Read an Excerpt
CHAPTER 1
MY STORY
ACT ONE
My hands had been sweaty all day. I don't consider myself a nervous person, but I had good reason that day. I stood outside a small apartment doing my best to think about how nice the weather was. It was a cool spring evening in Redding, California, and I was very near to completing my first year at the Bethel School of Supernatural Ministry. In fact, I had just returned from my school mission trip, a big part of the final semester. It had been a year of tremendous breakthrough, particularly with my gift of seeing in the Spirit, but that was the last thing on my mind as I approached the door.
When I went in, I was impressed at how many people they managed to cram into that tiny apartment — forty or so, by my best guess — and most of them were my fellow students. Upon returning from my mission trip to Mexico, I had asked one of my good friends if I could speak at her home group. Looking at all the cheerful faces scattered around the room, I was beginning to regret that decision with every inch of my being. I had spoken to larger crowds — several times larger — but never about this.
The home group started with a few acoustic worship songs. Most of my body was coated in a fine layer of sweat. I couldn't tell if this was because of the fifty mouths insistently filling the air with hot breath or because I knew what was going to happen after worship was over.
The last song ended, and my friend gave me a brief introduction. Since too many people were piled on the carpet for me to make a clean break for the door, I leaned forward in my chair and resigned myself to my fate.
I started off with the simple things, the statement I had made a thousand times before: "I've seen angels and demons for as long as I can remember. I see them as clearly as I see all of you. I can choose to focus on them whenever I feel compelled to do so."
With the simple facts out of the way, there was little left to share but what I was terrified to speak about. At that point, no more than three people knew my life story, and most of them knew only bits and pieces. This was the first time I had ever told my story in its entirety.
*
I didn't know I was seeing in the Spirit when I was young. I remember seeing lights and colors swirl through the air when we went to church on Sunday. And I recall the occasional shadowy, winged creature soaring over my Southern California neighborhood, but to me they were no more fantastic or unusual than a low-flying plane or a dog walking down the street. I tried to point out these intriguing anomalies to my parents, insisting that I'd seen a dinosaur flying over our house or a man painting light on the ceiling. They paid little mind, assuming I had a colorful imagination, and I paid even less mind to their disinterest. I figured they didn't care about the dark monsters and beautiful lights, just as they didn't care about the trees, buildings, and ATM machines that my young mind found so fascinating. I had no reason to think that anything was out of the ordinary.
My parents knew God. They had been introduced shortly after I was born and had been fervently pursuing Him ever since. The church we attended didn't believe that the gifts of the Spirit were meant for today, so my parents had no reason to expect that I'd have one of the said gifts. They were intent on serving God to the fullest, however, so my dad went to Bible college, and my mom began dreaming of life as a missionary. We moved to Russia when I was five.
Our church in California and my dad's Bible college had not taught us about the presence of the Holy Spirit, but it was pouring out in Moscow. People trembled, wept, laughed, fell, stood with arms raised, danced, sang, shouted, ran, and were healed in the presence of God. I loved watching the services; lights of every color would streak across the ceiling during worship. Beautiful women wearing robes made of light and paint would run along the tops of chairs with massive banners that trailed fifty feet.
Waves of crystalline water, oil, and lightning would swell through the auditorium, filling the lungs and eyes of the congregation with warmth.
The presence of God attracts the hungry as well as the hurt. Tormented by demonic voices, some people would cry out and writhe on the floor while others would shout in unnatural tones. I remember seeing men with scales growing on their necks, their eyes as red as blood. Black grime and smoke poured out of the mouths of those who had approached the stage in search of deliverance, while dark hands dug clawed fingers into the backs of the ones who couldn't summon the courage to go forward.
It was an exciting time to be in Russia. Communist hard-liners were staging a coup outside the Russian White House backed by an ample collection of soldiers and tanks. Citizens were learning to exercise freedoms that had been suppressed for generations. None of this meant very much to a five-year-old, apart from the opportunity to watch a tank roll down the street, but I remember seeing the results of this turmoil written on the faces of people when we ministered to them.
I noticed raw sores around the necks and wrists of many of the Russians in our church. I think that these were marks left by the shackles the oppressive government had put on them. Sure, they had left many people wounded, but now the shackles were gone. I didn't understand this when I was small — at least not in the political sense — but I think part of me understood the new freedom these people were experiencing. And it gave me a great affection for the Russian people.
