Honestly: My Life and Stryper Revealed Read Online Free Page A

outbursts of redemption blended with a lot of singing.
    Swaggart’s charisma drew our family in, particularly me as an impressionable young kid. I was too young to be skeptical of televangelists. Getting older and playing in Stryper would eventually change all of that—but for now, as a kid, I just thought it was cool to see all the energy and theatrics, not to mention the music and the message.
    Our TV was an old RCA cabinet model—one of the hybrids that was a TV and a cheap piece of furniture all in one. It held precious space in our living room as though it were a member of the family—and those times when Jimmy Swaggart was on, it was a member of the family.
    Like most televangelists, Jimmy would give an altar call at the end of his sermon. He usually cried during this part of the show. If he didn’t, the audience most certainly did. One day, our entire family held hands right there in our living room, and we all unanimously accepted Christ into our lives. We gave God the rightful and prominent place in our hearts.
    Not long after that, we went out and found a local First Southern Baptist Church and we started attending regularly. We even got involved with the worship team. But it didn’t stick, not with Rob and me anyway.
    We had dreams of rock stardom to pursue and our mission to “make it” involved a lifestyle that didn’t seem to mesh too well with early morning church services. As Jesus teaches us in Luke, “He who is forgiven much, loves much.” I can testify that I threw myself into the business of having much to be forgiven. It’s ironic given my ultimate career as a Christian musician that I initially saw church as an obstacle to my goals instead of a counterpart.
    Rob’s passion for becoming a successful musician was more deeply rooted than mine. Although my days as a third grade talent show superstar planted the musical seed, I wasn’t quite ready to be in a serious relationship with music. Rob and I began to slowly spend less and less time together. As he became more and more serious about music, I became more and more serious about being a punk brother.
    When Robert and his band mates practiced in the garage, they would often light candles. Once when they weren’t around, my best friend and partner in crime, Greg Rahmeyer, and I went into the garage, lit the candles and melted wax all over their equipment. The wax hardened and sealed the knobs.
    I’m surprised Rob and his band mates didn’t give us a beat down. I was a real punk. Although I was running around getting into lots of neighborhood trouble, I still knew I wanted to play music. I just wasn’t quite ready to make it a career.
    Robert however was nose-to-the-grindstone serious about music. But there was only one problem. He couldn’t find and/or keep, a good singer.

FOUR
    Years earlier, when I was around 6 or 7, Rob, Lisa and I would stay with our grandparents one, two and sometimes three nights a week while my parents performed at local bars or clubs. My grandparent’s names were Maxine and Melvin, but we called them Nana and Popo. Nana is one who should be equally credited for giving me the foundation to eventually become a professional musician.
    She came from a family of 12 kids, the Lamb family of Oklahoma. When we would visit, there was always music in the air. She was a singer and a songwriter and she even played a little guitar. Music was the centerpiece of our visits. Nana would sit around the living room playing guitar and singing. Her voice relaxed me as she would teach us country, classic rock and even traditional hymns. Every visit turned into a jam session.
    “ Michael, I’ll give you a quarter if you’ll sing.” she’d say, knowing I would be reluctant and shy—and I always was.
    Rob was never hesitant to join in. He’d bring out pots and pans and bang on them with wooden spoons. It took a little more coaxing to convince me. Sometimes when I wouldn’t sing, Nana would raise the stakes, saying in her thick