Too much politics and other bad news, I’ve decided to share an excerpt from my book “Birds With Broken Wings” for those that might be interested in something quite different:

    The parts of the puzzle concerning the relationships between men and women keep suggesting themselves in a myriad of ways. I suggest the writing of love letters as a mechanism to explore the ways in which men and women think; an attempt to understand your own thought processes. And women should, I maintain, receive such letters.

    A courtship should definitely be comprised, in part, of such writing. It is to the benefit of both the man and the woman in order to understand each other. The man in the writing, the woman in response to such, will give both a better grasp of the real intentions, the real thinking and feelings in a relationship.

    But not all men are poets. Is this an excuse for the letters to stop, if in fact they ever began? No.

    So, what is the answer? I'm going to go on to a few other stories, which are all a part of an attempt at the answer.

    I was called to an emergency a few days ago. The man told me he needed help and he needed it at once! Knowing him well, I immediately got in my car and drove to his place.

    The emergency involved his youngest daughter. The man had found her in her bedroom with two boys and they had been there all night. The girl is only fourteen.

    This man and his wife are not bad people. They are not bad parents. But the girl is from the man's first marriage and another teenage girl in the home is from the wife's former marriage. His and Hers. This complicates things.

    There are a host of other problems. The dad, a recovering alcoholic, uses marijuana. This brings him into a relationship with some unsavory people who deal. The daughter is exposed to this. He also has a foul habit of profanity, and often shouts embarrassing the girl. Her own background of a drug using mother (the cause of the father having custody) has led her into disastrous choices with boys in seeking love and someone who cares.

    I spend about an hour in private talking to the girl. Then I go to speak with mom and dad. I can only give them my counsel as a friend. I tell dad to knock off the vulgar language and give up the pot. This might help. But the thing I emphasize to both mom and dad is the fact that they better concentrate on their marriage. The girl, because of the insanity of our laws, can run away if she wants and there is nothing they can do about it.

    But if they concentrate their attention on each other, if they concentrate on making their marriage work and provide a proper home, they will at least offer some hope to the children of a standard, of a man and woman, mom and dad, who love each other. The security children need, the loving environment they need, is only possible when mom and dad have their priorities straight. And that priority is each other! This is the best anyone can do for their children. I think dad, in this case, should start with a love letter.

    The following story is often the result of the lack of such letters:

    I'm sitting on the badly torn and soiled couch of a young welfare mother of three. It's cold as there is no propane for heat or cooking. It's still three days to her welfare check, but she is getting drunk and smoking pot with a friend elsewhere and probably won't make it back home tonight. The children are used to this.

    I'm sitting between a little girl about three, and a little boy about five. The oldest boy, twelve, is off somewhere with my son, Michael. I'm reading a Dr. Seuss book, which is lying on my lap, to the two little ones while trying to keep my arms about them in an attempt to keep them warm.

    It is then that I notice the little girl's shoes are on backwards. For some reason this strikes me with a sudden and melancholy sadness. She is one of the sweetest little girls I have ever met; absolutely a little heart breaker.

    I say to her “Sweetheart, your shoes are on wrong.” She ponders the statement solemnly for a moment as only a small child can, and then slowly we begin the process of putting the shoes on right. I wonder how long she has had them on wrong? I only arrived a short time ago and they are already calling me Grampa, and so very happy to have someone to hold them and read to them, to pay attention to them.

    The house is a shambles with leftovers of nondescript foodstuffs; rice and oatmeal in various stages of having been prepared and/or eaten. Clothes are strewn about all over. No washing machine and no money for the Laundromat. It isn't that the young mother doesn't love the children; it's just that a hopelessness of anything ever being any better has taken control. She uses the drugs and alcohol in a vain attempt to escape the misery and hopelessness of her life and that of her children.

    The husband and father is in prison with a four-year stretch ahead of him. The girl has no delusions about his ever returning or being able to hold a responsible job, of ever having any interest in caring for a family. It's an altogether too familiar situation and I've been working with such people for too many years. Grampa is getting tired of so much to do and so little he can do.