We ministered in Russia for three and a half years, leaving only after adopting my youngest sister from an orphanage just outside of Moscow. Many of the local laws regarding adoption by internationals were still being established at that time, so it seemed prudent to leave the country.
*
I had no control over what I saw when I was young. Streams of light and smoky shadows flitted in and out of my vision, unbidden and without any apparent purpose. Now I can see in the Spirit whenever I have the mind to look.
Before we delve more deeply into my life story, I'd like to define a few terms. I don't consider my way of thinking to be the best or only way to look at seeing in the Spirit; it's just the way I organize the experiences that have dotted my day-to-day life. These terms exist less as a means of defining aspects of the spirit realm and more as a way for you to have some clue as to what I'm talking about.
THE THREE REALMS
I believe that there are three realms of existence. Some people call these the first, second, and third heavens, while some call them the physical, soul, and spirit realms.
I'm sure there are many other fancy names for these concepts, but I'll refer to them as the physical, soul, and spirit realms because it makes the most sense for my purposes in this book.
The physical realm is one you ought to be pretty familiar with. It is the one that is full of all the trees, cars, buildings, mountain bikes, and beluga whales — the one in which your physical body exists at this very moment.
Here you eat food, swim in the ocean, make microwave popcorn, cut your finger on a clumsily handled knife, and walk out your existence as the lifelong physical manifestation of your soul and spirit. It is a cloudy but true reflection of the other two realms.
The soul realm is where your mind, will, and emotions exist. This makes it the perfect place for demons to try to influence you, but this is also one of the places where the Holy Spirit will speak. You make all your choices here because all the experiences of the physical realm and the influences of the spirit realm pass through this tumultuous area.
The spirit realm is, honestly, still an abstract concept for me. I think this is where God is. Sure, God is omnipresent (meaning that He is everywhere), but I think He lives in the spirit realm.
I asked God what a spirit was one day. He said that a spirit is "raw identity," the genetic code that tells everything else how to exist. Your spirit exists outside of time and is everything you will ever be. In fact, everything you are is so unique and complex that it is only fully expressed over the course of your entire life. You would probably say that you are a different person now than you were five, ten, or fifty years ago. Your spirit is all of that, all at once, and it is also everything you will ever be. Your life is an expression of the spirit that God created. Life certainly isn't perfect, but knowing that the original blueprint is always available convinces me that it most certainly could be.
WHAT IS SEEING IN THE SPIRIT?
Your physical body exists in the physical realm (in case context clues haven't led you to this conclusion). People recognize you based on your physical appearance, and you recognize them by theirs. While each of us is a spirit with a soul that lives in a body, an angel is a spirit that is not limited by physical form. When I see angels, I am seeing a visual representation of what and who they are.
For example, right now, as I sit in my living room typing away on my laptop, there is a tall angel standing next to the front door. The top of his head is an inch from touching the ceiling. He has dark brown hair combed neatly to one side and a stern glare that seems intent on completely ignoring my attention. He is built long and lean, is wearing leather armor that seems well placed for mobility, and is carrying a spear in his right hand that is as tall and straight as his posture.
This is a protection angel, here to guard my home. He looks the way he does because that reflects his purpose. Since angels are spirits not limited by physical form, and a spirit is raw identity, I am seeing a visual metaphor of who this angel actually is.
I used to say that when you see something in the Spirit, you understand it. This was never entirely true, because much of what I see is obscure and confusing. A truer statement is that "You recognize whatever you see in the Spirit." Though you may not fully understand it, there is a familiarity that comes when you see. Perhaps this is because even though we spend most of our attention on the physical realm, we exist in the spirit realm every minute of every day.
*
Apart from the odd looks I received when pointing out things that no one else saw, I never had a reason to think anything was out of the ordinary. I liked the bright lights and glorious beings that filled my house and church. When demonic entities came clawing at our car windows or peered behind the eyes of the brokenhearted, I never felt any real danger. It was as though I was viewing the spirit world through a thick layer of bulletproof glass. Any demon I saw was no more threatening than a caged lion at the zoo. But that all changed when I turned nine.
After four years as missionaries, my parents decided it was time to go home. Rather than return to the sunny shores of Southern California, we moved to Holland, Michigan. It was the perfect kind of quaint and quiet town for a family in need of respite. We moved into a small house on Church Street, and I started my first semester in an American school.
