurations without fail, and set up hundreds of Army men, only to have me knock them over with Lincoln Log grenades seconds later and ask for him to “do it again” without complaint. In truth, I have few early memories that don’t include my dad playing with me in some form or fashion.

When I was five, my parents felt called to plant a church in St. Louis, Missouri. At first this meant weekly road trips to Missouri, with me frantically scanning the horizon to be the first to spot the Arnold, Missouri water tower—a sign we were close to our destination and yet another game my dad and I would play. Soon it became clear that St. Louis would become our new home, and near the end of ’86 my family moved.

We lived for the first seven or so months in a hotel. I blame this season, and the moral hazard it provided, for my inability to clean up after myself. After the hotel, we moved into the lone condominium complex of an aborted project (funding had apparently dried up before the additional units were constructed). The complex was predominated with the elderly. Predictably, I made no real friends here, but was dutifully doted on by the elderly. For my part, I gladly filled the gap left by grandchildren who no longer had time to visit and learned an invaluable lesson—old people have candy everywhere! When I wasn’t sucking down butterscotch lozenges, I spent my time swimming and running errands. By nine, I was doing most of the family grocery shopping—alone. My mom would scrawl out a list onto the back of an envelope and then give me a signed blank check, which I would walk up the hill, through the condominium parking lot, and across the street to the nearest grocery store. Though shocked at first, the cashiers quickly warmed up to the nine-year-old shopper, and it wasn’t long till I was on first-name basis with the day shift.

My parents, busy with church planting, were gone most nights, leaving me to watch my sister—and eventually also my brother. People laugh in disbelief when I tell them at nine I would regularly (read: four or five nights a week) watch my four-year-old sister. But it was normal to us. Only once did things go poorly. During a failed reenactment of the final scene of
Karate Kid
, my crane kick—truly unblockable—knocked my little sister into the brick fireplace mantle, leaving a large gash in her head and blood on the floor. After that, we stopped mimicking
Karate Kid
maneuvers—replaced it with
The Princess Bride
. My sister is an excellent fencer now. Normally my parents would return home around 10:00 p.m. and we’d all curl up together to watch
The Love Connection, Leave it to Beaver,
and
I Love Lucy
. Due to my parents’ grueling schedule, I was allowed to miss (or, at least, I did miss) every Monday from elementary school. On these brief reprieves, we’d fish, play at a park, and lounge at the pool. All in all, I greatly enjoyed my childhood.

Concerning my spiritual development, my parents took a “pincer attack” approach. My mother would only let me listen to Christian worship music (and it played nonstop, all day long, literally). My dad would only read me Christian books (usually biographies of famous missionaries or evangelists, but occasionally something more age appropriate like
The Chronicles of Narnia
). Again, my memories have mostly faded but I do have a vague recollection of my dad reading to me quite frequently, though I’m not sure when he found the time. Life continued on in much the same way for the next five to ten years until, in 1994, my dad (and I) would take a trip to Toronto that would change the fate of our family forever.

Originally scheduled for only a few nights, the Toronto meetings spanned months and kept my dad busy long after I had returned home. Revival had broken out, and with the Toronto Blessing in full swing, I spoke with my dad—over the phone—only a few times throughout the next six weeks. His absence was felt most acutely by my mother, who had only been away from him for a couple days throughout their entire 20-plus year marriage. Though my siblings and I had become accustomed to my parents working hard and being gone most nights, we saw them quite frequently during the day. With my dad now away in Toronto, not only did we lose our morning and afternoon play partner, but my mother experienced the pressure and responsibility of solely tending to four children. This, coupled with her own loss, made for a difficult time. Still, we lumbered on together, naively thinking this revival was but a discrete episode, an isolated occurrence that wouldn’t change the status quo. We were wrong.