Sons of God's Generals: Unlocking the Power of Godly Inheritance (6 page)

The Family Dream Conference

Every morning my family would wake up and have the Family Dream Conference in the living room. “Did anyone have a dream last night?” Dad would ask.

My sister GraceAnn, about three at this time, would sometimes throw in something fun, like, “I had a dream about the circus!”

And then Mom would speak up. She would start describing a dream, and it would be a long one. My dad would get out the tape recorder, shake his head, and mutter to himself, “Amazing.” By the time mom finished, his blue eyes were lit up with excitement.

Then I would say, “I had a dream too!” And what would follow would be maybe a dream from God, maybe a drawing I’d made, maybe an image from my imagination. These things were hard to distinguish as a kiddo, but because having dreams was what was rewarded in my family, I felt I had done something good. After all, I saw those sparkling blue eyes turn my way.

Such was life at that age. At five years old I “invited Jesus into my heart” at our church’s fall festival. But even after that, I still knew very little about who this God was other than that He was the giver of dreams and that He gave His dreams to
special people.
This half-true idea about God’s character would soon be eclipsed by another idea: God can knock you over.

God Can Knock You Over

Churchgoing had always been a gauntlet. Adults I didn’t know would approach me so they could get a word with my prophetic dad, and the air of ulterior motive was unnerving. Then, trying to leave church at a decent hour was a joke. After service, clumps of prayer-seekers would form around both my parents. All very inconvenient for a seven-year-old boy who wants to go to Godfather’s Pizza and play the arcades!

When our congregation started delving deeper into themes like persecution, my annoyance with church turned to fear of things I was too young to understand. Unbeknownst to my parents, one church member even told me that we Christians would one day confront a tyrant whose minions would shoot us in the head if we did not renounce Christ. At the ripe age of seven, I was ready to stop going to church!

A truce developed with Mom and Dad involving my tolerating church as long as I could draw on sketch paper and speak to no one. The truce kept the peace until one Sunday an incident sent my relationship with not only church, but God, into a tailspin.

Since my dad’s primary aspiration at the time was fostering the prophetic movement, I had become accustomed to seeing eccentric men proclaim things about the end times from the stage. The preacher for that particular Sunday was a guest speaker who looked like he would be no different. However, that would not prove to be true. After some initial remarks, this man walked down the platform steps, reached ground level, and suddenly launched his hand toward a man sitting in the nearby aisle. The seated man shook violently, as if struck by a seizure, and fell to the ground. The energy of the room hit a frenzied pitch. Several people began groaning loudly in their seats. The guest speaker touched three more people who all collapsed like the first man.

Most young children’s understanding of Holy Spirit “manifestations” is limited, to say the least. I thought the man had unmitigated power to knock me over, to even take away the function of my limbs if he wanted. I was seated with my parents about fifty feet from this spectacle, and the terrifying truth hit—he was coming toward me. The prophetic men who talked about the end times were no longer confined to the stage. Like a lion let loose from his cage, this man began walking closer and closer as men and women fell down in droves around him. He came within twenty feet, and suddenly I cried out inside, “God, leave me alone!” Immediately, a cold sensation came over me. The man stopped his approach. When that silent, angry prayer filled my soul, something changed that I could not describe. I no longer knew if God was on my side or was like that man who was out to get me.

A Spirit of Fear

From that day on for many years, I believe I was deceived by a spirit of fear. Our pastor would occasionally call for the congregation to extend their hands to pray for a matter. In my mind’s eye, I would see white light emanating from the hands of these seated people, but I would see gray light—neutral—coming out of mine. My dream life followed the same path. After my experience with “the man of power,” I dreamed rarely, if at all.

In middle school this deception bloomed into a decisive cynicism about anything spiritual. My parents had become international leaders in the prophetic scene. Both had traveled the world extensively, praying for thousands of people, fasting, and teaching Christians about intercession. Occasionally they would have a group of intercessor friends over for a prayer meeting. Let me tell you, these people were binding and loosing and binding again just for good measure. I, of course, thought this was ludicrous! After some meetings focused on combating demonic influence in our neighborhood, I sarcastically remarked to my mom, “What are you casting out of the land today?”

Glimpses of Love

Despite my conviction that God was none too kind, there were several moments growing up where God reached out, got around the protective shield I had raised against Him, and gently touched me. The first time I recall experiencing the
pleasure
of God’s presence, I was nine. I was attending the mandatory chapel at my school when the worship leader started playing “Holy and Anointed One.” Because it was what “good kids” did, I sang along:

Suddenly a warmth filled my chest. This sensation remained for several minutes. If there’s one thing I recall about not
really
knowing God, it’s the anxiety. My mind was often captivated by fearful thoughts. But for that pinch of eternity I felt peace.

That little dab would have to do me for a while. The life of a family in Christian service was full of uncertainty, ministry partners coming and going, and then, of course, the fallouts. One such fallout, the details of which I’ll spare you, led to my family packing up and moving to another state. My parents loved me deeply, but in the midst of this chaos my very real spiritual battles flew under the radar.

Independence

As I became a teen, it became painfully clear to my parents and to me that my interests were not lining up with the prophetic word God had given before I was born. Now,
overall
the word had eerie accuracy—I did passionately love both history and the arts—but I was decidedly not choosing history as my desired career, as Dad said that I would. Furthermore, coming from a central Missourian family with Holiness Movement roots, I rather doubt my parents imagined that “the arts” God had mentioned could mean
movies!

I talked about becoming a professional film critic or a scriptwriter. My dad’s surprise, and sometimes discomfort, was palpable—things were not going according to plan! Conflicts erupted over my interests. But the real story wasn’t about my vocation but about my desperate need to feel like I had more power over my own future than a prophecy of my dad’s.