I distinctly remember walking onto the playground during the first recess of fourth grade. As I surveyed the landscape littered with my fellow elementary students, I contemplated a life among a hundred children who were just like me. Giving a sigh of satisfaction at the prospect of living a life as normal as any of them, I ran to join a game of handball. I paid no mind to the dozen or so winged men with golden spears flying over the school grounds.
I don't know if it was because I was now among peers who shared the same language or simply because I was growing older, but it wasn't long before I realized something was off. It happened slowly. Though I had seen it a dozen times before, it suddenly seemed odd that my teacher came into class with deep cuts on her face. I also began to realize that no one talked about the stoic figures who stood vigil night and day at the school entrance. In fact, no one ever mentioned any of the men who guarded certain people's houses or the pretty lady who walked up and down the school halls, putting oil and flowers on the heads of everyone she passed. Not even the black dog as big as a house that floated over the city drew attention from anyone apart from myself. Before suspicion could turn into understanding, my world changed.
I was lying in my bed about to fall asleep, and my door was open just enough to let a crack of light cut across the carpet. I watched the light flicker as my parents walked back and forth down the hall. Just as sleep was about to overtake consciousness, someone stopped in the doorway. Thinking it was my mother checking if I was asleep, I turned to look.
A shadow, less substantial than fog but more solid than air, slid through my cracked door. It was the vaguest shape of a man, little more than a head on a pair of indistinct shoulders. It moved across the room, coming to rest at the foot of my bed.
I had seen dark beings more frightening in appearance than this shadow — sallow, sharp-toothed beasts with yellow eyes and slimy horrors with broken bones jutting from their rotten flesh. There had, however, always been a sense of separation whenever I found myself in the presence of such creatures. Their hateful glares and gnashing teeth seemed like something on television — scary, but certainly nothing that could ever touch me.
As this shadow reached the foot of my bed, his eyes flashed — white blurs floating somewhere in the smoky head — and I felt fear.
I wasn't afraid that I was going to die. I wasn't afraid that he was going to hurt me. I wasn't afraid of anything in particular. I was simply surrounded and filled with absolute and complete fear. My body froze. My gaze locked on those empty, white eyes. The fear had no focus, no idea with which to torment me. It was a fear so cold and all-consuming that my mind had no room for anything but absolute terror. It felt as though huge leather straps had been laid across my chest, both holding me in place and crushing my lungs. I don't know how long I was stuck like that — somewhere between ten seconds and three hours. Eventually I managed to roll over and fall asleep, face down on my pillow. The shadow was gone when I woke the following morning.
Everything seemed normal enough the rest of the next day. Around town and at school I saw the regular demons that I'd seen every day before, and I wasn't afraid when I saw them. The bulletproof glass that kept me feeling safe was back. I decided that the unpleasantness of the previous night had simply been an unusually tangible nightmare — that is, until I found the shadow waiting at the foot of my bed that night. My mother tucked me in and kissed me good night, but I was too busy staring at those cold, white eyes to pay her much notice. The eyes flashed the moment she left the room, and I found myself drowning in absolute terror once again. It was half an hour before I could roll onto my face to fall asleep.
Being a reasonably fast learner, when I found the shadow waiting in my room on the third night, I put on my pajamas and lay down face first onto my pillow without looking at the white eyes. I wish it had been that simple. The fear came again, this time as cold, moist breath running up my legs, along my spine, and around my neck. It still paralyzed me, but it no longer wiped my mind free of thought. Instead it flooded my head with horrible images.
I saw hundreds of people standing naked in a line, waiting to be tortured by some disfigured abomination of a man. A small boy was being thrown into a pit full of dead and dying men, women, and children who were all fighting to keep from being smothered by the density of filthy flesh. It was as if I was being shown footage from some hellish concentration camp. This went on every night for a few days, and the film wouldn't stop until I fell asleep. Finally, I couldn't bear it. I pulled my face away from the pillow to look at my shadowy tormentor, only to find that the images that had filled my mind were now swarming around my room in full 3D Technicolor.
From then on, a procession of new horrors decorated my bedroom every night. More twisted and evil images than my nine-year-old mind could have constructed or even comprehended appeared with increasing intensity. Scenes of death, torture, and violent sexual depravity played out across the floor, walls, and ceiling of my room like some malevolent ballet. At first I was so horrified I couldn't look away, but after a few weeks all I wanted to do was clamp my eyes shut. Even then the visions would just crawl underneath my eyelids, so I still saw them, even with my eyes closed.
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "The Veil"
by .
Copyright © 2018 Blake Healy.
Excerpted by permission of Charisma House Book Group.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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