(5) Father Byers at 15 years old, meeting up with two suicide rapists

just me 15

Below, some bits of my autobiography are provided which speak to more aggression from others who are hurting to the point of suicide. I include these experiences here for the express purpose of speaking to some few individuals who should know better, who really need to stop their corruption. People are hurting, and they need to help them instead of encouraging them to hurt themselves and others all the more with all their social engineering and self-congratulations in their lust for power and, it would seem, their lust for lust. Here are the previous articles in this series:

It was now the Summer before entering my sophomore year in what was already my second high school (we had moved). I was in a sauna with a couple of boys of the same school, who were just a year older than myself, with whom I had been swimming at the University’s brand new athletics building sporting an Olympic sized pool. One of them all of a sudden got aggressive and was getting ready to do the rape thing on me, saying that I needed to be “initiated” into my new school, but his friend, horrified, grabbed him and gave him the lecture of his life, stopping him. Poor kid. He was killed in what was reported officially as an accident the next Summer in an equally untoward circumstance. People conjectured that he might have taken his own life. They should know. He had done what he did right in front of them.

boyPeople suffer in hidden agony, crunching in on themselves, and sometimes try to draw others, for self-comfort, into their misery, sometimes with great alacrity and niceness, sometimes with violence and aggression, almost always, if young like this, in an effort to make sense of the hell they are living in because of circumstances imposed on them. He was one of the most popular kids in that entire region, in that entire part of the state. All that those who suffer need to know is that any misery, however hidden by popularity it may be, can be understood and thus sorted out by letting Christ into one’s life. He’s always with us. Always. We need but look up. And speak to Him.

The stats are now – what? – one in thirteen kids attempting suicide in the United States? Yep (at the writing of this, some years ago). That’s skyrocketed proportionate to the sexualization of kids from pre-school onward, right? Also that. Anyway…

The following Spring there was a man in perhaps his early forties who had been stalking me for some months. You have to understand that this was all perfectly legal back in the day. No longer, thank God. Now that we had moved out into the country, with rolling hills and forests and dirt roads and really long stretches between houses, this kind of thing could easily happen. If I would be walking in the forest, anywhere, there he would be. If I would be walking along the road, there he would be. He had attacked a neighbor boy (a few miles away through the woods) a couple of years earlier, dragging him off his horse right on to the front lawn of the boy’s own house. The police were called but nothing really came of it.

truck redI was wary. He was a real predator. For the umpteenth time, he was now trailing me along a dirt road cutting through the forest. He was driving an unbelievably filthy red pickup truck only as fast as I would walk. If I stopped, he stopped. If I ran, he sped up. I hoped he didn’t have a gun. I was really getting sick of these shenanigans. I had already fired warning shots for his benefit many times in the past when I just happened to have a rifle with me. I had already evaded him many times by running into the woods, almost literally flying around trees, down ravines, across swamps and creeks. But every time I did this I would be covered with a severe rash of poison ivy, which was pretty much everywhere in central Minnesota. That might not sound so bad, but I really suffered from it, with whole patches of skin falling off, oozing with clear yellow liquid. And besides, running on the wings of the wind with my somewhat crippled legs didn’t help my mobility for quite a while after any such escape. It really destroyed me. So this running was just no longer an option for me. I had to end this, right here, right now. But I did not have a gun with me.

I figured I could just beat him unconscious with my bare fists if I had to, leaving him to be found by the police. For all of my being a bit cripplely in the legs, I was in excellent physical condition and extremely agile = able to get out of any situation. I never learn. As in years gone by with the Cadillac Limousine stalker, I turned and walked straight to the truck. Stupidly, I figured I was getting good at this kind of thing. The first thing I did was taunt him to run me over. I knew I could easily jump out of the way. Things could then turn ugly, but I was again filled to overflowing with adrenaline. I really was very sarcastic.

When he offered me a ride – as I had suspected – I jumped in and he immediately started driving just a bit faster than I could run, making jumping out quite dangerous. His driving slowly was a thousand times more annoying than my being followed. What a horrifically filthy vehicle. I tried in any number of ways to interrogate him as to why he was always following me, but he never said a word. But then I gave him what was perhaps the lecture and reprimand of his life. But then my mind was racing as to what to do when we came up to where my house was another mile down the road. Would he stop? Would I jump, regardless of consequences? To my surprise, and dismay, he turned up the long drive. This could get nasty, thought I. We had guns at home. I knew how to use them.

