Sailing into Salvation

By Ronald Barratt

Ronald Barratt, after graduating from college, wanted to serve his country. On a dark night in 1993, his world was changed forever and set him on a path of self-destruction, anger, and resentment. PTSD is real and has the potential to ruin lives without help. Over the course of the next twenty-five years, Ronald dealt with setback after setback. Divorce, alcohol abuse, homelessness, and bitterness.

Over the course of the years, Ronald lived in despair. He abused his body and faced a challenge; he most certainly would need the love and guidance of our Lord, Jesus Christ. With no hope for the future, Ronald noticed what had never been seen before; the Lord was calling to him. He hit his knees and surrendered to the Lord. The harrowing next eighteen months challenged his faith and resolve. How much did he want to live? Ronald went to the absolute extremes physically and mentally to survive. He could not do this without the love and miracle provided by Jesus.

After his time of torment, he was granted his miracle. This is a story of courage and determination and absolute faith in Jesus Christ. Through suffering, Ronald realized the grace of God.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christian Faith Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Sep 11, 2023
• ISBN: 9798888329382

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Sailing into Salvation

Ronald Barratt

ISBN 979-8-88832-937-5 (paperback)

ISBN 979-8-88832-938-2 (digital)

Copyright © 2023 by Ronald Barratt

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods without the prior written permission of the publisher. For permission requests, solicit the publisher via the address below.

Christian Faith Publishing

832 Park Avenue

Meadville, PA 16335

www.christianfaithpublishing.com

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Acknowledgments

Glassboro, NJ

United States Navy

Carrier Intelligence Center (CVIC)

Back Home

Homeless

Collegeville, PA

Treatment

Pre-Covid

The Lord

Keep Moving Forward

Lord's Will Be Done

Belleview

Collapse and Salvation

About the Author

Acknowledgments

In approximately 2016, I approached my friend Mark Eberle, the founder of Paws Healing Heroes. I suggested that I may be able to help in his efforts to help veterans with PTSD, a crippling condition that many veterans face each day. In fact, it is estimated that up to twenty-two veterans take their own lives each day. Mark decided to intervene. He had been saving dogs from kill shelters, training them as service dogs, and then placing them with veterans fighting each day. After speaking with him, he suggested that I could use a dog myself. I scoffed at the idea, but as the conversation continued, I had to agree that I had a problem that a dog could help with. After a few years, I relented, and Shiloh came into my life. After only a week or so, I realized that Shiloh changed my life. She is alert and warns of danger, she calms me when anxiety hijacks my mind. She is a companion and a friend that I cannot imagine being without. This was the work of Paws Healing Heroes (pawshealingheroes.org). I cannot thank Mark enough. Shiloh has been a gift to me. In fact, after sharing so many stories with Mark, he suggested I write down my experiences. It was Mark's commitment and belief in me that what I had to say could influence veterans with PTSD and share the story of the Lord with anyone needing God's love. Some stories are funny, at least to us. I hope you enjoy them as well. Mark has shared his experience on the Rachael Ray show twice, and so far, he has helped seventy-five veterans with hope, encouragement, and a vision of the future through his efforts and those of the people around him. This is done entirely through donations. He has made an incredible impact on the lives of many veterans, including me. Thank you, Mark. It will take a lifetime for me to make it up to you. If you could find it in your heart to contribute to Mark's efforts, please visit pawshealingheroes.org. Somewhere out there, there are veterans, alone, in despair, and without hope. Together, we can all make a difference. Thank you, Mark!

Glassboro, NJ

Igrew up in a small town in South Jersey called Glassboro. It was an incredible community and very diverse. My neighborhood and my experience in that neighborhood can only be characterized as a Norman Rockwell painting. We were very close as a neighborhood. Doors were never locked; a cup of sugar or a couple of eggs were always a door or two down.

Back before the Internet or video games, sports dominated our every waking moment. When I was eight years old, we had a Wiffle ball field on a farmer's field. Peach trees were everywhere as well as soybean, but we found an area that seemed to not be in use. One summer, when we were setting up the field to play, we had to mow since the brush had grown over two feet. All of us got our father's mowers and headed for the field. As we were mowing, a tractor turning over the soil to prepare for planting, we assumed, was heading for us. The tractor grew closer and closer; we knew this year we would not be playing Wiffle ball anymore. The farmer, a man called Rowand, evidently told his people to let us use his land. The tractor got very close to our field and simply turned and went around. Wow, we thought, How lucky are we? This is a simple story, but one that depicts a very close-knit community.

In mid-June of that year, I woke up with intense pain in my right side, which I could not explain. I told my mother, and she decided to keep a close eye on me from then on. Was it hunger pain? Maybe something related to digestion? After three or four days, she took me to our family physician for answers. The doctor, who everyone in the town saw, I think, gave me some basic tests. Vitals were taken. I'm not sure if blood was taken, but I can remember one test that should have told the entire story. He pushed on the right side of my stomach. There was no pain until he let go. The pain was intense. The doctor explained to my mother that the symptoms were mimicking appendicitis, an inflammation in my appendix. Nothing to worry about. We've seen false appendicitis cases lately, he said, and off we went. The pain persisted over the next couple of weeks. I was really looking forward to the Fourth of July that year. Nothing excited me more than fireworks.

