Bam bam bam!!! Came the loud raps on the gray, metal covered, military door. "Killer, get up and answer the door", Crack shouted through the door in his gravely Midwestern, ghetto dialect. As I struggled to shake myself out of the deep stupor, I realized that my clothing and mattress were saturated with urine and perspiration. Actually, fluid leaked from every pore and opening of my body. Mucous had drained from my nasal passage and now had settled in my throat, making it necessary for me to cough several times before I could utter an intelligible sound. My limbs shook in uncontrollable tremors as I attempted to gain control of my pain wracked body.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm commin, I'm commin", I replied in shaky tones. The depth of the heroin withdrawal symptoms made it difficult for my legs to support my weight as I shuffled to the door. I quickly retreated to my bed as Crack and Brad entered the semi-private room located in an old converted Nazi barracks that housed the field artillery company to which I was assigned. I sank down onto the bed guarding it from anyone else sitting on it discovering I had lost control of my bladder. The dimly lit room concealed the urine and perspiration stains on my olive drab colored fatigues, or so I believed. Nothing, however, could hide the stench of the urine and perspiration soaked fabric. At that moment I felt like I had been run over by a Mack truck and then drug through a slime pit. My two visitors seemed oblivious to my shameful condition.

"What's happenin Y'all, I'm sick as a dog. I need a "do" (fix) badder (worse) than a dead man need a coffin. Y'all got up on any duji (heroin) yet?"

"Git yo clothes on man", replied Crack. "Brad ran across some white boys over in the next barracks who say they got some mean stuff".

I leapt to my feet and hurried to my locker, retrieving a pair of clean fatigues. Pealing off the filthy uniform and stuffing it into my laundry bag, I donned my clean fatigues without removing my damp cotton underwear. "Let's go", I muttered, moving toward the door. We filed out of the room together and into the brightly-lit hallway. My eyes automatically squinted to block out the bright florescent light. Down the stairs and out the front door we traveled, our faces grim and deadly serious. Brad directed us to the room where the would-be GI- drug dealers had set up shop. None of us had enough money to satisfy the cravings of even one deeply addicted heroin user. We knew our drill so well that we did not even need to rehearse our actions.

After being allowed to enter the room by the occupants, I made a quick but casual sweep of the room noting that there were three individuals present. This would be easy work. Brad explained to the man who appeared to be in charge that we were interested in purchasing a sizable quantity of his product. Naturally, we would all need a sample before we could make a decision to buy their product.

Because of my condition being the worst of all my companions, it was agreed that I would be the first to "get off" (shoot up). I set my "works" (syringe, needle, and cooker) on top of the footlocker that served as a makeshift coffee table. My cooker consisted of a large spoon I had pilfered from the mess hall. Our host dumped a generous portion of his product into the cooker. With my syringe I intuitively drew up just the correct amount of water from the cup that had been provided for us. Most of the white powder dissolved after the water had been applied to it. This meant the heroin was nearly pure in quality. The flame of a Bic lighter was used to dissolve the rest of the powder into the liquid. The aroma of the sizzling formula was sweeter to me than the aroma of Mamma's famous peach cobbler baking in the oven on a Sunday afternoon. Crack applied a vice-like grip to the slender biceps of my left arm that caused the veins in my arm to stand at attention. With the skill of a physician I tapped the point of the half-inch needle into a familiar spot. With the tip of my index finger I pulled the plunger of the syringe slightly back. With joy and relief I watched as the dark red blood steamed into the cylinder of the syringe and mixed with the heroin and water mixture. Satisfied that I had a good "hit' (the needle was securely in the vein), I slowly pushed the hot liquid out of the needle and into my blood stream.

The hot drug coursed up my arm. Within seconds the knot in my stomach quickly relaxed. A faint sigh of relief escaped my lips as the drug made its way through my body. Its effects were felt in every part of my body through which it traveled--my legs, feet, chest, and finally my brain. The healing effects of the drug were now complete. This was the moment for which I now lived. In an attempt to gain added psychological pleasure, I continued to draw the blood back and forth into the syringe, a practice heroin users refer to as "jacking off."

Next, Crack went through the identical ritual to relieve his owned withdrawal symptoms. Brad was the least strung-out of the group so he graciously deferred his pain relief until last, dopefiend etiquette you might say. For a brief moment we three GI junkies enjoyed the first minutes of our altered state. This, though, was not merely an occasion for pleasure. This was also a business call.

