As bizarre as this may sound, I’m thankful today for a speeding ticket I received earlier in the week. While travelling north on I-77 in southwestern Virginia between my home near Asheville, North Carolina, and my parents’ home in Pennsylvania, I was pulled over for driving 78 in a 65 m.p.h. zone. The officer who stopped me was a Lieutenant Lyons from the Carroll County Police Department. There’s no way he could have known that he was pulling over a boiling cauldron of rage behind the wheel of that Ranger.

I wasn’t angry at other motorists on the interstate. I was growing a bit impatient with some trucks that were bottle-necking traffic passing each other, which led partially to the speeding. But what was really making me drive mad was the trouble I was leaving behind at home. It was not the result of a conflict with my wife Julie, but over trouble caused by neighbors that has gone on for over a decade. I have been the target of a relentless campaign by members of the gay community around Asheville, and possibly elsewhere, to make me “come out” and declare myself as gay. I’ve had members of a local homosexual satanist cult approach me at different times giving me the not-so-subtle message in one way or another of: “We know you’re gay, and we’re going to make you come out and join us.” I’ve also had to live with people practicing witchcraft and sorcery living in the apartment below us, using it against me for the same purpose.

The apartment building Julie and I live in is a wooden frame, three-story, six-unit structure with wooden floors. That means we can hear all kinds of things, including neighbors’ conversations. Ours is the middle floor apartment, so the neighbors above us can make noise that can become irritating and keep us awake at night, and whoever is below us can likewise make plenty of noise that can be heard. After twelve and a half years in the place, Julie and I have certainly gotten used to noise. But within the last seven years, it’s a particular kind of noise that’s become the most disturbing for me.

I’ve learned to discern the sound of sorcery-training videos being played, detecting instructions given on how to cast a spell on someone to make them go queer. I’ve also learned to discern the sound of witches’ incantations, which can sound like someone either grunting their way through an exercise or straining to have a bowel movement. Does this sound all too wild and weird? Trust me, it isn’t, because this kind of training material in witchcraft is readily available. I know, because I’ve been the target of it.

I first became aware of this several years ago while I was finishing up the writing of a biblical historical novel on the life of the prophet Daniel. Julie would sit at our computer and proofread my chapters out loud, while our sorcery-practicing neighbor below us listened in on every word. In the course of the novel, I wrote of how the practices of the Canaanite people with their worship of fertility gods and goddesses included ritual homosexual prostitution, carried out in tents right in the outer courtyard of the temple in Jerusalem. My purpose for including this in the story was to show the multiple reasons why ancient Judah was invaded and conquered by the Babylonians in the early 6th century B.C., with Jerusalem and the temple destroyed in the process. This obviously set off alarm bells both with the neighbor below us and the one in the house next door to our building. I became the target not only of witchcraft, but of efforts to stop my writing.

Among the things that have happened to my computers in the course of writing two novels that are now completed, was the planting of a Trojan horse that prevented me from writing the word “homosexual” in anything I was trying to write. I had to get a rather expensive cleaning done along with the repair of my software to make it usable. I ended up being fooled into buying a bogus software protection package for my laptop that gradually began eating up and destroying my word processing program while I was writing my second novel. Again, another expensive repair and cleaning. But I did manage to complete my second novel by keeping the laptop offline most of the time. Otherwise, I found the computer at home constantly monitored to see what I was doing on it. Whoever gave the tools to the neighbors in the building to watch all of my computer usage either had to be some criminal element, or a federal agency. I more strongly suspect the latter, because I could get no help from law enforcement people to track down who was doing what to my computers.

