"The just shall live by faith." (Rom. 1:17).
"What are you doing to my brother?" screamed the teenage girl running into the street.
"I'm going to kill him, and now I'll have to kill you too!" I cried. I had recently been released from prison after serving time for manslaughter. But I couldn't seem to stay out of trouble.
While living at a halfway house, I had gotten into a fight with a man. The next morning I bought a gun, loaded it, and headed to the man's house.
When he answered the door, I lunged in and grabbed him by the collar. Pulling him into the deserted street, I shoved him to the ground, jabbed a foot onto his throat, and took aim.
That's when the teenage girl ran into the street. She fell to her knees and bowed her head. Her posture startled me, but I held on to my victim and cocked the gun. As I debated which one of them to shoot first, I heard the girl praying.
"Dear Lord," she said softly, "this man must be the most miserable person in the whole world. I pray that You will save him and give him the happiness he must be searching for."
I stared at her. She wasn't praying for herself. She wasn't praying for her brother. She was praying for me! My hand began shaking, and I loosened my finger on the trigger. Releasing the man, I walked over to the girl and handed her the gun. "Take this thing and throw it away," I mumbled.
Back at the halfway house, I threw myself onto my bed. The girl's prayer kept replaying in my mind. I tried to get a hold of myself. I hadn't broken once during my long years in prison; now I was out, and I didn't want to turn soft. Yet this was the second time in just a few days that something had gotten to me.
Recently Gene, a counselor, had come to my room to talk to me about starting my life over again. I had let Gene talk for a while and then interrupted.
"Hey, Gene," I said, "I know you're interested in me. I think you really want to help me. But you—or anybody else—don't mean a thing to me. If I thought you were a threat to me, I'd kill you." I reached under my pillow and pulled out a hatchet. Gene's face turned pale.
"But I know you're not here to hurt me," I admitted.
"Then give me the hatchet," Gene said. He breathed deeply when I handed the weapon over. "Do you know what your problem is, Tom?" he asked.
"What's my problem?" I mocked.
"You don't know the peace and love and joy of God." I knew his words were true.
"You're lost in your sins," Gene went on. "If you died tonight, you'd be lost forever. You need Christ as your Savior." Gene looked at me for a moment. "You've never known real happiness, have you, Tom?"
"No, I haven't," I agreed.
"Well, why don't you receive Jesus as your Savior right now? You will find peace and joy."
I shook my head. "I'm not ready." I was glad when Gene finally left.
I had felt smug about my coolness then, but now...after that girl's prayer....
"Gene!" Later I shouted, opening his door. "Somebody get Gene! I've got to see him."
"I went out to kill someone this morning," I said, when Gene appeared: "I was ready to pull the trigger when his sister came out. I told her that I had to kill her too. Then she fell to her knees and started praying for me! Not for herself or her brother, but for me!"
I was too choked up to go on.
"That girl loved you, Tom," Gene said, "because she's experienced the love of Christ. She wasn't afraid to die. She was concerned about your soul. That's why she prayed for you." I nodded in agreement.
"Tom," Gene said softly, "are you ready now to accept what Jesus did for you on the cross? He can give you the same peace and faith that that girl has." The battle was over.
"Yes," I replied. "I'm ready."
As we knelt in prayer, I experienced peace in my heart—a peace I had never known before. My whole attitude changed when I received Christ into my life: Instead of wanting to hurt people, I wanted to help them. As I got into the Bible, I learned more about Jesus Christ—and He not only gave me peace—He gave me understanding.
I have since become manager of the halfway house. The Lord as enabled me to help other men fresh out of prison to start new lives, as I did. I know the problems they're facing: I also know the only certain Help for them.
But I wouldn't be serving there today if it hadn't been for a teenage girl's timely prayer!
Excerpt permission granted by White Stone Books