My late father Howard B. Felts became a minister because he was frightened that he might go to hell. A painter-turned preacher, he told me that he gave his life to Christ after he had a glimpse of hell. Before I was born, my dad had a painting job in his hometown Walbash, Indiana. It was there, that he encountered an extraordinary event that forever changed his life.
While painting in a big tank, he was sedated by the fumes that cloaked him. All of a sudden, a very bright light engulfed the tank. Then, a white cloud appeared in the bright light, and a figure glided from the cloud and approached near my dad, he saw what seem to be Jesus Christ. In the bright light, Jesus spread out his arms and Dad saw the spiked wounds in Jesus's pierced palms. As my dad stared into the light astonishingly, this figure spoke out in a strong, but very calm voice. "My Child, why thou not follow me?" Shaken and confused, my dad wasn't sure whether he had really seen and heard Jesus. In rebellion my dad thought, "Hell, this can't be true I'm just hallucinating."
Just as if Jesus had been reading Dad's thoughts, the other side wall began to glow like molted metal. As the illuminated wall glowed, it became engulfed with reddish-orange flames, my dad perceived shallows and sounds of many people who were hollering and twisting in agony. My dad thinking that his time had come, he fell on his knees and begged, "Please forgive me, please forgive me; I'll do any thing you ask! My dad recalled hearing that strong calm voice again, "Go lead my children out of darkness."
This experience led dad to become an ordained minister. He went to college and obtained a degree in theology. He loved to preach the gospel. Later, when I was at the age of five, he packed up and moved us from Nashville, Tennessee to Richmond, Virginia where he became director of the Mission Army, Inc. (An Christian organization) which had a rescue mission at 17th and Main Streets next to the Farmer's Market. Dad preached at this rescue mission, the Mission Army's Christian summer camps, tent revivals, and other churches, along with the Mission Army's church in the East End of Richmond, on the corner of National and Ceremore Streets. This church had been a Civil War hospital.
The strange spiritual event which encroached my dad and caused him to change his wicked ways, is rare to ever happen in one's lifetime. Yet, spiritual occurrences didn't stop. The old white church at National and Ceremore Streets had one large bell that used to warn residents in Richmond during the Civil War. Sometimes, this bell would seemingly ring on its own. I recall that when the bell rang on its own during a Sunday service. Someone was sent to the attic to stop the bell from ringing. Returning white as a ghost, he claimed that the bell started to swing again whenever tried to still the heavy bell. Seeing that the bell seemed to have a life of its own, he freaked out, running out of the attic.
At this church in the left side of the choir section behind the wooden altar, stood an old electronic battered organ that seemed to be broken and was never used during the Mission Army's church services. I have never heard it play, but two of my brothers claimed that they heard it play by itself once. One Saturday afternoon, my brothers were helping to clean the church when they heard the organ play. When they approached near the organ, they saw that its electrical cord was not plugged into the wall socket. My brothers looked at each other with wide-open eyes, yelled, and then bolted out of the church. Outside, they realized that the organ stopped playing. Since then, it remained silent.
One of the most dramatic occurrences is one that I experienced during an evening church service. It was a Sunday or Wednesday night, I don't recall what year, and I might have been eight or nine years old. The service was interrupted by a creaking door sound as the minister preached the word. A side door that led to another large section of the building opened slowly and then closed. Everybody looked but saw nothing. The minister paused for a second and then continued with his message like nothing unusual had happened. Then, about thirty or forty seconds later, the front door to the outside opened and then closed. Turning my head, I saw something! For only a half second, I saw a figure of a person. I'm not really sure, but it looked like a cowboy. One thing that I was sure about was that I could see a fence about twenty feet away from the front door through this figure.
From then on, I was scared when going to the restroom, afraid of going alone and of what I might encounter. This story was my secret until I told a girl as we played spin the bottle. Now, as an adult looking back to this childhood experience, I have come to believe in the possibility of spiritual beings. Perhaps, my dad really did meet Jesus back at the tank.
My dad also loved helping others who were really in need. He had helped thousands, whether it was sheltering the homeless, saving souls, giving food and gifts to poor families during Christmas, or giving parents a one-week needed break from their kids during the summer. He helped these people through profits earned from running stores, flea markets, and auctions. I went on many trips with my dad, which had formed a closely knitted bond between us, while he'd showed me the ropes to selling in auctions and flea markets. I had worked for him since I was a kid during the summers. He had set up a church bond account where 25% of my earning were saved for years, until one day out of the blue moon, he packed up my station wagon inside and on top full of merchandize, gave a big wad of money and told me, "You are, what you make of yourself."
I had wondered why he paid so much attention to me especially since he had six other sons. One, was an ordained minister at the age of sixteen and had distributed a quarter million bibles in Russia during their revolution. I loved and respected my father, he died several years ago and to this day I haven't got over it. I had always thought that my dad had been obedient growing up, that he had actually been straight, but after his death I found out differently through a manuscript he wrote about his life, just prior to his death. He had been much like me growing up (partying, dating, practical jokes, and enjoying life). Only after he reached his thirties is when he seem to really grow-up, settle down and have kids, and boy did he have them. Our names are from the bible (David Andrew, Steven Peter, James Michael, John Mark, Paul Daniel, Phillip Bartholomew, Joseph Matthew, Debra Anna, Rebecca Ruth).
My father died of prostate cancer while I was living in Tennessee, during this time I didn't get to see him during this dreadful period, didn't get to have one last look before he passed away, didn't get to tell him that I loved him, and finally didn't get to say good-bye. During the funeral, I was devastated, in the past I had always held back my tears, so that I could be a man. On that day I wasn't worried about my manhood. A relative showed me a picture of my dad when he was in his thirties, I had looked just like him, then I knew why he spent all that time of his life with me. His inspiration is one of the reasons which has affected me in my own efforts to help the homeless, and to carried on his compassionate gene. Now, that my dad is riding in a cloud of his own in the bright light, maybe he'll look down and say, "I'm proud of you, son."