Crack stood up slowly, signaling that it was now time to go to work. Feeling Crack's movement, Brad and I raised up from our seats. Crack leaned over and slapped the man in charge hard across the face. An expression of pain and terror came over his now beet-red face. Brad and I grabbed the other two by their collars to hold them at bay while Crack continued to work.

"Punk, where's the rest of the dope", Crack demanded. The man appeared to be in shock. "If you make me ask you one more time, I'll stomp your guts out", Crack assured him, re-enforcing his point by grabbing him around the neck and shaking him violently. Crack let him go so that he could go to his stash to retrieve the baggie filled with the precious white powder we sought. Having seen the force of the blow with which Crack had struck their friend, the other two young men offered no resistance. We uttered a barrage of obscenities as we backed out of the room, warning the trio what would happen if they tried to retaliate or report our actions to the authorities.

This scene would be repeated on many occasions until I was finally arrested by the German police and thrown into prison for robbery. Sitting in the solitude of the modern prison cell of the German prison located in Stuttgart, West Germany, for several days I would contemplate my state and my likely fate. How had I ended up in such a state? How had a former honor student, former church youth usher, and an apparently bright young Christian teenager turn into a cold-blooded predator? In only a few short years I had unwittingly succeeded in turning from a plump-cheeked adolescent into a career criminal. Even serving a term in the military did not hamper my criminal activities. I had turned from a Christian into a criminal, from a precious lamb into a ferocious predator -- a "sheep in wolves' clothing."

I'm not certain when and where the phrase, "sheep in wolves' clothing" originated. The first time I heard the phrase was after I shared a part of my personal testimony with my friend and then coworker, Bill Bracco. I had told him of how I had spent 13 years as a substance abuser, 10 of those years as a hard-core heroin addict. I also shared with him that, before that experience, I had made what I feel was a genuine decision to accept Jesus Christ as Savior when I was nine years old. My drug abuse problem began when I was fifteen.

In his usual insightful manner, Bill observed that I had been what he referred to as a sheep in wolves' clothing. The phrase is obviously a turnaround of a phrase used by Jesus in Matt. 7:15 (Beware of false prophets, who come to you in sheep's clothing, but inwardly they are ravening wolves) to refer to those who pretend to be believers so they can mingle with the flock of God in order to carry out devious schemes. The wolves are the nonbelievers. The sheep are the believers.

What an interesting analogy. To move about in Christian circles, He says that wolves would go to some lengths to disguise themselves as sheep. Can you imagine in wolf taking a bath so that he loses his wolf smell, making a sheep suit so that he resembles a sheep, even spraying on sheep cologne in order to smell like a sheep, all so he can fool the sheep into thinking that he is one of them? As bizarre as this may sound, the truth is often stranger than fiction.

On the other hand, a sheep in wolves' clothing does just the opposite. The sheep is the one who tries to rid himself of his natural (spiritual) smell. He puts on wolf clothes in order to look like a wolf. He splashes on wolf cologne in order to smell like a wolf. He learns to make wolf sounds and talk like a wolf.

As a sheep in wolves' clothing, I did all those things to pass myself off as a wolf. Somehow I had become convinced that it was more desirable to be a wolf than a sheep. Once this idea became firmly planted in my mind I began to detest the idea of being a sheep. I began to look upon other sheep as being weird. I wanted to dissociate myself from the sheep. I wanted to lose all of my sheeply characteristics, sheeply dress, and sheeply habits. I wanted to be a wolf. Finally, I succeeded in convincing others and myself that I was a wolf.

Fortunately, I was blessed to have a godly woman as a mother. Because of her I experienced a period of spiritual growth as a youngster. Mamma would wake me up about six o'clock in the morning after Dad had gone off to work. He worked the first shift at Ford Motor Company. After a hearty breakfast she had devotions with me. She taught me to read and memorize scripture and to pray. Now Mamma was not an educated woman academically or biblically. She knew a handful of precious scriptures, which she had committed to memory. Two of them were Psalm 23 and the Lord's Prayer as recorded in Luke 11:1-4. As a sheep I strayed far from the flock of the Good Shepherd. However, the mornings I spent with Mamma were well invested. I always remembered those two scriptures. Many times when life's circumstances seemed overwhelming I meditated on these passages, especially Psalm 23. I found myself walking down the street on more than one occasion not knowing when I would next eat or where my next meal would come from meditating on this powerful passage:

The Lord is my Shepherd I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures; He leadeth me beside the still waters. He restorerth my soul; He leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for His namesake. Yea though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil; For thou art with me; Thy rod and thy staff, they comfort me. Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies; Thou annointest my head with oil; my cup runnest over. Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life; And I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.