    Michael and his girlfriend return with the eldest boy and I take them all to Burger King, a real treat for the little ones. We get back to the run-down trailer they call home and I read and tell the little ones stories until they drop off to sleep in my arms.

    I make them comfortable on the badly soiled and torn couch (their bed) and roll out my sleeping bag. I sleep in my clothes as I'm not sure what the night may bring and am used to having to be prepared to hit the ground ready. A broken window keeps it cold in the trailer in spite of a piece of cardboard over it, and I make sure the little ones are well covered. I'll awaken a few times in the night from the cold and make sure they are still covered.

    Mike sleeps on the floor and his girlfriend on another couch. A young man I don't know shows up for a roof for the night. He is to help Mike in the morning with his car, one of the reasons I am here; I have the tools and the expertise if the unexpected becomes too much for Mike and his friend. Once I have helped him out, there is another young welfare mother who needs my assistance.

    My son made the introductions of this girl and her children to me as he mixes with the welfare society in the area. His own choices have made it rough for him but he is a good-hearted young man and knows his dad will help wherever possible. Fixing and keeping junkers going is one of my specialties (along with being a professional Grampa).

    I sleep not too soundly from about 1 a.m. till daybreak. I get up and check the children. Then, getting some coffee crystals I make a cup of cold coffee. No gas so no hot water. I watch the sunrise and then awaken the boys. It's time to go to work. They are soon doing the things necessary on the old car and I get to supervise until it's time to check wiring, timing, and adjust the carb. The old car is soon running as well as it's going to without “major surgery.” Mike will have to get some junkyard accessories, but I've trained him well and being very intelligent and a quick study he can handle it.

    Mom has come home about 9 a.m. and gets busy caring for the children. Different people of the “society” come and go throughout the morning. It's going on noon when I have to take my leave to go help the other girl and then return to Bakersfield. I have a meeting to attend that night and will come back tomorrow if necessary (and it probably will be).

    It's time for a hug and a kiss from Mom. There would be more, but she knows of me and she respects my feelings about such things. “Thanks for watching the kids. They really need a dad (It's more of a question than a statement).” I hear that a lot from the moms. But at my age, I make a better Grampa. My gray hair may make me look distinguished, but it is also a constant reminder of the fact that I'm no longer twenty. As compensation I now do some things better and am far more tolerant of the mistakes of others.

    I know what Mom means though, and I grieve for the need; the tragedy of our society that has made such a need so acute in the lives of so many young women and children. It's hard to say goodbye to the little ones but I will be back. Welfare Valley is filled with such families.

    It's another time and another visit to different family. This mom has been arrested for failing to attend drug counseling as a part of her probation. This leaves the three children alone. The eldest boy, fourteen, called me. They have mom's welfare check and the rent and electric bills are due. But how can they cash the check?

    They can't; legally. I know what is going to happen. We have to call the caseworker and explain the situation. Lacking a responsible family member who is willing to take care of the children, the caseworker will place the children in protective care until disposition of the mother's situation. In the meantime, they will have to give up the rental house and hope for the best.

    I know the situation and know this is the best recourse. Left to themselves, the little girl would wind up molested. I know this from my observations of the children in time past. I've already seen what the smallest boy, only three, has learned of sex. This because of the routine of men filtering in and out of their lives and the associations of welfare, alcohol and drugs. They might have a better chance without mom in this instance and I make the necessary call.

    In my political writings, I tell of my research into the “Black Hole” of the government's intrusion into our lives by an infamous agency: Child Protective Services (too often an oxymoron). I actually took a job with the agency in order to get the inside story. I learned very quickly how the system operates and how it has made its contribution to Birds With Broken Wings. The power and authority of this agency to destroy families and children is massive, unparalleled in our society.

    But how to confront the actual abuse of children by the monsters in human guise that prey on them without such an agency? That is the theme of another book. And I'm working on it.

