 The Following pages include “Sample Text” from... CROSSROADS...the Louis Lugo Story
Contents
Foreword............................................................................
Chapter
1: You Don’t Know Them Like I Do...................
Chapter
2: A Quarter Goes a Long Way............................
Chapter
3: Saved by a Crazy Lady....................................
Chapter
4: The Rat Pack...................................................
Chapter
5: Do the Hustle...................................................
Chapter
6: I Didn’t Do It...................................................
Chapter
7: The Claymont Era............................................
Chapter
8: Down and Out in Ohio.....................................
Chapter
9: Our Cups Overflowed......................................
Chapter
10: Heavy Metal..................................................
Chapter
11: A General in the Devil’s Army.......................
Chapter
12: The Dark Side Kept Calling My Name..........
Chapter
13: The Hit...........................................................
Chapter
14: A State Champion ........................................
Chapter
15: The Crossroads ............................................
Chapter
16: God’s Lesson ...............................................
Chapter
17: Teach to Preach............................................
Chapter
18: Dream Weaver..............................................
Chapter
19: The Crazy Reverend.....................................
Chapter
20: Reflections ...................................................
Chapter
21: That Little Chair Behind the Pulpit...............
Epilogue.............................................................................
About
the Author ..............................................................
In Memoriam: Pastor David
Wilkerson.............................
-Chapter 1-
You Don’t Know Them Like I Do
The itching was unbearable as he
brought his disposable lighter to life. The flickering flame danced as
the surrounding darkness slowly gave way to the eerie glow. A mixture of soft
white powder and a few drops of water waited patiently for the soothing of the heat.
The bottom of the spoon was blackened as it sucked every bit of energy it could
from the flame. The mixture started to boil violently for a brief moment. The
time was at hand for the cares of the world to go away, at least for a short
time. The needle’s tip poked into the center of the poisonous puddle as his
trembling
hand worked the plunger. The spoon was
now clean; its contents magically absorbed into the syringe. With a scarf
tightly pulled against what used to be considered a bicep, his pitifully dying
vein struggled to pop into view—waiting, begging, needing. The needle fought
with the callous outer layers of his skin but soon found its mark: his body’s
lifeline to the heart and brain. As he pulled the plunger slightly back, his
blood entered the syringe morphing with the fix before all of the contents
quickly disappeared. It was done. With a quick release of the scarf
and the retraction of the needle, the sensations started to take over every fiber
of his body. His vomit came immediately, but that was expected. Vomit always equaled
ecstasy.
It was the wrenching sound of the
junkie’s purging that usually woke me from this
nightmarish dream. This nightmare was a familiar one: one of the worst. I would
lie there soaked in sweat contemplating who I used to be. I am the man who sold
this junkie his fix. To him I was a hero. To me, it was simply a job. His short
lived life was my haunting ghost. As I look back at who I used to be, I now
realize that I was simply one of the Devil’s many minions. He had me so deep in
a hole that I never imagined finding a way out. But I did. Today, I am a new
man, by the grace of God.
My name is Reverend Louis Lugo, and this
is my story. I don’t have those nightmares very often now, but they are still
there, itching to be released.
Although my struggle with the dark side
is constant and unyielding, I thank God for my strength. I am winning the tug-of-war.
My most recent battle was not that long ago. I remember that day like it was
yesterday. The smell of freshly brewed coffee filled the cool November air,
kids running around excited about the beginning of a new day, a special day. I
could hear the bacon crackling in the pan, being prepared just the way I liked
it, extra crispy. I knew the eggs were almost ready. The sounds and smells were
lifting my spirits. “Praise God,” I whispered as I made my way to the kitchen,
excited about what was waiting for me there. My family gathered to share this
Sunday morning feast. I was truly blessed and not just for this meal. After
giving thanks for the food, I smiled as I pondered what the day had in store
for me. I was excited and nervous, all at the same time.
Preston Moore was not only the White Hall
fire chief but also the one who invited me to speak at the Perry Chapel Baptist
Church in Warsaw, Ohio. During the Ohio Martial Arts tournaments, Preston was
the onsite fireman in charge of the first aid programs affiliated with the Ohio Martial Arts Magazine (our magazine— our pride and joy). I had to make a difficult
decision that weekend. If I accepted the invite to speak to an entire
congregation, I would have to miss the two-day martial arts tournament being
held the same weekend. The Devil was in full attack mode. My choices were limited,
my options few.
