South Coast Rock Tour
~ Day 17 ~
San Antonio…Jimbo…The Alamo…Ryan…Ingler.
I had drove to San Antonio last night and was expecting to
stay in this city for a few days. Though this Friday would be my only day here.
The morning included brushing my teeth in the Walmart steel bathroom, going to
an ATT&T store for my hotspot, and then writing with the once-again working
internet. I had been falling behind on the daily logs partially due to the
hotspot malfunction, but most due to the malfunctioning of my heart and mind
since leaving Austin. I missed my friends on the streets. It had been easy to
find places to sit on the busy sidewalk and make rocks to hand out. I also felt
like I should have done more for those whom a close bond had formed. I couldn’t
rescue them, and I struggled with leaving them to come to that place of
surrender on their own. When I was in my own 15 years of dark wilderness
wandering, family and friends had tried to rescue me in a plethora of ways. But
I, just like my Austin friends, was not yet willing to reach out to the hands
that were outstretched. And it wasn’t until I grabbed hold of the hand of
Jesus, that I was pulled from the miry pit and placed on the solid rock
foundation. This was my fervent prayer for my street family.
Downtown San Antonio was a 10min drive. Did a drive thru and
was stoked about the busy streets filled with people. Talking out loud to the
Spirit, “God, I’m so pumped about this mission field! Look at all these people!
I could spend days here collecting stories!” There was no answer, but it was a
calming quietness… like a father gently patting his excited daughter’s back. He
knew there would only be one day spent in San Antonio, and only a few people’s
stories collected… but the purpose would all fold into His far greater plan.
A parking lot was found near the west side of town.
Restocked my rocks, put on a fresh pair of socks, and strapped on my backpack.
A man was seen sitting on a large boulder 50ft away. Walked over to him and
greeted him. His named was Jimbo. He asked if I was new around here. I nodded
and Jimbo began to tell me his version of the “homeless guide to surviving San
Antonio”. The fresh pair of socks were the only thing fresh about me… I hadn’t
showered in a week and had worn the same outfit for the same amount of time. My
hair looked like a surfer who had just spent the day getting pummeled by
saltwater waves and my clothes were wrinkled and soiled from sitting and
kneeling on cement and asphalt. Jimbo was also weathered and soiled. We sat on
the boulder together and we shared where we had traveled in our life. He had
been in S.A. for several years now and said he was tired of moving from place
to place as he got older. I guessed him to be in his 50’s. A rock was not given
to Jimbo, but that night I left a “Press Through” rock on that same boulder he
sits on each day in hopes that he would find it tomorrow.
One of the places Jimbo told me about was N. Frio Street. It
was several blocks away. Went I walked under the freeway bridge, the atmosphere
shifted… I was entering into the darker territory of town. Frio St. was reached
and it occupied many homeless people as Jimbo had said. The straps of my pack
were tightened and I began to walk, and walk, and walk. Many people were high
or getting high. Dozens sat on the dirty sidewalk or leaned against deserted
building walls. Some were sleeping on the small patches of grass by chain
linked fences. Some were walking with shuffled feet and others with shopping
carts. I smiled at some and gave the common nod to others. Many nodded back.
But no smiles were returned. I was an unfamiliar face… An outsider who was
being scrutinized by the insiders. How I wanted to stop and sit with those on
the sidewalk and listen to their stories, give them a rock, and hug them. But it
was clear that I was to keep walking. God didn’t have me stop walking for the
next hour as I roamed Frio St. as well as streets further north. And with each
block that led north, the darkness and heaviness of this territory grew. I was
not afraid, though I was cautious and whispering “Jesus” as the demonic
oppression was palpable. After the hour, I turned south and began to walk
towards the freeway, on which the downtown was on the other side. My time on
the north side did not include conversations or helping the people therein with
tangible action… rather God had me there to pray. And for you and me, this is
the greatest action of love.