I am more grateful to my mother than words can express for taking the time to train me spiritual, especially for teaching me that very powerful passage of scripture. I had no idea back then, though, how powerful it is. This brief but powerful portion of God's Word, hidden deep in the recesses of my sinful heart would sustain me for many years as I lived away from the sheepfold, among the wolves.

For thirteen years I lived like a wolf. I lived among the wolves while avoiding the sheep like the plague. I did as the wolves did, while looking like a wolf. I talked like a wolf. I walked like a wolf. Anyone who saw me assumed naturally that I was a wolf. If ever I allowed myself to engage in deep thought for any length of time, I would realize that I was not like the other wolves, though. Many things that wolves engaged in freely and enjoyed were repulsive to me. Certain things I learned to fake in order to convince my wolf peers that I was a wolf indeed.

Fortunately for me, there is a passage of scripture in Matt. 18:12-14 that talks about the Good Shepherd. The Good Shepherd, it says, will leave 99 sheep to go and search for one that is gone astray to bring him safely back into the fold. Though I had been successful in convincing many people for many years that I was a wolf, the plain truth was that I was a sheep. Not only was I a sheep, but a lost sheep at that. The biggest danger was that I didn't even know I was lost. Thankfully, I had a Good Shepherd who knew that I was lost and would not rest until I was back in the fold. It took a while, but thanks to God's bulldogged persistence with me, I made it back. Hallelujah!

I've had the occasion to share my personal testimony in many forums around the country. It's not uncommon after I have talked about how God miraculously delivered me from a life of drugs and crime for a parent to approach me and tell me about their child, whom they thought had made a sincere commitment to Jesus Christ as a youngster, but now their life bears no sign of that commitment. Some even tell me of children in prison that have switched from Christianity to Islam, the dominant movement for African Americans in prison. I have looked into many a despair-filled face of parents trying to make some sense of their adult children's lifestyles. They tell me how they have done their best to raise their children in the church. The parents had thought that their children were safe from the allurements of the world because of their childhood profession of Christ as Savior. Now they were left to wonder whether it had been a genuine profession. While I realize that children do sometimes make verbal confessions of Jesus Christ without truly understanding what their confessions mean, I try to help these hurting parents see that this is not necessarily true in the case of their own adult children, now gone astray. It may well be that the person made a genuine acceptance of Christ, even as I had done, yet for some reason decided that it was more desirable to be a wolf than a sheep. If such were the case, they should be encouraged that their child may one day be returned to the fold by the Good Shepherd just as I had been.

This book will distinguish itself from other books, such as Cross and the Switchblade and If Jesus is the Answer What Are the Questions, written about tough street guys who in the end surrendered their lives to Christ. Their stories can be summed up by the street poem which is a take-off of Psalm 23: Yeah thou I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, because I'm the badest so and so in the valley. On the contrary, I will report about how a guy who was not the baddest, the bravest, nor the brightest was protected from harm for many years in often-hostile settings, by a loving and capable Shepherd. As a sheep, I was able to walk through the valley of the shadow of death only because He was with me preserving my life. Without His tender care the real wolves would have ripped me from head to tail shortly after entering the valley. I would have made some wolf a tasty snack.

I'm certain that there are many sheep out in the world garbed in wolf clothes. They can be found in many different walks of life. On street corners selling drugs, working in topless bars, in prison. Some can even be found in the business and professional arena.

It is my hope that this book will be an encouragement to those who pray daily for those lost sheep who are dear to them. This book could also be inspirational to a lost sheep should it find its way into their hands.

Perhaps some are wondering how a sheep could survive in an environment consisting mainly of wolves for 13 years. This book, then, I pray, will serve to be a testimony of how God can keep His children, even the disobedient ones, in the most dangerous of situations. It will show how He can, and will, deliver His children out of the most detestable lifestyles, and how He may even use them in some ways to His glory.

Copyright (C) 2010 Joseph Williams. All rights reserved

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