    R- is a beautiful woman. She has two adorable little girls. But mom is a prostitute to support her girls and her drug habit. As I write I have in front of me a crayon drawing by one of the little girls. It is a beach scene with the bright sun overhead, coconut palms and the sea lapping against the sand.

    I was sitting on the couch in the living room of her home when she had asked me if I would like her to draw a picture for me. I answered I would certainly appreciate that. When she had finished the drawing, she put my name at the top and signed her name at the bottom.

    I had met R- in one of the local bars when I was doing my work on this book. We didn't actually date, but she came to rely on me as a man who wasn't going to abuse her. She was a beautiful, sensitive intelligent woman but was hiding from ugly men. I became a kind of protector and confidant to her and her little girls.

    R- is a loving mother and keeps her business far removed from her children. My visits to her and the children were, she said, something that gave her hope that things would change for them. I'll never forget the night at one of the taverns when she bowed her head and whispered: “I know I should be your girl.” But we both knew her drug and alcohol addiction, the kind of work I am doing precluded that ever happening.

    I keep the drawing as a constant reminder of what might have been. And I keep in touch with R- and the girls. They desperately need that kind of hope in their lives there are men that don't use and abuse women and children.

    In dealing with life in the raw, life most draw away from, the Glory of Evil and the Dark Side play their necessary role in separating, in understanding the difference between the diabolical and the divine. The cross wasn't an offense and shame to Jesus. The shame and offense covered those that put Him there. Thoreau in prison was no shame to him even for one night, but a shame to his countrymen.

    Just the other day I was considering the marriage feast in Cana in the Gospel of John, and I recalled performing the marriage ceremony for a couple some time past in a bar. Every minister they had approached with their unique request had turned down this couple. I told them I would do the job. Having fallen so far from grace in the eyes of my colleagues, one more proof of my slide to perdition couldn't hurt.

    It turned out great. I wondered at the time if the environment weren't more like that marriage in Cana than more respectable places. One of the reasons, of course, was the story of Jesus turning the water into wine. And make no mistake; that must have been the real McCoy. Not only that, if those jugs really held twenty to thirty gallons apiece, that meant Jesus provided a hundred and twenty to a hundred and eighty gallons. This after they had already run out! What a party that must have been! No wonder those Pharisees accused Him of being a drunkard!

    Now I haven't heard any fundamentalist preacher tackle this story from this point of view. Nor do I ever expect to. To accuse Jesus of being a Party Kind of Guy? Unthinkable?

“Hey, God! What went wrong and when are you going to fix it?” is the title of a book I wrote while in the process of working my way out of what I came to call the “tyranny of religion.” When I write about the love of God and our loved ones that inspires hope in believers there is also the need to work our way through those things in which it appears the love of God is conspicuous by its absence. But a closer examination of the problem in seeking answers led me into areas not open to religion, but to our very humanity and the issues we deal with as mere mortals. For this reason, I am going to share with readers an excerpt from the book focusing on this very human part of the problem:

Because I'm a poet, musician and romantic, I lose myself in the great Broadway and film musicals. I have sung to women and had some sing to me. It hasn't been a fantasy, it has actually happened. I've loved several women and they have said they loved me. But the music ended quickly in most cases. Maybe because I needed Audrey or Maria but never found her. The idealization of the poet's love is holding that woman, looking into her eyes, singing to her and having that look and that song returned in kind. Failing this, the best I could do was to offer my faithful love, the kind of love that keeps its nose to the grindstone, caring for wife and family and, in short, working out your love in the traditional ways.

    Tragically, the poet may slumber, but he never dies. He lies there, growing restless and, at last aroused, becomes something the great majority of women do not know how to accept. But the majority of women don't know how to have a man look into their eyes while he sings to them.

