Why the devil uses fear to keep you out of God's purpose for your life.

Chapter Title: Fear Tried to Rewrite Me, But God Had the Final Word

Fear is the devil’s favorite tool. Not just to scare you—but to shape you. To twist your identity, block your destiny, and keep you from the purpose God placed inside you.

I’ve seen it. In history. In others. In myself.

I’ve read the stories—Christians tortured for their faith in Jesus. Men and women in Russia, China, Africa, and beyond. They were beaten, broken, and burned—but they didn’t renounce their Savior. Because grace stood taller than pain. The Godhead—Father, Son, and Holy Spirit—wrapped them in fireproof faith.

Fear was the weapon. Used against Jews in the Holocaust. Used against Black people through slavery and witchcraft-driven control. Used against anyone the enemy wanted to silence, manipulate, or dominate.

And fear came for me too.

I remember being young—bold, courageous. But something shifted. I was horseplaying with my dad, and he kicked me too hard. I tried to act like it didn’t hurt, but something entered me that day. A spirit of fear. From that moment on, I wasn’t the same.

I started acting out. Once, I hit a young girl with a brick. Didn’t know why. Later, I developed feelings for a girl visiting from out of town. But my father—under the influence of his own demons—let his alter ego take over. When my mother couldn’t take it anymore, she called her mother in Sarepta, Louisiana, and we had to leave.

I was so angry, I wanted to kill my dad. That rage was real. And if fear hadn’t held me back, I might’ve done something that would’ve destroyed my life before it even began. A teenager killing his father over a childhood crush? That’s how deep the enemy’s trap can go.

But God didn’t let it happen.

Even in my brokenness, He preserved me.

And the attacks didn’t stop there.

There was a neighbor kid—older than me. His household was unchecked. No one watching what went on behind closed doors or what played on the TV. One day, he tried to get me to do something vile. Something that could’ve confused my identity and pulled me into a lifestyle I wasn’t meant for.

Then came the second encounter. Worse than the first. It involved a neighbor’s father—a grown man with predatory intentions. We didn’t have a strong relationship with our own dad, and when he was gone, it was just me and my two sisters. The neighborhood kids would torment us—banging on windows, making scary noises, trying to frighten us. Fear became a game to them. But to me, it was a spiritual attack.

One evening, I was at the neighborhood swimming pool. The water was murky, and something dead floated in it. I was curious, trying to figure out what it was. That’s when the neighbor’s dad pulled up in his car. He got out, pretending to investigate—but I could feel something wasn’t right. He kept inching closer and closer to me.

Then I heard it. The sound of a knife being opened.

My instincts kicked in. I didn’t wait. I got out of there fast. And now, at 56 years old, I can look back and see clearly: That man wasn’t just curious about the pool. He was hunting. And I was supposed to be the prey.

But God didn’t let it happen.

Even in the confusion, even in the fear, even in the silence—I was protected.

That moment could’ve changed everything. But grace stepped in.

And then came the third encounter—woven into my bloodline.

My grandmother was the strong one on my father’s side. She married a man named Fred, but only recently did I learn the truth about my biological grandfather. His name was Harry Gamble.

Harry was a man of means. One moment he owned a funeral home, the next he had a big house with a clubhouse in the back. That kind of wealth made me wonder: where did it come from? Was it a blessing—or was it something else?

Because the devil can give you things too. Not blessings, but pleasures. Temporary rewards that come with hidden chains.

Harry appeared white, but was still classified as Black. I believe he was born to a slave mother, and his father must’ve been white—that’s likely where his light complexion came from. My father was brown-skinned. I’m brown-skinned too. So when I look at my sister and see her caught up in witchcraft, I ask myself: why? How did that spirit find its way into our bloodline?

I wasn’t your average boy growing up. I had a problem with stealing. I thought everything I saw belonged to me. That mindset got me into trouble—over and over again.

Eventually, after one too many run-ins with the law, I was sent to LTI—the Louisiana Training Institution for Boys.

I stood before the judge and received a sentence they called “juvenile life.” That meant I wasn’t supposed to be released until I turned 21. When the sentence was read, me and my sister broke down in the courtroom. It sounded so final. So heavy. But in truth, it was meant to scare me straight—not to keep me locked up that long.

I didn’t leave right away. It took a couple of months. When the time came, I packed my stuff, grabbed my Sony Walkman, and prepared myself. I ended up doing 13 months and two weeks inside. There were boys from all over Louisiana—each one of us there because of bad decisions, broken homes, or spiritual battles we didn’t yet understand.

That place taught me a lot. Not just about consequences, but about the war for identity. About how generational curses, spiritual attacks, and family secrets can shape a young man’s path. But it also taught me that redemption is real. That God can reach into the darkest places and pull you out.