Knowing that I was a diabetic, the evil
one knew that I was not in
any condition to manage the responsibilities of the tournament plus drive all
the way to Warsaw for my presentation. The recovery from a two-day tournament
usually involved at least two days of rest. Working three days in a row just
wasn’t an option. The Devil tried to convince me that I should stay focused on
the tournament and turn down the invitation to speak at the Perry Chapel
Baptist Church; he reminded me that I would not be able to handle the fatigue I
would experience afterwards. Staying home was the only option he gave me. I
prayed hard. The Devil was right: there really was only one choice, so I didn’t
hesitate for a moment. I accepted the speaking engagement in Warsaw. I had a
story to tell, and I needed it to land upon as many ears as possible.
I felt like I had a debt to repay—I owed
the Baptists big time, and I was one who always paid my debts. Even though I
was raised in a Pentecostal church, I never thought of myself as a Baptist. I was
invited by my cousin Pe Pe to attend the 53rd annual Baptist revival being held
at the Tabernacle Baptist Church in Columbus, Ohio. This week-long event was
almost over when I finally found some spare time and decided to show up. The
day I arrived, April 2, 2004, was the last day of the revival. I entered it not
knowing exactly what the Baptists had to offer me. I assumed I would walk out
of there the same person I was when I entered. I was never so wrong. You see,
being baptized in water is a tradition in the church, regardless if you are
dunked or sprinkled. It is a symbol of being renewed or reborn. When I heard
Reverend Nathaniel Johnson speak that day, I was totally baptized in the Word.
I indeed have
baptized you with water: but he shall baptize you with the Holy Ghost.
(Mark 1:18)
Those words proved to be so true. From
that day on, I felt that I owed
the Baptist my life. I was indebted to the Baptist community. When Preston
Moore invited me to Warsaw, I was now able to pay back these spiritual
warriors. The Devil was telling me to ignore the invitation, not to waste my
time. “Aren’t you a diabetic? You’ll never make it” was constantly being
whispered into my ear by one of his many minions working me over. The more they
taunted me, the stronger my resolve became. Genesis 4:7 started repeating in my
mind.
If you do what is
right, will you not be accepted? But if you do not do what is
right, sin is crouching at your door; it desires you, you must master it.
My accepting this offer in Warsaw was the
only option I dared consider—my way of mastering my own sin. I needed to tell
my truth, the ugly truth. I knew this was God’s will, so it was my pleasure to
follow blindly. As I showered, I pondered what the day had in store for me. I
smiled to myself knowing that God’s will for me was perfect in every way. I had
tried conforming to the dark side of this world for so many years, and it
brought me nothing but grief and sorrow. With my renewed spirit, I knew it was
God’s will for me to drive to Warsaw. I didn’t realize it at the time that the
Devil and his army was going to taunt and tease me every step of the way.
I assumed that this would be a family
outing, something we could share together—wrong! Although my wife was eager to spend
the day with me, my kids had another plan, one that didn’t include spending an
hour and-a half driving each way to and from Warsaw. They had their minds made
up, reassuring me that they had heard my sermon many times before and probably
could repeat it, verbatim. To keep the peace, my wife suggested that I make the
drive myself, and she would take the kids to our regular church.
This Sunday was indeed a special day.
Yes, I had the usual blessings of waking up to a house full of wonderful smells
and sounds. People who loved me surrounded me within my world, and for that I
am always amazed. But today was different. I had a certain vigor to my step as
I started preparing for the path that God had placed before me. Even though I
was tired and my body ached from working the past two days, I reflected upon
Psalms 18:32:
It is God that
girdeth me with strength, and maketh my way perfect.
That verse helped me set my priorities
straight. I was focused on the day and the moment. A certain glow of
contentment was beaming from my smile. Okay, I understand why my kids wanted to
stay behind, and I appreciated the sacrifice my wife made in staying with them.
I would be making the trip by myself. An hour-and-a half is a wonderful amount
of time to spend alone with God. He and I would talk during the entire drive. Actually,
He talked while I listened. Of course, the Devil would try to join in the conversation;
I had to fight hard to keep him at bay.
As I approached Warsaw and continued
following my carefully noted directions, I found myself amazed at the
surroundings, at the intense beauty of the cornfields and manicured lawns. The
trees hovered overhead like the wings of angels. I knew I was entering God’s
country. God was blessing me, and I was absorbing it all. As I approached the
church, I noticed a small parking lot up ahead, right next to a small church. How quaint, I thought as I parked as far from the building as I could. I
wanted to take it all in as I walked to the church’s entrance.
To my surprise, as I approached the far
end of the parking lot, I found two more parking lots, completely packed with
cars. I pondered out loud, “How on earth could all these people fit into that small
building?” God showed me the answer immediately. A young couple approached me
and must have overheard my comments.
