Peace in a Mad Dog World: Finding Security When My Need for Control Failed Me

By Warner Davis

Here is a unique combination of engrossing autobiography, wide-ranging travelogue, slam-bang adventure, and refreshing affirmation of Divine Providence-all in one relatively small volume.

- Don Bassett, author of The Daily Family Bible Reader and Joseph's Code

Warner Davi

• Language: English
• Publisher: Trilogy Christian Publishing
• Release date: Jul 12, 2023
• ISBN: 9798887389752

Warner Davis

WARNER DAVIS was born in Lexington, Kentucky, and reared in the Congo, the son of missionaries. A graduate of Asbury College (now Asbury University), Asbury Theological Seminary, andColumbiaTheologicalSeminary, his education stands him in good stead. A minister, he has served churches in Kentucky, Florida, New York, and Tennessee. Today, he and his wife, Tingting, enjoy retirement in Collierville, Tennessee.

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Peace In a

Mad Dog

World

Finding Security When My Need

for Control Failed Me

Warner Davis

Greyscale Trilogy logo

Peace in a Mad Dog World

Trilogy Christian Publishers

A Wholly Owned Subsidiary of Trinity Broadcasting Network

2442 Michelle Drive, Tustin, CA 92780

Copyright © 2023 by Warner Davis

All Scripture quotations, unless otherwise noted, are taken from The Holy Bible, English Standard Version. ESV® Text Edition: 2016. Copyright © 2001 by Crossway Bibles, a publishing ministry of Good News Publishers.

Scripture quotations marked (NIV) are taken from THE HOLY BIBLE, NEW INTERNATIONAL VERSION®, NIV® Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.® Used by permission. All rights reserved worldwide.

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information, address Trilogy Christian Publishing Rights Department, 2442 Michelle Drive, Tustin, CA 92780.

Trilogy Christian Publishing/ TBN and colophon are trademarks of Trinity Broadcasting Network.

For information about special discounts for bulk purchases, please contact Trilogy Christian Publishing.

Trilogy Disclaimer: The views and content expressed in this book are those of the author and may not necessarily reflect the views and doctrine of Trilogy Christian Publishing or the Trinity Broadcasting Network.

Manufactured in the United States of America

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available.

ISBN 979-8-88738-974-5

ISBN 979-8-88738-975-2 (ebook)

Acknowledgments

I am indebted to:

Dr. Rebecca Price Janney,

for her coaching, including editing,

at the start of my writing,

Dr. Dennis E. Hensley,

whose teaching heightened

my confidence as a writer,

Sharon Royster Adams,

whose editing and suggestions

served to refine this work,

and Trilogy Publishing

for the quality of its production.

Author’s Note

This memoir is my subjective take on what happened in my life. Hence, its rendering of truth is in some places, as in the case of the dialogues, more impressionistic than literal.

Contents

Acknowledgments

Author’s Note

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Epilogue

Endnotes

Chapter 1

I was born with a bent to be in control, but reared where unruly forces were common. The son of missionaries to the Belgian Congo, I spent ten years of my boyhood in a region that was home to malarial mosquitoes, ravenous driver ants, prowling lions, 30-foot-long pythons, and highly venomous mambas. It was also a land of intertribal warfare, rebel occupations, and anarchic government. Ours, it seemed, was a world abandoned to chaos, filled with danger—quite difficult for the temperament of one who even today compulsively double-checks his pockets for his car keys and wallet, who goes through a ritual of making certain the house door is locked every time he departs.

Anxiety invaded my life daily at 9:30 p.m. when the generator shut off. It left our compound, deep in the Congo interior, without electric light for the rest of the night. Although I found comfort in my parents’ tucking me in bed, still, with the encroachment of darkness, that solace proved momentary.

At first, an eerie calm hovered over the station with the murmur of all manner of creeping, crawling, flying creatures sleeping. Then, somewhere out of the night, a jackal howled, contradicting the restful ambience. Other jackals followed suit. Hearing an unrestrained outcry, I felt besieged by the wild, convinced each night that a mere step outside the confines of our brick home would make me fair game. Fortunately, sleep eventually overcame me, and I awoke to sun-kissed mornings, the fears of night having dissolved.