This struggle with Dad magnified the tension in my soul about God. Who was God? Did God, like the man of power I encountered at age seven, have a desire to control me? And if I was
fated
to eventually choose history over the arts, then why even bother with a career in filmmaking?

Forgiveness

By the time I hit sixteen, something happened that I can only attribute to the sovereign hand of God. I began to
crave
forgiveness, and I began yearning to extend forgiveness to my parents. If only I could. But that would require change. And after all the “moves of the Spirit” and the moves of the home address, I did not like change.

In the year 2000, I finally found the key I had been searching for. That fall my whole family flew to Washington, D.C. for “The Call,” a massive twelve-hour prayer event. A total of 400,000 believers assembled to intercede for the nation that day, but I, of course, hung back at the hotel as long as I could. Finally, I decided to make an appearance. When I arrived at the grounds where these thousands were praying, I saw something that would change my life forever.

One of the leaders on stage began to speak about how the Lord had convicted him of allowing offense to grow between him and his children. One of his daughters, the child with whom he had experienced the greatest tension, came on stage. Sincerely and humbly, this father and pastor got down on his knees, produced a wash basin and towel, and washed his daughter’s feet. Tears poured down both their faces as he apologized for years of hurt and frustration.

Suddenly wash basins appeared for anyone who wanted one. My dad grabbed a towel and started washing my feet. With tears he then told me what I had needed to hear all those years. He was sorry he had put pressure on me to fulfill the prophecies God had shown him about my life. He said he would never bring them up again. He said he loved me and that he would no longer try to steer me away from the film industry. I tried to stay strong and show no emotion, but inside I felt that deep warmth and peace I had experienced all those years ago when I sang “Holy and Anointed One.”

That was what I needed. I was now free to move forward in my calling. But more importantly, I was now free to move forward in my relationship with God.

If the word “complicated” indicates my relationship with my dad growing up, then certainly “simple” would describe the relationship I had with my late mom, Michal Ann Goll. In fact it was not just the relationships that were “complicated” or “simple,” but the people themselves. Where my dad’s Ezekiel-like visions and prophetic experiences led to difficult, complex questions, stories of Mom’s youth had her running in the fields on her family’s farm, singing to the Lord. Singing, and singing, and singing. No matter what changes or challenges would come Mom’s way during her lifetime, she really never deviated from that simplicity.

Mom was the “steady Eddie” to my dad’s quixotic antics. She was calm, cheerful, private, and hard-working. That great, old-school maxim comes to mind: “If you can’t say something nice, don’t say nothing at all.” Well, that was her. No one ever heard her say something not nice! But don’t mistake niceness for weakness. This farm and field girl could handle livestock, open jars difficult for men, and knew how to keep four kids in order. But there I’m getting ahead of my story. Let’s back up.

Hope Deferred

After seven years of heartbreaking barrenness, my mom and dad had wept and prayed for children to the point where they understood all too well the declaration of Proverbs 13:12: “Hope deferred makes the heart sick.” The top fertility specialist in the Midwest had pronounced conception impossible. He had never seen a condition like my mom’s. No amount of medicine or procedure would make motherhood a possibility.

They were so heartsick, in fact, that they had a plan B and found themselves at a Lutheran adoption agency in St. Louis. When the agency told my parents that they had been given top placement and were now approved to adopt a certain baby boy, my parents took a walk on the facility grounds and prayed about their decision. After pacing and praying and discussing, Mom and Dad went back inside the building and informed the agency that would yield their right to this boy to the next couple. They still had hope for a God who heard their prayers.

Another year went by, and Mom had not seen any change or heard any more direction from the Lord. “God, I will not like it,” Mom quietly but desperately prayed one day, “but I will yield to You my right and desire to be a mother.”

At that moment the invisible voice of God filled her: “I appreciate your attitude, but I am not requiring this of you. I say to you, you must
fight for your children.
” The Lord had spoken, and this command unleashed in my mother a warring intercession unlike anything she had experienced. Two years and a couple miraculous healings later, I was born. After all those years, my mom was the happiest woman to ever become a mother.

“Oh, so
you’re
the miracle baby?” I’ve heard that one a lot over the years. Time to set the record straight: Miracles were required for
each
child to be born. After giving birth to me, my mom’s body, strange as it may sound, returned to its pre-healed state. Then God healed her again and she gave birth to my sister GraceAnn. The pattern recurred, resulting in my brother Tyler. Every life really is a miracle, but my parents were racking up lots of “special” miracles!

Shaking Things Up

Remember what I said at the beginning about my parents allowing God to change them? Well, something needed to change with Mom and Dad. Even at five years old, I could see that was the case! Mom was absolutely content to hide in Dad’s shadow. She would even relate to God
through my dad.
Now, if you’re married, hopefully you’ve experienced that magical but scary moment where God speaks something to you through your spouse. If you haven’t, watch out! It’s gonna happen. However, my mom took that a little
too
far. God would simply communicate to her through her anointed husband, she thought! Then one day God got tired of waiting and flat out told her, “Look, I want to talk to you Myself!”

By the time baby number three arrived, Dad was done having kids. I imagine him praying to God, “Love the ones I have, thank You very much. But I’m fine. Really.”

“But Jim,” Mom said one day, “I had a dream about another baby, a baby girl named Rachel.” God always told my dad what was up. That was the deal. Either dad would have a dream, or an angel would fly in with a message. And so far, no dreams, no angels. In my dad’s mind, no babies were on the way!

Then one day my dad came home from his job at the church and found a sign I had taped to the front door. The sign proclaimed: “It’s blue!” Dad was about to discover that
blue
was the color of the positive sign on the pregnancy test Mom had taken that morning. “You can’t be pregnant,” my dad complained. “God didn’t tell me anything!”