They laughed as they led me up towards the
chapel. Behind that cute little church, which from a distance looked perfect in
every way, sat a much larger, newer worship center. Now I knew were all the people
were. I was speechless, stunned, and scared. Then the Devil saw his
opportunity. He saw my fear and started taking advantage
of that weakness. If you leave the door to your soul slightly open, the Devil
will find a way to come on in, uninvited. He had me convinced that I wasn’t
supposed to be there. After all, these were extremely spiritual people who
could probably quote scripture as perfectly as it was written. What would a
gangster like me have to say to these folks? Why would they even be interested in
listening to what I had to say? The Devil was filling my mind with these and
other doubting questions, and my mind was floating in them. The Devil was
convincing me that I couldn’t handle this. He wasn’t asking me to leave; he was
telling me, loud and clear, to get out of there, now! He was pretending that he
knew what was best
for me and that he cared. I was just about to turn around and run back to the
safety of my car when Preston Moore opened the door, saw me, and said with a
smile, “Oh, I am so glad you made it. Are you ready for this?”
His voice was calming and reassuring as
he led me into the rear of the worship center, backstage, behind the pulpit. I
followed, keeping one eye on my escape, just in case the Devil won the day. Praise
God, he didn’t!
I was reminded of the story in Joshua
where it talks about Rahab the harlot and the spies. When Joshua sent two spies
to Jericho, Rahab protected them by lying to the king. The spies told her that
because of her kindness, she would be saved when the city is taken. When they
promised her that the Lord would spare her house, she asked about her brothers,
sisters, mother, and father. She was told that all the people she brings into
her house would be saved, and they were. Here I was battling Satan as I approached
this church, God’s house, and as with Rahab’s family, once I was brought into
His house, I felt safe. The Devil couldn’t touch me here. My fears soon faded,
but I still had questions—I was curious. As I reflected on how God used Rahab,
I smiled realizing that if He could use her, a prostitute, then it made sense
why He would use a hustler like me.
While sitting behind the pulpit, waiting
to be introduced, I was deep in prayer, speaking with God, trying to understand
it all. Preston came to check up on me and could see that I was a little nervous.
I never spoke to a congregation like this before. Usually my speaking
engagements were more in the classroom setting where I would sit and talk to
kids, want-a-be gangsters, and educate them on where their path was taking
them. However, this situation was different: people—mature, responsible
spiritual folks—were eagerly waiting to hear what this bum had to say. I was in
awe, and I let God know it. Preston simply said, “Just tell them your story. Speak
about your magazine’s mission, and everything will work
out
just fine.”
Preston’s words were reassuring as I
smiled back at him. He quickly disappeared again, off to take care of other
behind-the-scene details.
As the organist played, I was lost in my
own world, with just God and me. All the noise around me faded as did the
light. I was now in a quiet place, with God and me, conversing. I asked God one
more time to guide my mouth so that the words I was about to speak would be
His, not mine. Within a few brief moments of time, I contemplated the journey
that was my life and how it led to this day, this church, and this chair hidden
behind this pulpit. I looked up and asked in a whisper, “Why me God? Why did
you select me to speak to these people? Why have you placed me here, today, to speak
to the masses?”
God answered me in such a way it almost
knocked me to my knees. I now knew without any doubt that I was following His illuminated
path. He shouted these words, “You don’t know them like I do!”
I was humbled to the point of tears.
While those words echoed within my head, God took my hand and started showing
me my life, starting at the moment of my birth. God was answering my question,
in ugly, horrid, bloody detail. This was to be my story and I knew it like the
back of my hand. God wanted to remind me of who I was and how I came to be
sitting on this chair, behind this pulpit, in this church. This is what He
showed me; this is what I saw.
The year was 1958 and as the ninth of
September rolled around Aida, my mother, was ready for me to come into this
world to stop causing her such a backache. She was admitted to the birthing center
at the Saint Mary’s Hospital on the corner of St. Marks and Buffalo, right in
the heart of Brooklyn’s notorious Bedford Stuyvesant, Kingsborough.
Kingsborough was the type of place that you read about in thriller novels or
saw in gangster movies.The projects were so corrupt that when the sun went
down, even the cops would stay away. The gangs ruled the streets, my streets. This
was my home, the neighborhood that would sculpt my young mind into the man I
became. The streets would become my classroom, and I would prove to be an “A”
student to its lessons. It was simply a matter of survival, and I survived.
Others perished!
My birth was uneventful, and shortly
after my mother was able to leave the hospital, I was brought back to our home,
a tiny two bedroom apartment on Saint John’s Street. I shared my cramped living
space with my two sisters, Iris and Madeline, and with my mom and dad. My
father’s abuses towards my mom not only hurt her but also trickled down into
the fiber of all who lived under his roof. He didn’t even have the common
decency to show up for my birth, which I guess, in retrospect, was a good
thing. His toys and tarts were more important to him than family, blood.