Something occurred, however, that shadowed the day. Our missionary neighbor’s tan and white pooch, its nose pointed at an expansive plain abutting our front yards, had started barking. When Puppy began yelping at intervals during the afternoons, our eyes instinctively roamed the tall savanna grass. Late one afternoon, a lean, wild dog emerged out of the thick growth, its brown fur coat shimmering in the slanting rays of the orange sun. Struck by the out-of-character appearance of this nocturnal predator, we smelled madness.

Before we could react, though, my family’s black mongrel, Frisky, and Puppy, bolted toward the gaunt jackal. Fearing that the beast would take them on, we were surprised when it broke into a long lope, staying well ahead of them as it moved alongside the border of the plain. We hoped our pets would relinquish the chase, but our hearts sank when the wild animal swerved into the thick grass and they followed, disappearing in the density.

Scrambling towards the place they had vanished, we cried out for our dogs.

Frisky!

Puppy!

Get back here!

Frisky-y-y!

Puppy-y-y-y!

Scanning the plain, our eyes begging for some sign of them, my mind flashed back to my first taste of life out of control.

It began the afternoon Dad had taken my sister and me for a whirl at hunting. I was ten, Diane nine. A short drive in our Chevrolet station wagon brought us close to the edge of the forest. We then took a winding footway through tall grass, which gave way to a dense mass of leafy trees where limbs and branches interwove to form a dark canopy. Crashing through foliage, we entered a world teeming with sounds, smells, and movements of wildlife—birds slicing the air with their cries, fruit succulent for the picking, ants here and there, rancid droppings, antelope tracks, a snake slipping away, and spiders extending their webs.

Soon we heard monkeys chattering above the cacophony of sounds, but we could not spot them in the thick greenery. An hour later, with nothing to train Dad’s rifle on, we were ready to return home. Suddenly, something crashed through the underbrush, landing with an earth-shaking thud.

What was that? Diane and I asked at once.

We crouched, alert. Had a large ape fallen? Our eyes combed the thick growth of trees in a silence intensified by the trill of millions of insects. Then our ears caught a rustling behind us. Whirling around, we focused on a white-furred, stray domestic dog wobbling along the footway. Gaunt and pinched, coughing and foaming at the mouth, it flashed a warning, compelling us to freeze when it lay down a few feet away. Moments later—it seemed an eternity—the dog rose and staggered off, disappearing into the jungle.

Let’s go home, Dad said.

We exited the jungle and were treading through elephant grass when an alarm sounded again. It was the cough; the sick dog was on our trail a few yards behind us. A vague chill descended on me as we stood off the path to give it plenty of room. Just as it looked as though it would brush past, it lunged for my left leg, sinking its fangs in my calf, growling its rage. Then, letting go, it veered into the grass, escaping from view, before Dad could take aim and fire.

My stomach churned, reacting to fear, helplessness, and uncertainty.

You okay, Son? Dad asked as he and Diane fell to their knees and examined the wound with worry sketched on their faces. They helped me to our vehicle, my punctured leg wobbly.

Back home, the wound cleaned and bandaged, I blurted out, Is it rabid, Dad?

I don’t know, Son.

It was foaming at the mouth.

I know.

It looked crazy.

I know.

We had reason to be worried. When news came that our African neighbors had tracked the animal down and clubbed it to death, we were relieved, despite the crude killing, that we had the dog’s head for a diagnosis. With no medical center nearby, though, it would take two weeks before we knew the results. In the meantime, Diane and I were beginning a new semester at boarding school, 200 kilometers away from home.

It was hard enough for me, a ten-year-old, to be separated from my parents. But to be without them during this ordeal was almost more than I could bear, especially when the laboratory wired us the results confirming the dog was rabid. The thought of twenty shots in the stomach frightened me, deepening my sense of isolation. Then, there was this exchange with the school physician:

Will these shots keep me from getting rabies?

Probably, Warner, but I can’t guarantee it.

You can’t what?

More than likely, they’ll work and you’ll be fine.

But you can’t say for sure?

I can’t say for sure.

This was not what I wanted to hear. I was far from ready for death, terrified by the prospect. I had heard horror stories about rabies and recoiled from the thought of dying crazed and