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Robin Harfouche’s Story
Psychic Phenomena, Channelers, and Spirit Guides in Hollywood to a Heavenly Encounter

A rising star with psychic powers is paralyzed, then receives a miracle from God.

The log cabin was damp and cold. It was twilight, and the rising moon spilled silver streaks into the darkness of the cabin. I could barely make out the stark furnishings of the room: two roughly hewn chairs, a table, and the creaky iron bed I’d just left.

“She was a witch . . . but don’t worry, honey. She’s dead now.”

How did I get here? I wondered, walking toward the open window. Thick woods surrounded the cabin. A sense of foreboding clutched at my chest. Suddenly, I saw a woman on horseback galloping toward me down a narrow path. I stood transfixed. She was wearing a long, dark, blue dress. On her feet were shiny black riding boots. A dark, hooded cloak flapped wildly as she drew nearer on her white steed. Her piercing, steel-blue eyes glared at me, beckoning me against my will.

“What do you want with me?” I screamed. Unseen hands pushed me from behind toward the door, which now swung open by itself. “No!” I cried, trying to resist. The woman dismounted, heading straight for me. “No! No! No!” I screamed, my strength waning.

My eyes flew open. No woman. No unseen hands. Only darkness and the thumping of my own heart. A chilly California breeze played with the yellow curtains framing my bedroom window. Trembling, I murmured, “Our Father, which art in heaven, hallowed by Thy name…” I couldn’t remember where I learned the words—certainly not in church, for my family never went—but they always comforted me. Somewhere between darkness and dawn I finally fell asleep, trying to convince myself, “It was only a dream…”

When I told the recurring dream to my mother, she said, “That sounds exactly like my grandmother.” Her voice trembled, “When I was a little girl, she used to scare me to death. She was a witch.”  I must have blanched pale as a ghost, because Mom quickly added, “But don’t worry, honey. She’s dead now.”

And so began my initiation into the spiritual warfare that raged for generations over my family, a war between good and evil. On one side were black, satanic witches—on the other, Spirit-filled believers. The black witches believed someone in just about every generation would be born with what they called “the veil,” a supernatural “gift” of ESP—extrasensory perception. I was the one. From a young age I’d been able to read people’s minds. I saw things and felt things no one else seemed to perceive.

My Grandparents Ranch

As a result, I was considered a super-sensitive kid. Because of this I was an open target for the bullies in my school and neighborhood. It was so bad, after kindergarten was over, my parents decided to send me to my grandparents prune ranch for the summer, about forty five minutes away. I was ecstatic; Grandpa and Grandma were wonderful. Unknown to me, a visit that was only supposed to last for three months would eventually stretched into years.

The ranch house was surrounded by three green hills and in front of the house stood the big brown barn. When we arrived, Grandpa confided, “I’ve got a surprise waitin’ for you.” He led me to one of the stalls in the barn. There she was—a young Holstein-Friesan calf. As I stroked her soft fur, I immediately dubbed her “Clara.” We became the best of friends. The long summer days passed quickly as I threw myself into ranch life—helping Grandpa with chores, picking apples for Grandma’s pies, and talking to the animals, who seemed to understand me better than people. Sometimes I took Clara to a huge alfalfa field near the ranch, where she would graze contentedly for hours while I strung wildflower necklaces for her.

Then it happened… an intrusion that brought pain and confusion swirling like dark storm clouds into my mind and life. Grandpa hired James, a twenty-year-old neighbor with greasy black hair and an acne-scarred complexion, to help him with some fence-work. Eventually they asked him to babysit me once a month, on the recurring Friday night when both Grandpa and Grandma had to be gone.

James crept into my bedroom that first night under the guise of ‘tucking me in,’ but his intentions were altogether different. He threatened to kill me if I ever told. I was robbed of my innocence. Eventually it escalated to ‘going all the way.’ During those monthly ‘nights of horror’ I learned to simply lie still, pretend I was asleep, and endure it. Squeezing my eyes shut, I would imagine myself inside a little black box in my mind where he couldn’t ‘touch’ me. Once inside this box, I started hearing voices.

