Reba Robinson lay awake night
after night, tense and tired in her little room in Starkville, Mississippi.' Her
imagination raced out of control as her fingers clung to an old T-shirt that had
once belonged to her son and still carried the scent of his cologne. He was
confronting death in some exotic locale though she didn't know where or what
for, how of by whom.
Dillon was a marine assigned to a covert commando unit. His assignments were so secretive that even his mother not be told the time or location of his missions.
But her mother's instincts told her when he was in harm's way, and during those times she fervently prayed for Dillon day and night. She was undoubtedly praying the night he swam ten miles from a submarine to the forbidden coast of a hostile country. She was praying the night he parachuted behind enemy lines from a high-flying aircraft. She was praying the day he jumped from a chopper through a hail of bullets, his eyes blinded with tears, to retrieve the body of his fallen compatriot. She was praying the night a terrorist stuck a gun in his face and pulled the trigger; and perhaps it was her prayers that caused the gun to jam, giving Dillon the split second he needed to "resolve the problem" and escape.
She prayed through nocturnal tears and terrors and torments.
When Dillon finally returned home, he was a hero whose bravery could never be explained, declassified, or honored. He couldn't discuss his exploits or seek help in processing his traumas. He tried making the transition from action hero to typical guy, but life slowed to a snail's pace in his little hometown. He began frequenting the local bars, trying not to remember what he couldn't forget.
Reba prayed on.
At a critical juncture in Dillon's life, a friend invited him to a revival meeting in a nearby church. He went grudgingly, intending to bolt as soon as the service was over. But the message struck home that night, and when the altar call was given, Dillon gripped the back of the pew as if trying to choke it. No terrorist had ever pursued him like the Hound of heaven. He later admitted, "I had faced death without shaking, but that night I was trembling like a leaf."
He staggered to the altar in tears, and that night a muscular, unsung hero fell to his knees and received Jesus Christ as Lord and Savior.
Robert J. Morgan, The Red Sea Rules. Nashville: Thomas Nelson Publishers, 2001, p. 2-3, 5-6.
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