24 January 2019
“We’ve been talking for over an hour and there is a knock at the door. I really must go.” And so I said goodbye to my friend to go and answer the knock at the door.
It was a Saturday afternoon just after two o’clock. I was living alone at the time and wasn’t really expecting anyone, but it was always polite to open the door.
There was a man standing there. He was somewhat short in stature and of the indigenous races. He mumbled something about “John.” I told him that there wasn’t any John living here and attempted to close the door. This was unsuccessful. He had a hammer and held it so the door would not close. As he was on the outside, he could hold the doorframe to get the leverage to open the door, while I was on the inside pushing against the door without any leverage. The small door mat made me slide on the lino floor too.
Terrible fear overtook me and I wet the floor, making my predicament even more precarious. He pushed me out of the way, got in and closed the door behind himself.
I was not going to have anyone in my house swinging a hammer around so I instantly got my hands on that hammer handle. He was now standing with his back against the front door and I was standing there facing him with both of my hands on the hammer handle. His hands were also on the hammer at either end.
Then I realised that screaming wouldn’t do any good. All the doors and windows were locked, so even if I was heard, no one would be able to get in to help me. The man was using his right fist to hit me to the face on the left side. I realised again that this was a time that Jesus had to help me, or I would be lost.
I said, with all the strength I could muster, “In the name of Jesus, …” I knew that I should finish this sentence, but nothing came. So I repeated it, again and again. This obviously infuriated him as he kept on hitting me and kept telling me to “shut up!” I didn’t. I struggled to keep up straight, and one time actually fell when he hit me. However, with my hands still on that hammer handle, I had the essential support to get back onto my feet.
This went on for what seemed an eternity, but was probably a minute or more. Suddenly the man took his left hand off the hammer too and put it behind his back, and stopped hitting me. I feared that he might have a knife. I saw that he was no longer looking at me but straight past my left ear into the hallway. Then he spoke softly, not to me, and said, “OK, I’ll go.” With that, he turned around, opened the door and ran.
What / Who did he see? I did not see it, it was behind me. I only know one thing, I called on the name of Jesus and I was rescued from my predicament.
I was still standing there and thinking about the events that had just taken place when I realized I had better call the police. I called my local police station and told her that a man had just gotten into my home and beat me, and now he was gone. First question I was asked was whether I lived in Victoria St. I replied, “Yes,” and she asked for the number. Before I hung up the phone the police were on my door step.
It appeared that this guy had tried to steal a car two doors down and had gotten away just before the police arrived. He came to my place to hide from the police. Either side of me lived very elderly people and I am so glad that they did not have to put up with this.
I gave the police a detailed statement of all that had happened. They told me to go to the hospital to ensure I had not sustained any permanent injury.
I did not hear back from the police and when I called them a week or so later, there was no record of my call or situation. One has to ask why.
Next morning in church the first song that was sung was:
“In the Name of Jesus, we have the victory.”
I just wanted to shout out, “Yes, yes, it’s true.”