    The majority of men and women know nothing of writing love letters. The poet is compelled to write them. The majority of men and women know nothing of opening their very heart and soul. Again, this is a compulsion of the poet. A poet knows little of secret compartments of the heart and mind, he tells all, even when that all is hard and ugly. He does not know how to practice the hypocrisy of presenting a carefully barbered and perfumed, well-tailored facade in the place of the truth.

    But it doesn't take a poet to dream or want those dreams to come true. All those possessed of a conscience, a soul want to love and be loved. We want an ending where the lovers live happily ever after. And we want that happy ending for ourselves.

    What does it take to play a part convincingly? How did Shirley Jones and Julie Andrews learn to sing to a man and look so convincingly in love with Gordon MacRea and Christopher Plummer? Shirley and Julie knew how to love. They were in love as they played their parts. For the men and women who give us our enduring fantasies of such love and romance, the best know how to love and, while the play goes on they live that love.

    But you must be practical! Yes, there is no getting around that one. Love and romance don't go well with an empty stomach and no roof over your head. However, even provided the necessities, few women ever find their Knight and few men their Audrey Hepburn, Shirley Jones or Julie Andrews.

    Now, in the September of my life, I have come to some conclusions as to why this seldom is the case, why the right man and woman have such difficulty meeting each other; if I have to settle for Audrey in my reverie if we are only able to have each other in our dreams that will have to do; at that, it is more than most ever have.

    Why? Because I know my Audrey, wherever she is, is faithful to our love in spite of the fact that we never found each other in this life. Granted that sounds a poor substitute for the reality. But I maintain it is more than most ever have. Why? Because Audrey and I know real love and romance; we know there is no substitute for this regardless the realities.

    Somewhere out there is Audrey; a woman who knows the love I have just as I know the love she has, a love that regardless of never finding its fulfillment in each other keeps the dream alive, keeps us alive. It is the kind of love that inspires to the best art, music, literature of humanity, the kind of love that moves hearts and minds in these things, that has true immortality, deathless because it is the very heart of God himself!

    There is a faith in love to be considered. Those who have such a faith are saved by it. They are the true believers that know, in their hearts, that no matter what, love conquers all! I live, and move and have my being in love. I live in the music, the poetry, literature and art of love. I always have, though the poet gave place at times in order to meet the necessities of practicalities and the too oft times ugly realities of life.

    I nourished the poet at times with a wilderness trout stream where the joyous, chuckling, sparkling water cascading over rocks, spraying and flashing into countless diamonds shooting off refracted, iridescent rays of dappled sunshine, plunging through short rapids became gleaming waterfalls descending into crystal clear pools. I would take him to the oceans where the scent and sound of the sea and the crashing of the waves against gleaming sands or rocky shore left marvels in their retreat. And watch a bloodburst sunset in wonder at that magnificent vista of water across which lay the islands of imagination, of the Bali Hai’s of the mind and soul. Then we would go to the desert, so clean without the corruption of fences, asphalt, concrete and man-made structures and marvel at the sere vastness with nights so clear we could count every grain of sand in the moonlight.

    When I made music with clarinet, saxophone, guitar or my voice, the inspiration in the music was Audrey. Her name at the time might have been Susan or Ann, but it was Audrey that remained; Susan and Ann never did.

    In the yard of my little house in the country, I sit outside of a summer evening and watch the sunset gradually give place to a platinum-colored twilight. The trees and the hills in the distance become dark silhouettes and stars begin to appear in the canopy of heaven and I listen to my private, heavenly choir of the rustling of the leaves and branches by a warm, scented breeze and the last music of the birds now beginning to be replaced by the peeping of tiny frogs and the chirrup of crickets.

    Evening deepens into the quiet, smooth velvet of darkness and I gaze at the stars, Ursa Major and the immense Milky Way and Audrey is with me though I sit alone. And at that, I'm not nearly as alone as countless who don't even see the stars or even consider sharing them with another.