“Come up here with us!” the chorus of voices would say gleefully. “He can’t get you here.” Eager to join these beckoning new friends, I would rise above my bed. I could see my physical self still in bed, but my real self would ascend until I was traveling in space, surrounded by stars. One special place I went to was full of children—at least, I thought they were children. “You’re special,” they would tell me. “You’re not like other people.”

After James finished and retreated to another part of the house, I would see myself coming back toward the earth—then I would be back in bed, inside my body again. A gold shimmery thread connected me to my body, and the “children” told me never to let go of it. It was my connection. I somehow knew that if I lost that, I would lose myself. By the time I was twelve I figured out James really wasn’t going to kill me if I talked, but now shame kept me silent. One day I found the courage to call Mom and tell her I wanted to come home. She wondered at the urgency in my voice, but she and Dad came to pick me up the very next day, no questions asked. I was glad to be home again.

I didn’t realize how traumatized I was. I just knew I’d been violated by an adult that was supposed to care for me and protect me. To counteract that ‘victim’ mentality, I became an overachiever. I thought if I could get a 4.0 average, be listed in Who’s Who, and become the best at whatever I did, people would love me. At the age fifteen I was an honor student, homecoming queen, head cheerleader, head majorette, Miss Solano County, and voted by my classmates as ‘Most Likely to Succeed.’

Everything seemed to be going so much better, but then, the ‘other realm’ made another play for my soul. Before my junior year, I was selected to travel to England with a group of students. It was there that I had my first taste of how frighteningly real the psychic realm can be.

A ‘Shakespearean’ Drama

We landed at Heathrow Airport then made the trip out to Kings College where we were staying. I was staring out the window of my room, gazing at the ancient cobblestone pathways. Just the day before, as the bus sloshed through the streets of London, I felt something strange come over me… an indefinable weakness permeating my body. Probably jet lag, I told myself. But this morning I couldn’t shake off the feeling.

Firm rapping at the door brought me out of my reverie. “Coming!” I shouted. It was Katrina, a girl I’d met on the flight from California. Only sixteen, she seemed to possess an adult-like authority that was unnerving—intriguing.  Her father was one of the trip counselors. As we were leaving for our bus ride to Shakespeare’s birthplace, she slipped something into her jacket pocket. “What’s that?” I asked. “Just my tarot cards,” she said, “I’ll show them to you later.” When we arrived, I suggested, “Why don’t we start with Anne Hathaway’s cottage.”

We strolled through the manicured garden leading to the entrance of the cottage, then stepped inside. Cool, dank air and the stillness of centuries enclosed us. Fascinated with history, I soon found myself alone on the second floor. My attention was drawn to two gilded books with green leather bindings that lay open on the desk.

As I leaned down to read the ancient print, suddenly, like a camera zooming in, my eyes riveted on a single word written on the page. It was my name. No! This can’t be, I thought, my chest tightening. ROBIN. ROBIN. ROBIN. The sound of my name echoed in my head. Terrified, I bumped into the wall. Wincing, I looked down the staircase. What I saw didn’t make sense. A little girl in a long, white nightgown was falling backward down the steep incline. “Help me! Help me!” she screamed, her arms outstretched, her eyes pleading. I watched in horror as she landed with a thud, lifeless. I started sobbing. I’d just witnessed the death of a child.

Someone grabbed me around the waist. I gasped. It was only Katrina. As we walked to a bench in the garden, she whispered, “I see what you see” “You what?” “I see the little girl. I see the long, white nightgown. I see her falling downstairs.” Her father, Mr. Holmes, patted my shoulder, saying “It’s all right Robin. This area is full of spiritual presences.” When I told him what I saw, his only explanation was, “You probably lived here in another life. Perhaps that little girl was you.” It was all too strange. On the ride back, Mr. Holmes talked candidly of the psychic realm. It was from him I first learned the term New Age.

That night I slept fitfully, troubled by disturbing dreams. Suddenly a loud THWACK! jolted me awake. The double, hinged window across the room had opened and was banging against the wall. I knew something was in my room. I rushed over to Katrina’s room. “You can’t let these spirits control you,” she said matter-of-factly. I grabbed my pillow and quilt and made a pallet on the floor beside Katrina’s bed, sleeping soundly the rest of the night. The next morning she taught me how to use tarot cards. Three weeks later we flew back to California. I never saw Katrina again… but her influence remained.