It was noon, and being Friday, the downtown area was busy
with tourists and people on their lunchbreaks. I walked around and left rocks
at random places. The River Walk that goes under the streets was beautiful and
the remainder of the day could have been spent here on the scattering of
benches that overlooked the narrow river. I ate a granola bar and half of it
was shared with two mallard ducks. Went up the stone steps to the main level of
the city. The Alamo remnant building was spotted after a few blocks and there
was a courtyard near it that had benches and stone planter box sitting areas.
Found an empty bench and pulled out my Sharpies and rocks. There were people
everywhere, many of them families who had come with their son or father in
their military uniforms. After a while, I moved to the inside of a large, white
gazebo. People would come up the steps, then see me, and then step backwards. A
few children came inside the gazebo, would smile at me and then start to come
over to the girl drawing on rocks, but their parents would run in and grab the
child’s hand or swoop them up to bring them back to the safety of the courtyard.
I am used to these reactions from people. I got them when I truly was living on
the streets, and their reactions (sadly) didn’t surprise me today. Out of fear
of the unknown, they didn’t ask for my name or story. Maybe one of them might
have been praying… and loving me in an unknown way.
Many rocks were scribed in that gazebo. It was a good time
to be still. Thought I would come back to the Alamo courtyard tomorrow or the
next day, but didn’t know that this would be my last time sitting against the
contoured spindles of this gazebo. I packed up and walked around the original
stone-walled perimeter of the Alamo. The history of people’s stories fascinates
me, but historical monuments don’t intrigue me. I brushed my hand along the
rough wall as I walked. I thought about the fortified walls we as humans put up
to protect ourselves… be it healthy or unhealthy walls. The Alamo wall was
metaphorical in many ways.
When the wall ended, my hand again grabbed my backpack’s strap.
I saw a man in the distance playing his guitar, whose music had been heard
while sitting in the gazebo. Next to the music man, was a young guy with
tattoos and a black and pink brimmed hat. When I walked up to him, he asked,
“Is there anything I can pray for you about?” Wasn’t expecting that question! I
smiled and said yes, then asked him if there was anything I could pray for him
about. “No one had asked ME that today. But yes, I need prayer to be bold for
the name of Jesus. My life was changed by his grace and I want to spend the
rest of my life telling others about his redemptive love.” Knowing this young
man and I were going to have a long conversation on this busy sidewalk, my pack
was set down and I listened to his fascinating story. His name was Ryan. He has
been in and out of prison, addictions to drugs, a life lived for self. In his
last prison sentence, he started diving into the Bible and it was in that
prison cell, that Ryan became a free man in Christ. He traded a life of living
to please his flesh for a life of living to please his Heavenly Father, who had
delivered him from the bondage of drugs, sex and violence. I could see the
change in Ryan’s eyes… they sparkled and were full of unworldly joy. He asked
me about my own story and I told him a short version of my passion for rocks
(rock collections as a child, rock cocaine addiction, rock ministry, sold out
love for the Rock). We talked about the difference between quitting something
and being delivered from something. And how we both still had struggles yet
they didn’t define us. Our identity was securely in our Savior. We weren’t
perfect, yet we were unconditionally loved by a perfect God. He invited me to
come to church with him that Sunday, and I wanted to go. Gave him a “Purpose”
rock and another rock for a girl whose faith he admired. We took turns praying
for each other. It was not eloquent, rather genuine and personal, as our Savior
is a personal God. We embraced and both of us were practically dancing with
excitement of how our paths were predestined to merge today. Ryan is sold out
and I respect his radical faith.
It felt like I was almost floating as my walk continued. But
the lightness would turn to heaviness after several blocks. A woman with gnarly
dreadlocks was seen and I love the beauty and togetherness of what many
perceive as dirty and unkept. “Hey, digging your dreds, girl.” --- “Thanks, I’m
digging the light that is around you.” --- “My name is Katie, but they call me
Daisy May.” --- “My name is Ingler Mary Magdalena, but they call me crazy.”