    I don't blame Susan or Ann for not being able to abide the poet; they felt ignored by him. His thoughts were on Audrey and they simply couldn't be her; it wasn't their nature. At first, they thought they were Audrey. There were the times when they thought they shared the enchantment of God's marvelous creation, that they even thanked the poet for pointing such things out to them.

    The poet would place a rose on their nightstand. He would try to tell them the thoughts of his heart. He believed the closeness of their warmth and softness as women a sacred thing. But invariably, Susan and Ann would prove they didn't really value the things of the poet. They couldn't be Audrey. The poet, because he couldn't betray, would simply retreat and go to sleep. Eventually, Susan and Ann would find someone else, someone more practical with common sense and not given to dreams.

Does Obama want a Nuremberg Tribunal? “We were only following orders!” The words were made infamous at that trial. To repeat a caution I wrote about long ago when I began to speculate about the events of the Bush administration and to write about it Nuremberg came to mind. As I wrote back then and have repeated several times since the leaders and generals of Hitler’s Germany could never have foreseen a "Nuremberg" in their future. "Impossible!" they would have exclaimed. But I could not dismiss such a thing being possible for America because of George Bush and his administration being the most inept and corrupt in our nation’s history leading in that direction. Can God’s judgment of America possibly include a war crimes tribunal for America and its leaders at some point? I freely admit it is the stuff of nightmares for me because I cannot entirely discount such a possibility given the direction toward national suicide under Obama our government seems to be leading us.

From The Weedpatch Gazette of October 11, 2008:

In the past radio was something we really depended upon to deliver us from the blue demons and Fibber McGee and Molly premiered the year I was born and made people laugh every time Molly delivered that line "T’ain’t funny, McGee!" But the humor of this generation is for the greater part mean and malicious, vulgar and profane and without any of the redeeming value of the past when folks knew how to laugh at themselves even in the midst of adversity, and for the greater part the humor of this age brings that line by Molly to mind, but in all seriousness "T’ain’t funny, McGee!"

Following the crash of ’29 Hollywood stepped up and gave Americans some marvelous escapist films like the Gold Digger series and others. During WWII there were great films that enabled us to find some escape from the daily news of the horrors of war and the sacrifices required of us here on the Home Front. Now that America is facing a crisis of potentially horrific and unknown dimensions I doubt Hollywood is going to be able to give people anything to laugh and sing about and those great old radio programs have receded into history, alive only in the memories of those of us old enough to remember them.

Some people are working hard at their astrological charts trying to make sense of all the craziness overtaking America and elsewhere in the world but I turn to the Bible, and because of this I don’t need anyone telling me there are hard times coming for America, a time when we will see tent cities, Hoovervilles proliferating, bread lines and soup kitchens, riots, concentration camps, martial law and the military patrolling our cities and borders. Of course, no one really has to turn to the Bible to understand these things are coming, all they have to do is keep tuned in to the news. And despite so many fools in the MSM on TV continuing to laugh and joke with one another in the face of calamity for America I have to say "T’ain’t funny, McGee!"

Divide and conquer is a familiar phrase and one of the Devil’s most successful tactics throughout human history, For example all the while perverts are trying to have their perversion legitimized by the insanity of demanding to be "married" despite the obviously perverted lunacy of such a thing, trading on their success by the Devil’s servants and media corrupting the term "gay" and using the lunatic term "homophobic" knowing full well as I do with a Ph. D. in Human Behavior that a true phobia is a clinically determined irrational fear and to have the perfectly natural reaction of revulsion to perversion on the part of sexually normal people demonized all the while the correct term is really "heterophobia" as evidenced by the perverts themselves. And apart from my own personal revulsion toward homosexual abnormal behavior my position is that of the Bible which declares homosexuality to be an abomination to God! As an ordained minister I used to preach that from my pulpit, and I will continue to preach it despite the Devil’s crowd trying to suppress the truth of the matter.