We went to our close friends' house who had a pool, and I remember being very angry with my mother because I could not swim. I remember feeling worse as each hour passed. I developed a high fever. My mother took me to the local hospital. Blood tests confirmed that my appendix had burst, and now we were dealing with peritonitis. My bowels had basically leaked into my stomach cavity, and my body was in overdrive in an attempt to attack the poison that led to a life-threatening situation. I was rushed to the operating room to remove my appendix.

After the surgery, as you can imagine I was incredibly sore. I was eight years old and really knew nothing more than sports, the Phillies and the Eagles. My temperature was very high but understandably so. The one thing I can remember were the needles, the constant needles. Even at eight, I could be brave and take the pain. I thought to myself, Do this and don't make Mom or Dad see you in pain. I found out that it is easy to be brave short-term. Long-term bravery in dealing with pain is a different beast. Now, looking back, it is profound typing these words, considering what was to come later in life.

My temperature continued to remain high in the coming days and weeks. We found out later that the doctor had removed my appendix but failed to clean out all the poison that had leaked into my body. As the weeks followed, my demeanor changed from cooperative to downright combative. I was sick of the pain; I was sick of being sick. The needles drove me crazy, and I counted every single one. If, in the morning, a nurse would come in to give me a needle, I would call my mother crying. She would jump out of bed and rush to the hospital. The nurses had been understanding and would wait for my mother to get there. One morning, a nurse came in as usual. Once again, I called my mother and asked the nurse to wait. She did for a while. After about fifteen minutes, she lost her patience and tried to administer the needle without Mom there. I began to fight her. She called in two other nurses to hold me down. I was brawling with three nurses as my mom walked in. Only then did I relent. It was a funny moment my mother later related to me. When I saw that, I knew I had a fighter on my hands.

As time went on, my fever would not come down despite all the antibiotics they had pumped into my system. High fevers can be tolerated in young children longer than adults. This is what I was told years later anyway. In adults, high fevers are very dangerous and can cause brain damage and even death. The same is true for children, but they have time that adults do not have. I have no idea if this is true, but that is what I was told. My temperature was consistently over 106 degrees, and time was not on our side. After three weeks, the fever would not break. At this time, I remember no longer being able to concentrate as well as I had earlier. I could, however, sense that urgency was on the minds of my parents and the doctors. They were trying different antibiotics, but nothing seemed to work.

The doctor took my mother aside and asked her to sign a waiver. The waiver was for an antibiotic that was meant only for adults, or so I was told much later. The danger in this antibiotic, the doctor explained, was that it could damage me in other areas. The doctor mentioned that it could affect my ability to produce children later. That was not exactly a priority at the time. My mother signed. I remember my father being there and speaking confidently to me for quite a while. Ah, this will work itself out, Ronnie, just hang in there. When the nurse came in, I believe he was new to the profession. As the needle went into my arm, he made some kind of mistake, and the needle bent to a ninety-degree angle. My father almost fainted. The nurse tried a second time and was successful. Now we had to wait.

After twenty-four hours, I could sense the urgency increasing. I really didn't think in terms of actual possible results. I had no idea what death was, really. All I knew was football season was right around the corner, and I was at the age where I could play organized football for the first time. Get this over with! That night, the doctors told my mother that they were going to have to operate a second time. This time, they were going to cut me from the top of my stomach down to my groin and clean out what was causing the infection that put my life in jeopardy. They were out of options, Mom was told. The problem was that I had lost twenty-five pounds already as a result of not being able to keep anything down that I ate. The odds were not good that I would survive another surgery. No choice, Mom was told. After three weeks of 106 temperatures, my brain was going to fry. They gave me an ice bath, something that they no longer do. I loved it. I was burning up for weeks and loved the relief. The ice melted away. I waited for surgery in the morning.

When I woke up, my mother was over me crying. I thought something was wrong or I upset her somehow. Wrong. My fever broke. My life was spared, I thought. God Almighty Himself saved me. I never said this out loud at the time, but I thought, and still do, that I was saved to do something impactful. Of course, at the time, I thought I was going to become the middle linebacker for the Philadelphia Eagles and become famous.