The Spiritual Stalker

Robin, not long after finding the solution to all the psychic intrusions into her life

September of 1975, I enrolled at California Polytechnic State University. Little did I know I would meet a ‘stalker’ there… from another realm. One day, on my way to class, I heard a loud whistle behind me. I turned around, but no one was there. Strange, I thought. I know I heard it. A prickly sensation went up the back of my neck.

The peculiar phenomenon occurred several days in a row: the eerie whistle, then the unsettling feeling that someone was following me. One morning I was running late, so I decided to take a short cut down a shady side street. I heard it again… that horrible whistle. This time a sense of dread seized me.

When I slowly turned around, my eyes locked onto a robe-clad figure standing a few yards away. Around eight feet tall, he wore a long, white robe. His white, shoulder-length hair was brushed back from his forehead, revealing strange features set in tightly stretched skin and cold blue eyes. I stood frozen in place, not convinced he was real. “I’m here to help you,” he said in a monotone voice. “I’ve been watching you since you were a small child.” That was enough for me. I took off running, anxiously repeating the prayer that had sustained me all my young life, “Our Father, which art in heaven, hallowed by Thy name, Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done….”

That night, as I tried to sleep, I sensed a presence. I opened my eyes and ‘he’ was there, hovering. I shook myself. “You’re not dreaming,” the figure said, reading my mind. “I’ve come to help you. I’m a celestial spirit assigned to you.” He continued, “I’ve come to aid you in your destiny and teach you about the coming New Age.”

“I am part of a group of twelve beings who live in a higher spiritual plane. We are more advanced than earth people… The counsel of twelve is responsible for releasing… higher knowledge and always chooses individuals who have certain abilities… We’ve been watching you. We’ve taken notice of your special gifts.” Then he divulged, “Remember when you were a child and you used to leave your body? I was there. I was in that special place you went to. I’ve known you all your life, and now it is time for us to merge energies.”

As quickly as he had come, he disappeared. “Dear God,” I whispered, clutching the sheets, “This can’t be happening to me.” Without any Christian foundation to build on, I mistakenly lumped all supernatural phenomena under the vague term “God.” But there were positive and negative forces to the supernatural universe. Surely God was the positive energy. The other stuff… well, I didn’t really know what to do with it.

I went to the university library where I looked up books on psychic encounters. For hours on end I would sit cross-legged on the floor in the narrow aisles, a pile of dusty books around me. Through my research I learned, to my relief, that many people had experience similar encounters. These celestial spirits were called spirit guides, and they were supposed to elevate a person into greater realms of spirituality. Psychic things began to happen to me more often, even receiving a ‘glimpse’ of the bloody body of a woman murdered in a house rented by one of my friends. Turned out, it had happened just like my ‘vision.’

I went to a psychology professor hoping he could help me. Dr. Lands was familiar with parapsychology, so he listened to all my experiences, then began testing my level of psychic ability. He held up cards for me to tell what shape, number or color was on the other side. I succeeded at every test. As we talked, I felt the ‘stalker’ enter the room. By now I could converse with it in my mind. He said, “You can’t shut me out, Robin. You and I are meant to be one. You belong to me. The universe can be touched by you.”

Noticing my fixation on something unseen, the doctor excitedly asked, “Is he here? Is he saying anything?” I responded, “He said I can’t shut him out and that the universe can be touched by me.” Taken aback, Dr. Lands said, “Ask what he means by that.” The spirit responded, “Tell the doctor that a quantum leap in the consciousness of man is coming to the whole earth, and that you have been chosen to assist us in our mission to bring the whole earth into one mind, one religion—the New Age.” I hurried away from the room. I didn’t care about the human race taking quantum leaps into the future—I just wanted out.

Meeting ‘Marilyn’

I knew something had to happen soon or I would lose my mind. I decided to hike up a mountain to “the slab” (a large piece of concrete way out in the woods, apparently poured for the foundation of a home never built). It was a perfect place to meditate, which I had begun to take seriously, practicing twice a day. I sat down in my usual posture, the sunlight bathing me with its golden warmth. Everything was so peaceful: the sounds of nature all around me. I emptied my mind and opened myself to become one with the trees, the sky, the sun, the universe. I felt light and free. Then I heard it—a lilting voice—not human, but not belonging to my ‘tormentor’ either.