But it is the Devil’s tactics to divert attention from an agenda of destroying America as the Evil One is busy at work as a roaring lion seeking whom he may devour while rewarding his servants by great wealth and power, dividing America into various factions along the lines of politics, religion, race, and including that of homosexuals each demanding they be treated preferentially by law and be given entitlement contrary to even common sense. And it is nothing less than perverse that our own government has betrayed America by evil and wicked university professors and politicians with their corporate bosses dedicated to destroying our heritage and culture, refusing to secure our borders for the obvious sake of slave labor, and rather than making English our common language by law and refusing to print ballots in a polyglot of foreign tongues forces legitimate American citizens "Press one for English!"

There are some who would attempt to label me crazy because I believe the Devil owns the media and caused it to treat Barack Hussein Obama like a rock star and from the very beginning made it impossible to address the obvious anti-American alliances and agenda of this servant of the Devil. Even now when so much of his evil tactics, alliances and agenda are being exposed the MSM continues to treat him as their own darling. My position is that the GOP was crazy for nominating McCain, though I saw Governor Palin as a glimmer of hope. Now, I have to consider the possibility that an Obama presidency should that come to pass will be a part of God’s judgment against America. (End)

Well, here it is April 23, 2009 and if things continue as they seem to be headed my worst fears for America may yet be realized. But I really didn’t anticipate that Nuremberg Tribunal would be led by a President of the United States against Americans. And if such a seemingly impossible thing should actually come to pass, it won’t be America that Obama is concerned about; but following his own orders from his master Satan. And for those that believe an Obama version of Nuremberg is impossible; just consider what the chances of Obama becoming President were despite his background and his being a Negro. Consider John McCain being the “best” the GOP could offer and a Negro with Obama’s utter lack of qualifications and the damning things against him being the “best” choice of the Democrats. If America’s leaders had not purposely determined to commit national suicide I can only see such an otherwise seemingly lunatic course being pursued by our leadership as the work of Satan and his servant Obama.

Like most people with a love for critters I will go out of my way to save a ladybug. I saw one this morning crawling on the back screen door here where I write, but the poor little bug was on the inside rather than the outside of the screen. So, I did what most of you gentle readers would do; I got up and walked to the screen door and enticed the colorful little beetle to climb on my finger, opened the door and let it loose in the grass outside.

Here in the Kern River Valley we are at last experiencing glorious weather with glorious and abundant sunshine; and as an old desert rat I’m not comfortable until the temps hit those high 80s and into the 90s. After the years here in this little cottage I continue to live without either A/C or even a swamp cooler. Talk about living “green!” Not to mention the savings in electricity.

But as to things like saving ladybugs, I may not have the degree of Schweitzer’s Ehrfurcht vor dem Leben (reverence for life) since I still kill venomous insects and snakes, ground squirrels and jays, but I do marvel at life in its many varied forms; most of all I continue to marvel at the two greatest mysteries facing humankind; the mysteries of life and death, what animates and departs at death. As a believer in God I believe all life emanates from him and returns to him. It is my hope inspired by love that I will rejoin my loved ones and friends gone on before me, all of whom I believe are safely with God in heaven. This hope born of love removes the fear of death for me.

It has been the right kind of love I have known, the love of my daughters Diana and Karen among some others like my maternal great-grandmother and grandparents that has kept me straight most of my life. It is this right kind of love that has been my moral compass all along and prevented my doing something that might betray that love.

Now I might wish I could say it was God who kept me straight, but upon reflection were it not for the love of God I doubt I would have known the kind of love I have experienced that many times prevented me from doing something that would have displeased or grieved both God and these loved ones who loved me so very much. The Apostle Paul had it right; without love all else is nothing but a sham trying to make points with God, as though God could not see through our most sincere hypocrisies.

I can’t save the world, but I can save a ladybug. We have to know our limitations folks. Of course, there is a lot of saving to be done between a ladybug and the world, the saving of lives, historical landmarks and documents, but we just don’t have much chance of saving at the highest end, the saving of the world. As it stands right now, I see no hope of saving America; the Devil is having it his way with our nation and it is doubtful to me that any of our leaders are not on the Devil’s payroll.

