One afternoon I received an urgent phone call from Jim Sleeth. “Craig has gone berserk!” he half-shouted into the phone. “I’ve just heard he’s been drinking again and he’s heading to your place to kill you, because you’re always talking about Jesus.”

“Don’t worry, Jim,” I replied, “I can handle a room-full of guys like Craig.”

“Maybe so,” said Jim, “but watch yourself. He’s nuts! Anyway, I’m coming right over.”

I turned to the Lord immediately. “Lord, what’s going to happen here?” I cried out, “This man needs You desperately, and yet I’m not going to put up with anything from him either. If he gets out of line, I’ll put him on the floor.”

The small, silent voice spoke sharply and clearly, in the heart of my spirit, “No, I don’t want you to do anything but trust Me.”

“But Jesus,” I cried, “This is no time for the ‘other cheek’ stuff. This is serious! What if he kills me? What will happen to my family?”

“Trust Me,” came the swift reply.

This was visceral praying, now. I tried to convince the Lord to listen to reason. His only response to everything was, “Trust Me.”

At last, I surrendered. “All right, Lord,” I said, “I will trust You, and I will not raise a hand to defend myself. Please help me to do it, Jesus.”

That seemed to be a signal of some kind, for the door burst open and Craig stormed in. I was sitting on a work stool in my art-studio. The height of the stool raised me to the level of a man standing.

Craig was nuts all right! His face was flushed and mottled, his teeth barred, and an inhuman hatred blazed in his eyes. I remember thinking at the time; this man is demon-possessed!

With a stream of vile oaths, he ran at me.

I felt a very strange calm, and sat, arms folded.

The young ex-con swung at me four or five times, putting all his strength into every blow. However, the punches never landed! At the last instant, each blow stopped, his fists less than a quarter inch from my face!

Craig stepped back about three paces. His face drained of color and a confused look came to his eyes. Then he seemed to get hold of himself and rushed again. This time he put his hands to my throat to choke me. Screaming curses, he tried repeatedly to position his hands, talon-like around my throat to strangle me. I could see him straining with all of his might to get hold of me, but he could not. His hands never touched me!

A look of absolute terror settled over his countenance, he uttered an unearthly scream and sank to his knees. He then slowly sagged forward, and with his face on the floor he wept in a hopeless kind of way, his body wracked by pain-filled sobs.

The pathos of that scene haunts me still.

Jim Sleeth shuffled in, moving purposefully despite his handicap. He looked at the stricken Craig, then looked questioningly at me.

Craig finally calmed down and Jim said, “I’ve got to take you back to the station, Craig. You’ve broken parole a dozen ways

As a footnote, Craig was returned to Kingston Pen to serve out his sentence. I never saw him again. However, Jim told me later that as he drove the young man back to the Police Station, Craig said, “I was never so scared in my life. That Lee has God with him. I hit him four or five times as hard as I could but it never touched him. I tried and tried to strangle him, but there is an invisible shield around him. I couldn’t get my hands on his throat. He has God all around him!”

Maybe being, “in Christ” as the Bible says, is more literal than we think.