A spirit impersonating Marilyn Monroe began manifesting itself psychically.

“I will help you. Come up with me higher.” The voice sounded soft, feminine. “Who are you?” I asked. “I am Marilyn. I’ve come to save you from the evil that’s tried to destroy you.” Attracted by the comforting voice I kept listening. “The evil came to hurt you. He’s from the dark side. Stay with me, and he’ll not harm you.” Suddenly a brilliant, white light hovered over me. This must be Marilyn, I thought.

“God is us. We are God. There are good energies, and there are evil energies. What you open yourself up to is what you become.” My mind seemed to be speaking on its own, whispering secret truth. Within a few months I was able to see a vague image of Marilyn in my mind whenever I meditated. I grew to trust the gentle voice that seemed infinitely wiser than me.

Dancing with Destiny

One day I passed the gym on my way to the journalism building and saw a dance class in progress. Something about the movement of the dancers made me stop and gaze. “You want to be a dancer, don’t you?” said the voice, reading my thoughts. “You can.” The scene mesmerized me—the mirrors, the beat of the music, the rows of sweaty dancers in leotards and leg-warmers. The instructor looked up from her warm-up routine and our eyes connected. She walked up and said the same words I’d just heard, then she added, “I can make you a professional dancer in four years if you’re willing to give me twenty hours a week.”

The next day I was on the front row of that class. It quickly became my passion. At the end of the first quarter, part of my final exam was to choreograph a complete dance routine. It flowed perfectly. When I was finished, the other dancers even broke into spontaneous cheers. I glanced at Jackie, my teacher. Her face was beaming. She sent me a folded note,

A+++  Let’s have lunch.

When we met, she invited me to join her dance company. Normally, no one got to dance professionally after just a few months of training. I almost laughed out loud with joy. “I’ll take it!” Half an hour later, walking back to my dorm, Marilyn spoke to me, “See? I told you you could do it.” I smiled and flew up the stairs—taking them two at a time.

Ticket to Hollywood

The thick fog obscured the highway as I drove toward Hollywood that spring morning of 1979. I was going to my first professional dance audition. Marilyn had promised I would become a star. As I rounded a curve, she spoke. “Today you will get this job and it will be your ticket to Los Angeles… Just go with the flow, and do as I tell you…” “Yes, Marilyn,” I said.

Dancing days photo in Hollywood—not as exciting a life as some would imagine

Five hours later I pulled in front of the Debbie Reynolds Studio in North Hollywood. Cars were crammed into every conceivable parking space around the large warehouse facility. The audition room was filled with 500-600 girls. I checked my appearance in the mirror, lifting my chin a little higher. What did I have to worry about? Didn’t I already know what the outcome would be?

I felt the choreographer’s eyes on me as I danced. When the music stopped, he nodded his head “yes,” a sign that I was one of eight dancers he chose for a one-year contract to dance on the country-western television specials for the producer of “Solid Gold.” I whispered, “Thank you, Marilyn.”

Within a few weeks I moved to Hollywood and rented an apartment located right underneath the famous Hollywood sign. That night Marilyn appeared to me in a dream. Until then I’d seen only hazy images of her in my mind’s eye. In my dream I was looking out my apartment window, when I heard her voice behind me. Turning, I saw the slinky form of Marilyn Monroe lounging on my new sofa, a glass of champagne in her hand. “Don’t look so surprised,” the spirit said, laughing cattily. “Now let me tell you what to do to succeed in this town.” Her first instruction was for me to dye my hair platinum blonde. I complied the next day.

From that time on, Marilyn was no longer just a voice. She appeared throughout my days in a physical apparition that only I could see. Years whizzed by. By the mid-1980s my life was careening at a hectic pace. Then one evening, I received a phone call at a friend’s apartment. I was puzzled. I hadn’t given anyone the number.

“Hello, is this Robin Harry?” a man’s voice asked. “Yes.” The caller identified himself as Steven Baker, a prominent film director. “This is going to sound strange, but I need to find out who you are,” he said, chuckling apologetically. “When I came back from lunch today, your name and number were on my private list of people to call. I have no earthly idea how they got there.” By the end of the conversation, I had an appointment the next day.

