One Way to Grace: A Memoir through Scripture

By David Daly

Without judgment, condemnation, or shame, David Daly bares his truth in the hopes of inspiring faith in the hearts of the lost and unbelieving. This memoir covers the span of David’s life experiences, starting with his birth and childhood spent in the tumultuous civil unrest of Northern Ireland and culminating with his transformation into a devout believer. Addiction and inner struggle haunt David throughout his life. After losing everything, David repents and turns to Jesus for deliverance and to God’s Holy Word for guidance through the Holy Spirit. An eye-opening visit to Israel becomes a turning point in David’s life when he is baptized and born again. Ongoing challenges test David’s faith. He discovers how to stand strong with his faith in Jesus that saved his life. God is present throughout David’s struggle toward salvation. His testimony demonstrates the loving, healing power of an honest walk with Christ.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ambassador International
• Release date: Oct 25, 2013
• ISBN: 9781620203316

Book preview

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Acknowledgements

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Contact Information

One Way to Grace:

A Memoir through Scripture

© 2013 by David Daly

All rights reserved.

ISBN: 978-1-62020-233-3 (paperback)

eISBN: 978-1-62020-331-6 (digital)

Unless otherwise indicated, Scripture taken from the King James Version of the Holy Bible. Public Domain.

Cover design and typesetting: Matthew Mulder

E-book conversion: Anna Riebe

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Dedicated to our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ.

In memory of David’s mother, Grace Smalley.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

David thanks the divine guidance of Christ and the power of God for the opportunity to share his testimony with the world. The love of his late mother Grace and dear wife Gay resonate in David’s heart, making the honesty and bravery of this work possible. David also thanks his dad, sister, brothers, son, grandson, and friends for being part of the memoir’s creation. All glory to God.

Dawn would like to extend thanks to her husband Benjamin and mother-in-law April for their efforts and support. She also acknowledges the love, support, and patience of her friends and family throughout the writing process, on this and every piece she creates.

CHAPTER ONE

Blessed are they which are persecuted for righteousness’ sake: for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.

Blessed are ye, when men shall revile you, and persecute you, and shall say all manner of evil against you falsely, for my sake.

Rejoice, and be exceeding glad: for great is your reward in heaven: for so persecuted they the prophets which were before you.

MATTHEW 5:10–12

I HAD HEARD OF A place called Jerusalem, had read about the Mount of Beatitudes, and had studied the Sea of Galilee. My imagination had created the Israel depicted in the Bible. The backdrop and scenery of these parables, lessons, and histories had been developed by my mind and soul when I closed my eyes and enveloped my thoughts in the Word.

To see that these places were real and exactly how my mind had shaped them was overwhelming. Words I had studied so closely were coming to life all around me. The stony ground and squat olive trees of No Man’s Land were there as I had imagined. The gently sloping water of the Sea of Galilee was the horizon ahead of me as it had been ahead of the disciples so long ago. The wind brushing against my face swirled downward from the same sky that hung over Christ as He traversed this same body of water.

It was 2006 and I was in Israel for the second time, riding a boat across the Sea of Galilee. All around me, the other passengers on the boat were rejoicing. They also knew the nature of this trip. This water held the same meaning for them as for me; they too were celebrating the privilege to exist in this sacred place. To be physically present where our Savior had performed miracles, delivered sermons, and given his life was a blessing beyond any of our comprehensions.

The constant hum of the boat’s motor melted into the sounds of worship, prayer, and joyous music. My eyes focused intently on the hills in the distance. There stood the Mount of Beatitudes. Jesus Christ himself had stood in that spot and ministered to expectant followers seeking guidance and a closer connection with God. The same guidance I sought a few short years before this trip, the same connection I still pursue each day.

As the realization of my close proximity to the Savior’s ancient footprints began to overpower my composure, I felt a warm tingling sensation at the crown of my head. Unexpected and inexplicable, the feeling of pins and needles on my head became more intense. I closed my eyes and began to pray.

My prayers were those of thanks, gratitude, and reverence. I thanked God for leading me to this place, to where his Son had walked on water. As I prayed, the sounds of the boat, of the passengers’ jubilation, the water, and the wind melted away, leaving me in a warm silence, alone with the tingling that was now so clearly the hand of God upon my head. For what seemed like eons, I stood on that boat with eyes closed, never wanting to open them and remove myself from this pure, unadulterated feeling of God’s presence. I continued to pray for those I loved, for those who had hurt me, for all God’s children, and all our souls. It was my only desire then to remain in that state for all time with my joy, my prayers, and my God’s hand reaching down to touch me.

It was then that I learned what true beauty could be.

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I was born the eldest child of my parents, Clive and Grace, on May 28, 1965 at Dundonald Hospital in Belfast, Northern Ireland. A mere handful of years before what we call The Troubles began to reach yet another violent climax.

I was brought into the world by a hardworking breadwinner and compassionate homemaker. We were a family of Protestants, Church of England and Church of Ireland respectively, living in the divided religious culture of Northern Ireland. There was a warzone hiding behind the façade of close-knit families, unlocked doors, and jubilant conversations over steaming cups of tea.