As long as I can remember, all I wanted to do was play football. When I was four or five years old, I would watch the NFL specials that were out there. Crunch time, meanest linebackers, and the undersized NFL stars. They all had an impact on me, and I really didn't know why. I would set up couch cushions and stack them up in our living room and time the hits along with Jack Lambert, Dick Butkus, or Mad Dog Mike Curtis. They were my heroes. I remember seeing a special on a cornerback called Pat Fischer from the Washington Redskins (Commanders). He was tiny and would launch himself into much larger opponents and put them on their butts. I loved his confidence and his willingness to share it on the field and off. Jack Lambert was an animal, and although he was tall, he was also undersized. He dominated the field physically and psychologically. Dick Butkus? Just pull up YouTube and you'll see the absolute destruction he caused for his opponents. Mike Mad Dog Curtis of the Baltimore Colts was another man I dreamed of being. I remember one quote from a teammate that made me laugh every time. I've never seen a man unhappier on the day of a game in my life. Loved it. Why? I'm not sure. I was drawn to the battle between men, the battle of wills, and overcoming obstacles and pain. This would serve me well in the years ahead.

At this point, I thought it would be helpful to introduce you to my mother and father. My mother, Catharine is a tough, fiery character, quick to anger and even quicker to love. Our relationship was very contentious, but also very loving. My father, Bob, was a very special man. He grew up poor as many of the time did. His father was an alcoholic, and from what I'm told, my grandmother was as well. He was a natural athlete and leader and had an older brother and younger sister. My earliest memories of Dad were of him taking me everywhere he went. He coached baseball in the spring and football in the fall. Dad carried himself with a confidence that seemed out of place to many who didn't know him. But to those who did know him, that confidence was earned. He was incredibly inclusive. When he was a kid, everyone was welcomed to play on the fields they used regardless of race or age. Everyone loved him. More on Mom and Dad later.

In my hometown, it was expected to participate in sports, especially in my neighborhood. It's amazing how many great athletes came out of a small neighborhood like ours. One of my dear friends and neighbors went on to come third in the Heisman Trophy voting when he played at the College of the Holy Cross. Crazy.

Early on, football was very important to me. I couldn't start until I was nine years old because of my surgery, and I was very upset about it. But once I hit nine years old, I was off and running. At that age, I wasn't incredibly small for my age, and I did very well. In my town, I was one of maybe three or four white kids in the program. The entire program was run by my black American friends and coaches whom I admired. My coach, Dave Smith, would come from work as a mechanic right over to the field across the street. He was so encouraging and complimentary that I wanted desperately to excel because of him. I needed his acceptance. This would carry on for the rest of my life.

In high school, I played for John Aveni, a legend in my hometown. Coach Aveni had gone on the play in the NFL after playing college ball at Indiana University for the Washington Redskins. I idolized this man. My father, who was a quarterback in high school and a member of the hall of fame, also coached for years under John Aveni. As a youngster, I would always hang out in the coach's room before and after games. I knew to keep my mouth shut and be a fly on the wall. I learned what he and the other coaches wanted to see and expected. I learned which players they admired and others who were not in their good graces. I couldn't wait to play for them. I got my wish once I turned fifteen as a freshman.

In my sophomore year, I was assigned to play middle linebacker like I always dreamed of. The problem was that I didn't know how to approach the position. By now, I was completely undersized at five feet, seven inches and maybe 165 pounds. I now was among monsters. What do I do? I struggled so much in the beginning. I was completely confused and outsized. Hmm. Let's figure this out. I began to view the offense as a whole. I started to predict plays that were to be run and knew based on many factors where the ball was going. I figured it out. I thrived as a junior and especially in my senior year. I thought I was Jack Lambert. I looked at field position, down and distance, and formation of the offense. After looking at film all week, I realized that based on formation, there were possible plays and probable plays. With this information in hand, I became very successful. At the time, I thought I was the best linebacker in the world and deserved a scholarship to a major division one program. I had a lot to learn.

During my senior year, I was being honored at the local country club as back of the week. There was a coach from some college there to give a pitch on how great his school was and why someone should pick Trenton State College (now The College of New Jersey). I was reluctant to speak to him since the year before, I was honored by the South Jersey Coaches Association (or something like that) as the back of the week as well. I believe it was The Brooks-Irvine Club, whatever that was. That year, I sat next to Andy Talley, head coach at Villanova University. I was nervous and wanted to strike up a conversation and mentioned maybe playing for him. Now, keep in mind this guy is the same size as me, short. He looked me up and down and said, Go try a Division III school. Boy, was I insulted! Not that I thought I would actually play for him, but to insult a young kid who was at an event celebrating his success was rude. I was angry. The next year, I sat next to Eric Hamilton of Trenton State College. From my experience the year before, I didn't want to open myself up to another awkward situation. My dad walked up and said, Coach, this is my son Ronnie. Why don't you exchange information? We did.

By this time, I realized that my size was a problem to overcome. I just wanted a chance somewhere. I visited Glassboro State College (now Rowan University) in my hometown. I knew the coach well, and my high school coaches did too. They gave me the thumbs-up to him. As I sat there, I got the usual questions: How tall are you? How much do you weigh? What is your forty time? Blah blah blah. I found myself burning with anger. I reminded him that I played about three hundred yards from where we were sitting. Never bothered to see a game? Very forward and inappropriate. Keep in mind that