As I drove through the manicured streets of Beverly Hills, Marilyn detailed what would happen. She informed me this was only a stepping stone to get me in with somebody much bigger. She was right. By the time we’d finished dinner together, he was planning on introducing me to Marvin Schlesser, a famous agent in a leading talent agency. I was there the next day by 9:45 a.m. After a lengthy meeting Marvin told he would represent me professionally. I glanced over his head. There Marilyn was, smiling, her red lips parting slightly. Everything grew quiet.

Marvin glanced around the room and softly spoke, “Do you have a spirit guide?” “Yes,” I said, waiting for his reaction. “Is it Marilyn Monroe?” His discernment startled me. “Yes,” I half-whispered. “Is she here now?” I nodded. “I used to do some work for her when she was alive.” My heart was thumping wildly as I stepped on an elevator an hour later. I thought how lucky I was to have Marilyn on my side. Clearly, the last two days had been arranged by her.

By that time I was convinced that my imminent stardom would become a platform for me to share my enlightenment with the world. The quantum leap, the one-world religion, spirituality: these were all themes of my vision for the future. During hours of meditation, Marilyn had shared those concepts with me. A few days later, my tarot card reader, Sam, invited me to a private meeting of psychics in Mill Valley, a New Age Mecca located in Northern California. I’d been attending these types of meetings regularly, learning all I could about the New Age. This meeting was hosted by Mrs. Langley, a powerful woman in the movement. Her guest was a well-known medium, with an ordinary housewife appearance. I was one of about twenty or so guests.

“Now, she is going to channel the descended master,” the assistant said. As the medium in front of us opened her mouth and spoke, a wave of nausea washed over me. The voice was deep and masculine. In a commanding monotone, it told us how to become more one with the universe—more one with “God.” I’d witnessed numerous channelings, but this one frightened me.

When the session ended, the medium looked directly at me and walked out. After the guests went into the refreshment area, the medium’s assistant tapped my shoulder. “The spirit wants to speak to you,” she said, her face expressionless. I followed her down a stone path to a small, star-shaped building. As I entered the ‘star room’ (that I later learned was in the shape of a pentagram, a satanic symbol) the sickening sensation gripped me again. The spirit spoke out of the medium, “You will lead people. You will become famous. You have already connected with the man. He will help you…” The voice continued, describing in remarkable detail my past, present and future.

Shortly after, for some reason, my relationship with Marilyn began to sour. I began to catch glimmers of a hostile side to her nature. At times, she grew argumentative, snapping at me if I didn’t jump to do her bidding. Then she did something outrageous. She forced an entry into my body, while I was kissing my boyfriend, Brian, as if she wanted to kiss him through me. He pulled back aghast, realizing what had happened. Rubbing his eyes, he said, “O my God, this is too weird. I wasn’t kissing you Robin. It wasn’t your face. I saw Marilyn Monroe.” I was furious. Marilyn had invaded me without permission. I shouted angry insults and threats to her. She vanished for the night.

Over the next few months I continued attending meetings with Mrs. Langley’s crowd, though I began sensing an emerging evil in their midst. Simultaneously, it was becoming uncomfortably clear that Marilyn and I were in a power struggle for my mind—and my soul. I was determined not to let her win.

The Accident

The time was 6 p.m. I’d already put in a ten-hour day on the set of a Coca-Cola commercial; now I had to rush to Beverly Hills where I was working part-time as a waitress in a hip Italian restaurant. I hurried in the back entrance. “Hey, baby!” It was Tony, the sleazy manager who tried to dress like Fonzy. “You’re late.” I was working on a commercial, OK? I’m sorry,” I said.

Look who just walked in,” a fellow waitress said. “They’re in your section.” It was a very influential director and the other was the star of a popular nighttime television series. Everyone turned and looked. Someday everyone will do that for me, I thought as I walked up to the table. The celebrity watched me as I approached. He nudged the director next to him, whispering something to Tony. They all chuckled. All three men took a long, sweeping look at me. I felt violated, as if I were standing there naked. Blood rushed to my face. I hoped it would go unnoticed.