Through my child-sized eyes, Belfast was a gigantic living city, vivacious with noise and movement. Red brick buildings were adorned with full color murals declaring neighborhood allegiances. Haunting images of fallen heroes, hated figureheads, or gun-wielding gang members let those passing through know whether the inhabitants were loyal to the Union Jack or the Green White and Gold, to the Catholic or Protestant interests. By studying the painted curbs, proudly hung flags, or larger than life murals, you would know who was welcome and who was likely to be jumped in the streets or alleyways. A bustling capital rife with an underlying tension of religious unrest; the first memories I retain of my childhood were formed in Belfast.

My father and I walked toward my school on a clear, dry day in 1969.

I dreaded school.

The darker hue of my skin and the religious beliefs of my family separated me from most of my peers. Despite a ravenous appetite for learning and a small collection of friends, the idea of spending another day enduring the verbal—and sometimes physical—abuse of bullies tied my stomach in knots.

As my father and I reached the end of Shannon Street, I saw a dead dog lying in the street. A man, the dog’s owner or perhaps a simple passerby, walked toward its crumpled and bloodied body. The man grabbed the dead dog by its tail. He dragged it to the gutter and out of the way of traffic. My four-year-old heart broke for that abandoned and mutilated dog.

A few months later, I nearly joined the ranks of that dog.

I had been tasked by my mother to walk to the store near our home and purchase a bottle of brown sauce. With a bit of old money in hand and shopping list in mind, I ventured up the street on the short journey to the store. Across the road from me sat a happy little girl I did not recognize. She held the largest bag of crisps (potato chips) I had ever seen in her lap and was slowly eating as she sat on the front step of her home. When she saw me watching her, she met my eyes and lifted the giant bag of crisps as if to offer some to me. Excited, I changed course and started to run across the street.

A car I had not seen or heard approaching struck me as I crossed the road. When I came to, my father had me cradled in his arms, and he was running. As fast as he could force his legs to move, my father was carrying me to the hospital. I survived that close brush with death, the first of several I would encounter in my lifetime.

—————————

At the age of five, my family moved to the country, to Downpatrick. This relocation, twenty miles away from Belfast, represented a beacon of hopefulness and new beginnings. Perhaps, I thought, this new place would mark an end of the bullying and the start of a life without fear. What I did not understand was that The Troubles were not exclusive to imposing Belfast but were equally as prevalent, if not more pronounced, in rural Downpatrick.

When we first arrived in Downpatrick, our little family was without accommodation. At the time, two of my four younger siblings, Walter and Desmond, had been born. My granny, my mother’s mother, welcomed the five of us into her home in the Meadowlands council housing estate. It took a year and a half for the county to assign us to our own council housing in the Flying Horse Estate.

The backdrop was eerily similar to what we had left behind in Belfast. The houses and curbs were marked with audacious symbols of devotion. While we children played mischievous games like Nick Knock, dodging burnt out cars as we ran away after knocking on strangers’ doors, our fathers guarded our homes. The atmosphere living in the Flying Horse Estate housing was stiffened with the constant threat of danger. Our Protestant family was severely outnumbered, and there was a need for perpetual vigilance and awareness. My age did not make me exempt to the peril. Loyalty to cause, to family, and to religion extended to the younger generation; words and weapons hurt just as deeply in smaller, more fragile hands.

The bullying I experienced at Downpatrick Primary School was, if anything, more constant and aggressive than that which I went through in Belfast. There was no reprieve in the country; the fantasy of relaxing into a quiet existence in the country with a safe and calm family evaporated into a string of disconcerting experiences with my fellow children.

My own pride, even as a young person, did not allow me to break down but instead inspired me to stand tall and take the abuse, despite feeling broken and scared inside. The details are unclear in my memory due to the frequency of the harassment. One little girl remains vivid, however, as the personification of the persecution I experienced at that young age. Perhaps it was her fairer gender or the proximity of our homes but, for whatever reason, this girl’s face, her voice, and more over her words ring clear in my mind decades later.

As if this vicious girl did not have enough ammunition from my familial fidelities, I was also of a darker complexion than the other children. I kept the sun; instead of the milky pallor of my classmates, my skin glowed a ruddy tan all year. My coloring led to cries of racist slurs like nigger being hurled in my direction as well as those related to my family and my inherited faithfulness to the Union Jack. From the perspective of the majority of my classmates, represented in my recollection by this single young girl, everything about me was wrong. Their voices rose in taunts that injured more seriously than the scraps and fights that came along with the hecklings.

CHAPTER TWO

There hath no temptation taken you but such as is common to man: but God is faithful, who will not suffer you to be

tempted above that ye are able; but will with the temptation also

make a way to escape, that ye may be able to bear it.

1 CORINTHIANS 10:13

WHEN I WAS TEN, WE made a move to council housing on a street called Mount Crescent. Loyalist Protestant families were present in greater numbers on Mount Crescent and the neighboring Bridge Street. There was safety in numbers. A row of houses filled with Loyalists could stand stronger than one small family surrounded by those perceived as the enemy. There was still the pressure of The Troubles, but it seemed less daunting with like-minded families nearby.

The concentration of Protestant men, women, and children on Mount Crescent and neighboring Bridge Street may have offered an intermittent sense of security, but it also made our new estate housing a target for IRA and zealous Catholic attacks. As a small boy of ten, I sat in our living room that overlooked all of Downpatrick with my knees gathered to my chest, guarding a milk crate of petrol bombs that could defend our home in the worst-case scenario. My mother, cousins, and other family members were gathered around me with functional weapons like chains and bats. When the sun set, my father and other brave male residents served as sentries