So why am I confronted with this all-out attack against my name, character, marriage, and work? 1) These people do not want me saying, writing, or thinking anything against homosexuality or the gay lifestyle, and 2) they are still convinced I am a closet queer who “needs to come out.” There’s one big problem with their thinking. Granted, I look lie the stereotypical gay man, with thin, bony arms; narrow, rounded shoulders, and a waistline that’s a little too thick. But I can say unequivocally, with God as my witness, that I have never felt any physical, sexual attraction toward men, and I have always liked women as far back as I can remember. I was a shy, bashful, awkward teenager when it came to being around girls, and that insecurity carried into adulthood. But I never had any desire whatsoever to engage in sexual behavior with other men, and recoiled from it when approached by gay men for it.

Obviously, these enemies of mine, many of whom are Marxists as well as devil-worshipers and gay rights activists, do not accept these facts about me because they don’t want to. I’ve said out loud in the hearing of some that I would have to be killed before I would go live the gay lifestyle, and I still stand on that. I very well could lose my life at the hands of gay rights activists and/or their sympathizers, but if that happens, it will only happen because God permits it, and will only serve to prove what they are, not what I am.

This brings me back to my traffic stop and speeding ticket. When Lieutenant Lyons pulled me off to the side of the interstate, I felt an initial flush of embarrassment as anyone would, especially since it was my first speeding violation in my many years of driving. But as the lieutenant took my license and registration to write out my ticket, I felt a strange calm come over me. It was as if God’s Spirit was speaking to me saying, “It’s time to cool down, Brian, and give your anger over to me. You’re driving dangerously and you need to settle down and quit letting this bitterness and rage you’re carrying eat you up.”

I left our apartment that morning feeling the affects of sleep deprivation from the previous couple of nights. The neighbors below and above us seemed to be determined to rob me of as much sleep as possible, especially after hearing I was leaving to go back up to Pennsylvania. Between witch’s incantations directed at me from below, and the little girl above us following the instructions of the couple camping out in the apartment below us to do various noisy things to try to set me on edge, I was seething that morning as I headed north.

What was galling me the most was the fact that everything these people are throwing at me is intended to give me one message: “You’re gay, and you need to leave your wife and come out.” The taunting and harassment, I’ve concluded, are intended ┬áto either make me blow up in a rage so I can be arrested and sent off either to jail or to a state mental hospital to be “deprogrammed of my Christian beliefs” and persuaded that I’m gay and need to go live with queers, or to break me down mentally to where I finally give in, tell Julie to divorce me, and go live in the gay community. One way or another, the primary goal is to silence me and stop me from dissenting against homosexuality any more.

My anger over this cruel and demonic effort to destroy my marriage and turn me into something I am not burned within me even as I sped up over the mountain just inside the Virginia border. The pressure to turn my back on Julie, a woman who gave up everything familiar to her twenty-one and a half years ago to follow me six hundred miles to Pennsylvania was eating at me. So did the thought of the six fruitless years we spent in Michigan where I tried to establish a different career. Then came a year living in parents’ homes where we were both unemployed most of the time. Then finally, it was on to North Carolina where Julie has patiently supported me through a lengthy and expensive process of building a career as a freelance writer and novelist, to give me the opportunity to do what I do best. It’s where I walked with her through the valley of breast cancer. And it’s where she has faithfully toughed it out alone for a good part of the past three years while I’ve shuttled back and forth between her and my parents’ home, partly to care for them, and partly to get away from the evil down there to let God deal with it. My rage and bitterness made me lean on my gas pedal harder, until the Carroll County Police car came up behind me with its lights flashing.

Other than Jesus Himself, Lieutenant Lyons became the best friend I could have had out there on I-77. Even as he wrote up my ticket, God’s Spirit was telling me, “Relax and rest in me, Brian. While you’ll have to pay a speeding fine, I will make your enemies pay for the evil they’ve done to you.” Thanks to the traffic stop, I was reminded that “the wrath of man does not produce the righteousness of God” (James 1:20, NKJV). I could leave my enemies in God’s hands that day and concentrate on driving safely the rest of the day to my parents’ home that night. So, out of gratitude to Lieutenant Lyons for being God’s intervention in a difficult and dark hour of my life, I will gladly pay the speeding fine to Carroll County, Virginia.