I went to the bathroom and took a couple of hits of cocaine. “Thank God for drugs,” I said aloud. Asking someone else to fill the drink order for me, I retreated to the kitchen. An inner voice said, “You can’t let them get to you like that! Get out and take that order!” It was a command accompanied by an invisible push. The hostess looked startled as I grabbed the tray from her hand. She backed away a few steps. Then someone shouted, “Look out!” A split second later the nine foot high, 150-pound utility closet door fell out of the wall and came crashing down on me. I screamed as it struck my skull, then I crumpled to the ground. Someone spoke firmly, “Get her out of here before anyone notices!” The last thing I remember is being carried out to the back seat of a car.

Sterile Walls, Shattered Dreams

I came to in the hospital, gazing at several IVs hooked to my arm. “God, where am I?” I said shakily, “I can’t feel my body.” I was shaking with a seizure. The nurse rushed in with a hypodermic needle. She administered the drug and the shaking ceased. Dr. Sellerman told me I had suffered major damage to the motor control center in my brain. Day after day, I fought the wrenching pain and violent shaking that seized my body, each seizure remedied by a shot of Demerol. One of the worst thoughts plaguing my mind was the realization that I was ‘set up’ for the accident, that the ‘voice’ had purposefully led me right into the path of danger. Maybe it wasn’t Marilyn’s voice, but there was definitely a supernatural cause.

After a month they moved me to the Shuman Rehabilitation Clinic. “You don’t know how fortunate you are to be going here,” said Dr. Sellerman as he walked by my wheel chair. I could barely lift my head to smile feebly and say, “Let’s go.” Rehab started at 9 a.m. each morning—speech therapy, physical therapy, occupational therapy and biofeedback therapy. I would finish by four o’clock in the afternoon. With the physical exertion of therapy, I was consuming even more pain mediation than before and quickly became addicted. Even though nearly two months had passed since the accident, I was still having four to five seizures a day. My whole body would shake violently for half an hour.

Therapy was grueling, but it worked. The day to attempt walking finally came. With a therapist on each side and one in front, they stood me up. When I took my first few steps the room full of therapists, hospital workers and friends exploded with cheers and wild clapping. “I did it,” I said to Dr. Sellerman, “I really did it,” tears streaming down my face. I was on cloud nine. I was still a long way away from normal, but it was a start. Not long after that, I returned home. When my friend Jeri pulled us into the driveway, I looked up and saw the Hollywood sign on the hill. “What a joke,” I hissed. “It should say Hellwood, home of broken dreams and discarded dreamers.” Life was overwhelming. Confinement to the wheelchair, the excruciating pain and the constant seizures—it all took its toll on me mentally and emotionally.

Encountering the True God

I thought seriously about ending my own life. How tragic it would have been, especially since hope was about to dawn!

One day I just couldn’t take it anymore. I pulled myself out of bed and made my way to the kitchen, bracing on the furniture. I opened the cabinet and saw the bottles of pain pills. The thought hit me. “That’s it, I’ll take an overdose of pills.” Just in time, the loud ringing of the telephone interrupted my thoughts. The answering machine clicked on. “Hey, Robin, are you there?” a familiar voice said. “Do you want to go to church tonight? I thought maybe you could use some company. If you do, give me a call.”

It was Prescott, the bass player in my boyfriend’s rock band. Ever since he’d become “born again,” he hadn’t been the same. I looked at the bottles of pills again. Maybe I’ll just go to church with Prescott and then do it when I get back. It took three hours for me to get ready, then Prescott called. His car had broken down on the freeway and he couldn’t pick me up. “Maybe it isn’t such a good idea for me to come anyway,” I said. “No, Robin, you’ve just got to come!” he responded with urgency in his voice.

Leaving the wheelchair just inside the front door, I slowly made my way down the three steps in front of my house and over to the driveway. Hollywood Presbyterian happened to be just three blocks down the hill from my apartment. Somehow I coasted the car safely down the hill. As I pulled in the parking lot, I noticed a young man with jet black hair who was dressed in a suit standing in front of the small chapel. His name was Christian Harfouche. I didn’t know I was looking at the man who one day would be my husband.