When I was about one year old, we moved
to Puerto Rico to try to start a new life. We stayed with my father’s mother
Mymysala in her small, primitive house without running water. Having to use an
outhouse was as luxurious as it got. This arrangement lasted only two years
before we moved back to Brownsville on Saratoga Avenue, Brooklyn.
Now three years old, I was starting to
develop into the person I would become, influenced by those around me: my sisters,
my aunts, my mother, and yes, even my father. When I reached the age of four, I
was speaking broken English with a heavy Spanish accent. I had a lot of
difficulty communicating, although those close to me seemed to understand what
I was trying to say. These were good years with happy memories. I can recall my
sister Madeline’s birthday; Iris and I pooled our savings to purchase a toy tea
set as a birthday gift. Even though we were a few dollars short, the store clerk
appreciated the attempt we were making and sold us the toy for exactly what we
had in pocket change, tax included. Iris and I were so pleased with ourselves.
Madeline was surprised, and Mom was
proud. As I grew up, I developed a strong family bond, not only with my
sisters, grandmother, aunts, and mother, but with what I would refer to as my
adopted brothers from downstairs—Croc, Cheddar, Skull, Big D, and Racket.
Everyone was known by their street name. I hadn’t earned mine yet. We would
look out for each other, and as I started growing and becoming one with the street,
I was glad to have them by my side.
When I was five years old, we moved once
again, this time to Park Place in Crown Heights. I missed the Kingsborough
Projects and would often make the solo trip back to the hood to hang with my brothers.
Since my aunts and grandma still lived there, it seemed like I had the perfect
excuse for wandering the streets alone. Still my mom would get angry at me. She
didn’t think I was old enough to travel the mile or so from one neighborhood to
another. Her reasoning was that it was unsafe for me to cross so many streets. “But
Mom, I look both ways before crossing,” I would assure her, but to no avail. In
Mom’s defense, I was only five; she had a valid point. I still preferred to
deal with Mom’s wrath in exchange for being able to visit Croc and my other brothers. Croc
and I were the same age and had a lot in common—fighting.
Being a smaller kid, I did have my share
of problems within the school system. I attended P.S. 141 on Park Place, a primarily
black school. Since I looked white, it was assumed that I was an easy target,
that is, until they made the mistake of getting in my face. Usually Croc was
there to help me with the fights, to even the score, so I was grateful for
that. I watched him and learned real fast. The lessons of the street were
beginning, and I was a quick study. When Croc wasn’t around, I had to put my
learning to the test. I fought often; I fought hard. I won some and sometimes I
lost, but more importantly, I gained a valuable reputation. It seems that this
short Spanish kid from Puerto Rico wasn’t such an easy target after all.
Racism was a big problem, and someone
like me was a target from both the black and white kids. I had it coming from
all directions. They knew that picking on me one-on-one was a losing proposition.
Their tactics evolved into more ambushes, taking me by surprise —two, three or
more jumping on me at the same time. All I could do was curl up, protect
myself, take whatever they gave me, and know that my day would come. After
experiencing a beat down, I would make my way back home to my brothers. When Croc
would hear what happened, he would go into revenge mode. We would go hunting
for those who assaulted me. It was time for payback!
We showed no mercy; the justice was swift and severe.
This was also the year when I experienced
one of my happiest days; we moved back to Kingsborough, back to my family, and back
to my streets. Just before we moved, my father got into another one of his
abusive, drunken moods. This time it was different; he had a strange look in
his eyes, a look I will never forget. That crazy bastard grabbed my mother,
spun her around, and put a knife to her throat while yelling “trash” at her and
at us. This wasn’t the first time he tried this. He held her in front of us
pressing the sharp blade tightly against her skin. “Say goodbye to your mother,”
he raged. My mother, fearing for her life, thinking that this time he would
actually do it, screamed out a pitiful mourn, “Oh God help me. Please help me.
He’s going to kill me in front of my children!” Her pleading prayer must have
really shocked my dad. Realizing what he was doing and being snapped back into
a brief moment of sanity, he dropped the knife while releasing his tight grip
on her. Something changed in my father that day. I like to think that God heard
my mother’s plea and decided to give my father a mighty spiritual smack, right
upside the head.
Hebrews 4:12
For the word of God
is living and active, sharper than any two-edged sword, piercing to the
division of soul and of spirit,of joints and of marrow, and discerning the
thoughts and intentions of the heart.
...A True Story...
CROSSROADS...the Louis Lugo Story
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