Harry Coffman lived much of his life not feeling good enough, being burdened with doubt and condemnation of his past. In this book, Good Enough, he tells about his life journey. Because of a shocking event, Harry found something was wrong with his beliefs. For years he had been a believer and knew he had been forgiven. His prayers were going unanswered-was it God or me? There had to be something wrong with me. During the three years living in minor seclusion, studying and praying, suddenly by revelation he discovered he was good enough! Since that time marvelous things have happened in his life. He sees the grace and blessings of God and is able to live what was accomplished through Christ on the cross. "I am free!" >p>Whatever your background, experience, or belief, you will find healing and redemption in this story of one man discovering his true identity-the identity God had in mind in the beginning. Now, with an open mind, begin this wonderful adventure discovering your true identity, knowing you are good enough will enable you to more fully experience the blessing of God in your life as never before!
Good Enough
Discovering the Secret of Your True IdentityBy Dr. Harry E. CoffmaniUniverse, Inc.
Copyright © 2011 Dr. Harry E. Coffman
All right reserved.ISBN: 978-1-4502-7592-7 Contents
Endorsements............................................................ixForeword by Dr Benjamin Coffman.........................................xiIntroduction............................................................xvChapter 1 How I Became a Believer.......................................1Chapter 2 What Went Wrong?..............................................15Chapter 3 Awake to Righteousness........................................23Chapter 4 The Secret of Righteousness...................................29Chapter 5 Well, What About Sin?.........................................37Chapter 6 My First Assignment: Washington DC............................43Chapter 7 What About the Past?..........................................51Chapter 8 Village Life..................................................60Chapter 9 Living In the Supernatural....................................67Chapter 10 Let It Rain..................................................79Chapter 11 The Sound of Heaven..........................................88Chapter 12 Get Your Mind Renewed........................................99Chapter 13 Focus On the Kingdom of God..................................108Chapter 14 Can I Do My Own Thing?.......................................113Chapter 15 Do You Really Want Adventure?................................119Chapter 16 Hang On To the Benefits of Righteousness.....................130Chapter 17 Fruits of Righteousness......................................138Conclusion..............................................................143Appendix Scriptures on Righteousness....................................145
Chapter One
How I Became a Believer
When I was four years old, I remember my mom chasing my drunk, alcoholic dad out of our house with a big, old butcher knife. I was standing by my crib, screaming and crying uncontrollably, because I was very frightened. My mother came running to me and angrily spanked me with the same butcher knife. Since that terrifying night, I don't remember ever seeing her angrier than she was with my dad. Thinking back, this is my first childhood memory.
Another time, she almost cut off my thumb with the same knife. Now, I am getting ahead of the story. My mom was a small, wiry woman, barely weighing one hundred pounds, and she was timid in some situations. However, she could hold her own and was not afraid to tackle any situation. No man or creature big or small could intimidate her. She could build or repair anything, including building the little log house we lived in.
I don't remember very much except being beaten many times, sometimes until I was unconscious. Living in a little log house in Cave Junction, I remember being tied to oak trees in the blazing southern Oregon sun without food for three or four days. Then, every time I brought a report card home, I would inevitably receive a beating and promptly be sent to my bedroom without any food. Emotionally, I was frustrated, terrified, and I felt unloved and unwanted. I felt alone against everyone in my world.
I never knew what action she might take. Often, as we were sitting at the dinner table, she would suddenly hit me in the face with her fist. Apparently, I did something that agitated her. What did I unconsciously do? Was I chewing food while talking with my mouth open? Did I have my elbows on the table? I never knew why I was being reprimanded and never received an explanation. Once, I reached across the table for the butter instead of politely asking for it to be passed to me. Immediately, she picked up the dreaded butcher knife, which she always kept within reach, and she whacked my thumb, almost cutting it off. Today, I still wear the scars on both thumbs from this and another attack from that horrid knife.
My whole childhood was lived in fear of the pain being inflicted on me. Often, I slept under my bed for fear that she would come and start beating me with her belt or anything handy. I could do nothing right and was yelled and cursed at all of the time. The one thing she incessantly said was, "You are just like your dad." Because of her hatred for my dad and for men in general, her anger was always directed toward me—never toward my sister.
None of this helped my self-esteem or self-image. Besides the abuse, my peers made fun of me. My red hair, freckles, bucked teeth, and less than up-to-date clothing (due to lack of funds) gave my peers an excuse to enjoy taunting me.
When I was fifteen, I lived with my mother and sister in Phoenix, Arizona. At the middle school, I met Joe Guzman, who soon became my best friend. I was always hanging out at his house, enjoying the family atmosphere and his mother's homemade tortillas and frijoles.
One day after having been beaten severely for some unknown reason, something snapped in me. It was then that I made up my mind that I would never allow myself to be beaten again by my mother or anyone else. As a result, I decided to run away. My plans were to catch a train to Happy Camp, California, where my uncle and aunt were living. There, I would be able to work in the woods with my cousins. However, that well-devised plan never came to fruition.
Instead, I decided to hang out on the streets of Phoenix for several days, sleeping and eating wherever. I hadn't been in school, at Joe's house, or with the Mexican gang that Joe and I ran with. That raised a question in Joe's mind, and he was determined to find me. First, he went to my house and asked where I was. My mother assumed that I'd run away when she heard him ask for me. She told Joe what she thought had happened to me and proceeded to tell him emphatically to get off her property.
Joe and his brother and father began looking all over town for me. They finally found me downtown. I was tired, frightened, and filthy from spending several days on the streets. They talked me into coming home to live with them.
When we arrived at their home, Mrs. Guzman, a motherly, caring woman, had a tub filled with hot water for a much-needed bath, as well as new underclothes, new pants, and shirt for me. After the bath and clean clothes, I enjoyed a big feast of Mexican food that had been prepared just for me. For the first time in my life, I felt good and accepted.
Mr. Guzman was a very strong man, both physically and in character. He was the foreman of a building construction company, where he had many men under his supervision. After I was cleaned up and had that big, scrumptious meal, he sat me down and said to me, "Colorado (which means "red" in Spanish), I will let you live here, and I will treat you as one of my sons. I will teach you how to work, and I will pay you like I pay them, but you must obey me. You will also finish your eighth grade. I will go to your mother and tell her that you are with us. Are you in agreement with that?"
"Yes, sir!" I said, and I happily stayed with them.
Life became very good. I worked hard and learned how to handle money. Graduation from the eighth grade was an accomplishment for me. I looked forward to it with anticipation, knowing without a doubt that my mother and sister would be in the audience since we had made amends and I had sent her some money. Alas, they didn't come, and this caused more hurt feelings and old frustrations.
Learning to handle money the way Mr. Guzman taught me was an asset. Nevertheless, I was never able...