I struggled out of my car and immediately felt the presence of an unseen power all around. I had always been sensitive to spiritual feelings, but this was different. I knew something extraordinary was about to happen. As the people sang, they lifted their hands to God. I was touched by the beauty of their voices blending together. Fresh tears poured down my cheeks. Then a realization hit me. “I’m not in pain,” I confided to Prescott, my eyes wide with disbelief. When the singing was over, a man walked to the front and began to speak. As he preached, his words pricked my heart. He told the simple story of how Jesus came and died on the cross of Calvary, how He gave His life for me so that I could spend eternity in heaven. Something leaped inside me. I knew that for the first time in my life I was hearing the truth.

Suddenly Marilyn’s image intruded into my mind. I watched in horror as a deceiving façade peeled away. Gone was the svelte feminine form, the platinum hair, the pretty face. In their place was a hideous black creature with sunken features and twisted, claw-like hands. Its bulging yellow eyes glowed with evil. No one had to tell me. I knew intuitively: ‘Marilyn’ was an evil spirit that had lied to me and wanted me to use me to deceive others. I opened my eyes to avoid the horrible image. At the same instant I heard a scream inside my head. “You wouldn’t go all the way! You could have had it all. I’m the one who wanted you dead. You knew too much! You knew all about the plan!” I heard one last scream, then silence. The spirit’s grip on me was gone.

The preacher stopped speaking and asked those who wanted to accept Jesus to come forward. “I need God,” I whispered, as I pulled myself toward the aisle, “the real God.” “You are being healed,” I heard the minister say as I fell backward, hit by some invisible power. Sobs racked my body. I couldn’t control myself. When I got up I was astonished. All of the muscles in my body worked. They were supple, not clenched into rock-hard knots. For the first time in moths I could turn my neck from side to side. My legs felt limber and strong again. I could walk normally.

When I returned to my apartment, I was not prepared for what hit me. This is God, I heard in my spirit like an audible voice, You have been healed. This voice was different than the others that used to torment me. Then God gave me specific instructions. He told me to throw out all the occult paraphernalia I had accumulated over the years: my crystals, books, tarot cards, New Age tapes, everything. All that remained on my bookshelf was a little paperback Bible. Then God let me know, You will go through two days of drug withdrawals. On Monday you will be well. Do not worry, because I will be with you all the time.

The next forty-eight hours were the most difficult of my life. But after it was over I was free. Then I attended a home prayer meeting. The man who was preaching the night I was healed was there. He said “I knew you would come tonight… When I was praying earlier this evening, the Lord showed me He was going to fill you with the Holy Spirit…” Before he even got the word “Spirit” out, I was knocked flat on the floor by the same power I’d felt the night I was healed. Suddenly I heard the sound of my own voice, but the words coming from my mouth were not in English. I was speaking in tongues, just as they did in the early church.

Robin married Christian Harfouche (the minister who prayed for her to be healed) not long after her encounter with the Lord in 1985.

Days later I drove to the studio in West Hollywood where I had taught so many dance classes over the past several years. I reserved the second story dance room for a couple of hours just for me. The memories flooded my mind. I had no music, just the music in my soul. Holding my breath, I started to move in soft, balletic steps. I pirouetted once, then twice, then a third time. Joy bubbled up inside me, and I was all over the room, dancing and leaping and twirling and kicking as high as my head. I laughed in sheer delight as I moved about the room. I danced as I had never danced before.

It was an expression of thanks, of utter praise, to God and God alone. I was so glad to finally know my Heavenly Father. I heard Him speak to me in His still voice, “I am the director of your life now… and I will write the script.”

 

ABOUT THE WRITER

Christian and Robin Harfouche today

Robin Harfouche and her husband, Christian Harfouche pastor APOSTOLIC GLOBAL CHURCH in Pensacola, Florida. They have a global outreach, ministering around the world in mass gatherings, and also by means of television with their power-packed telecast, MIRACLES TODAY. A great deal of the information contained in this chapter was obtained from the full length book on Robin’s story, also titled, “From Hollywood to Heaven.”

 

 

Ministry Website: https://globalrevival.com
Bio: https://globalrevival.com/about/who-we-are/apostle-doctor-robin-harfouche/
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/DrRobinHarfouche
Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/robineharfouche/
Twitter: https://twitter.com/rharfouche

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Written by Mike Shreve