This flicked my curiosity antennas and though I won’t label Ingler as crazy,
she certainly was afflicted with confusion, distortion, and mind binding
spirits. The two of us talked for almost 45min and my time with Ingler could
fill a chapter in a book. She had two large suitcases with her and a few bags
tied down to the handles. They all were purple, her favorite color. She pulled
various things from her mobile closet, talking in great depth about each
object. She talked about her ancestors, her blood type, her visions, and how
she believed she was half human and half alien (demon). Ingler quoted Bible
scriptures as well as witchcraft theology. I listened to her and didn’t say
much even though I wanted to speak truth into the confusion. “Most people think
I am crazy. But your eyes are so loving. Who are you? Who sent you?” I gave her
a “Stand Firm, you are stronger than you realize” rock and asked if I could
take a picture of her dreadlocks. She smiled and said yes. This was my
invitation to speak truth to Ingler. I don’t remember much of what was said.
This is evidence that it was not my own words. After speaking what she needed
to hear, Ingler put her elbow on my knee, as we both were crouched down on the
sidewalk now. Her elbow and forearm pressing firmly, she asked if I would sleep
with her. Friends, this is going to stretch the boundaries of your mind, but I
must explain that this was not a sexual proposition, rather it was an
invitation to transfer spirits. Will not go in depth about it, but Ingler wasn’t
interested in receiving the Holy Spirit in me, rather wanted to transfer the
demons that were operating within her. If you don’t believe in demons, angels,
the Holy Spirit or even God, it doesn’t discredit the truth that they all exist
and are very, very, very real. In posting about my West Coast Rock Tour, I went
into greater detail about my experiences with spiritual warfare and my own
physical encounters with demons. You can visit www.clingtotherock.blogspot.com
and look up the West Coast archive posts to read more about that. Ingler was
oppressed (maybe even possessed) by a legion of demons. The Bible talks about
“legion” in Mark 5:1-2. Ingler had cuts on her arms and she talked about the
still-open wounds of her past. Her story provoked compassion in me, yet I was
very guarded against the sly, deceptiveness of the darkness that wanted to
steal, kill and destroy me. When I told her that I wouldn’t sleep with her, she
pressed her arm harder on my knee. I began to feel physically sick. Not
gradually, but immediately. I quickly pushed her arm off me and stood up.
Something had shifted in Ingler. And she saw that I recognized it. Most people
would have run away at this moment, but I wasn’t afraid. The Spirit in me was
far more powerful than the dark spirits in her. Prayed silently against the
legion of demons as I embraced Ingler in a big hug. I prayed that “No weapon
formed against me shall prosper”. I was not called to cast out Ingler’s demons,
though I prayed for someone else to be sent to carry out this miraculous
healing that I have witnessed with my own eyes. This was my time with Ingler.
Though many of you may have doubts about this experience, it was clear and
real. Thank you for having enough faith to contemplate its truth.
A few blocks away from Ingler, I lifted up my shoes and
wiped them with my hand. As said in Matthew 10:14, Mark 6:11, and Luke 9:5,
this is symbolic of doing what was allowed and then moving on. In essence, I
was also brushing off any residue that might have tried to attach itself to me
while with Ingler. I do this often when with beautiful people whose story is
not over and have the same hope of deliverance available to them that I had
experienced in my own story. No one is ever “too far gone” or without hope.
Such was my prayer for Ingler.
My time in San Antonio was done. Though I wanted to stay
many more days, it was clear I was to move on. I walked back to the parking
lot, left the rock for Jimbo on his favorite boulder, and sat in Tumbler for a
long time processing the full day in San Antonio. “Now where do you want me to
go, Lord?” Silence. I pulled out my atlas, tracing the roads that led out of
this city. Suddenly, I was reminded of a Facebook comment written days ago from
a friend. She had said that she and her husband were in southern Texas with
their motorhome. I called her on my phone and her husband answered. They were
in Mission, TX and welcomed me to come spend time with them. Duane and Erika
Careb were longstanding friends who had been adoptive grandparents during my
wilderness years. I was thrilled at the thought of embracing them and soaking
up quality time with them. That night, I drove almost 5 hours to land in
Edinburg, TX. Our paths would merge tomorrow afternoon
No one is without hope…
Don’t put a period
On someone’s story,
When deliverance
Can be their next chapter.
Unshakable Peace and Purpose
Cling to the Rock
Psalm 18:1-2
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