As soon as we arrived I got out, but so did he. I continued lecturing him, and told him to leave. He didn’t answer. He refused to go. I went into our garage. But he wasn’t going anywhere, not for five minutes, not for ten. What was he plotting? I had a family to protect. I should have called the police, but we lived way, way out in the middle of nowhere. And stalking was not illegal. And I had accepted a ride. Right? I’m so stupid.

rifleSo, instead, I got our trusty Remington .22 and brought it outside, filling the rifle with plenty of bullets in plain view, inviting him to leave and never come back. He wouldn’t go. Just as I was raising the rifle to shoot the gas tank of his pickup truck for as many times as it took to make it explode, my mom called me in. Rats! Ever obedient, I went in. Her presence, after all, put him off. Just when I was starting to have a bit of fun. After that, I never saw him again. That was smart on his part.

pickup burningYet, I still regret not having pulled the trigger a few times. Sometimes people need to be woken up. And it would have been cool to watch a vehicle blow up. Now, having said all that, I actually didn’t want to hurt him if I could help it. I had met enough hurting people in my life to know that he might well have suicide on his mind. Indeed, I think that this was his bid to commit suicide, you know, like someone who aims a plastic water pistol, though realistic looking, at police officers, threatening them, charging them, aiming at them with obvious intent to kill, only to get shot to death, just like they wanted.

I told my father about all this, and his response surprised me somewhat, but what he said was good advice. The sum total of his remarks was this: “Pray for him.” He said this with a bit of sternness. It was not a suggestion, but a command. My father, you have to understand, knew something of the power of prayer. O.K., so… Our Father, who art in heaven…

I think that if victims of sexual abuse would pray for their abusers, there would be a great deal of healing going on, at least for the victims, whose act of charity would bring them the blessing of no longer being controlled by any emotional scarring that whatever abuser may have left behind. Just a thought.

I suppose I could recount another hundred stories just like these, but all so very different. I’m sure our Lord had something in mind for each and every one of these experiences, both for my good and the good of others, both at that time and forever after that. I can’t help but thank my guardian angel for giving me the wherewithal to know what to do in such situations. I was escaping one drama after the next and at the same time learning so much about the fallen human condition and how the Lord, nevertheless, wants us for Himself. My guardian angel was guarding a sense of the greatness possible to the human soul within my own soul. There is hope. God loves us. I know He loved me. He loved everyone. I wanted to see His love in others. I wanted to see the greatness possible to the human soul in this way in everyone I met. That didn’t mean I couldn’t bust someone in the chops if that’s what he needed to bring him to his senses. And sometimes one does need to pull the trigger and watch a truck explode.

Later, as a priest, I was to see the Lord’s love in others from up close, seeing the greatness possible to the human soul, especially when I would impart the absolution during their confessions. The Lord is so good to people in confession, bringing them back to Himself. What great dignity people have in their friendship with the Lord. I can’t think of anything more noble than someone making their confession, even of the very worst of sins. “Look at how they are being carried along by the Lord’s grace!” is the exclamation any priest makes. The Lord’s work in the Sacraments brings light into the darkness. I thank God that I’ve witnessed His work among those He brings to Himself. He is so good, so kind.

Just to say, it was my father, who, as a kind of last will and testament, insisted with me so very many times during the last years of his life, saying, “Goodness and kindness, George, goodness and kindness!” I like that. That’s why I repeat it all the time. It’s not worthwhile living any other way, no matter what happens. The only way is the goodness and kindness of Jesus. And yet, as we know with our Lord’s exclamation… Jerusalem! Jerusalem!

That should be enough about my own experiences for those whom I’ve particularly had in mind while putting these articles up. They need to stop what they are up to, and stop it now. I’m especially speaking to those who pull the strings and those who so easily manipulate them. They know who they are. And others might just find out. ;¬)

Meanwhile, I’ll continue with the series in this way and that. A question came in about angels in these posts. I’ll tackle that forthwith. The answer should be enough to make those for whom I’ve been publishing these articles shake in fear. And if they don’t, they are fools.

1 Comment

Filed under Abuse, Confession, Father Byers Autobiography, Mercy

One response to “(5) Father Byers at 15 years old, meeting up with two suicide rapists

  1. ennoh412

    Thanks for sharing your life with us Father – there is a lot to reflect on. God bless you and your work saving souls.

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