To confess, it has never been “The wages of sin is death” that has prevented me shaking hands with Satan; it has been the love I have known that has prevented me from doing so. I have to suppose those like politicians have never known this kind of love or they could never make a deal with the Devil.

This is one I owe those that believe in God and also believe Satan is attacking America and believers like a roaring lion seeking whom he may devour. The story begins with my three weeks in intensive care because of pneumonia last November and not expected to live. But I did live, though shortly before I was to be released my doctor asked me a chilling question “What do you know about Hospice?” I replied “That’s where people go to die.”

My doctor is one of the kindest and most caring persons you could ever hope to meet; more than my physician she is a friend, and as a lover of literature has always received with genuine gratitude an autographed copy of every book I publish. She also knows I live alone, that my condition was such that would require help enabling me to continue the work of writing even as my physical health deteriorated. But to continue living alone in my own home and continue the work would require a hospital bed and oxygen generator which hospice would provide for me. And so it was that these were delivered with the help of my friend Mike Turner who oversaw the operation to make sure these were properly installed before my release from the hospital.

At that, the first days and nights at home alone were really brutal for me. After three weeks in a hospital bed I was very weak and barely able to perform the most essential tasks. My friend Mike and others like Byron would come by and help as they could, I had a marvelous lady to do the shopping and things like going to the post office and drugstore.

There were no illusions about my having become a “short timer” now; you don’t qualify for hospice unless your time is short; but I was grateful for the people like my doctor and other friends like Mike and Byron, pen pals like Alicen, Tony, and so many others that encouraged me to keep on keeping on and helped make it possible for me to do so. I had unseen friends as well, the angels God had assigned to watch over me as he has done throughout my whole life just as he has given me friends like Mike, Byron and others who have always been there for me when I have needed their help.

Eventually I began to gain the strength to resume writing, determined to finish the work I believed God had assigned me. There were many books to be finished and published, an odyssey of the many twists and turns of my personal relationship with God throughout my life that involved religion, philosophy, science, the mysteries here on our own planet and in the universe, the chicanery of politicians and other evildoers like the monsters of Satan in human guise that prey on women and children, I sometimes varied between belief and heterodoxy, between gratitude and railing anger at God as in the case of the untimely and tragic deaths of my daughters, my angels Diana and Karen.

A month ago, I had an attack that required my friend Mike calling the paramedics. I don’t even remember being taken to the hospital, but when I was admitted for the pneumonia last November I had signed a “Do not resuscitate” document and wore a green DNR bracelet during the three weeks I was there. Mike would tell me later that the doctor in this latest incident asked me whether I wanted to be aspirated and I replied “Yes.” I do not remember any of this, and had the doctor the time to check the paperwork he would have noted that “DNR” document and allowed me to pass away. God’s direct intervention? I believe so. As some would later tell me, the work God had assigned me was yet unfinished.

But once more it would take the angels, some in human form to enable me to come back to my place alone and carry on with the writing. This last incident, they wanted to place me in a nursing home for “evaluation,” but I knew such a thing would result in a potential incarceration from which I might well not be released and I refused. But my refusal was only made possible by the determination those in charge recognized in me and some believers who shared the conviction that God had work for me to finish that could only be done if I were able to function right here in my own place. These people, angels, really went to bat for me, even at the risk of their own jobs to make it possible for me to continue to write and publish here at my own place.

With all that has been happening with our President and Congress making many of us wonder if it is our normal allergies that are causing us problems but rather the effect of politicians. I suspect the latter, that We the People have become allergic to government, causing some of us to break out in hives and other ailments.

However, while Satan is attempting to destroy America and is attacking believers as never before God does battle for his children and will have the last word. My personal testimony to God’s work in my life is to encourage God’s people; that no matter what the Evil One does, no matter what happens to America all turns out well in the end for God’s people, and those of us who are blessed with the hope the love of God and the love of others inspire will eventually be reunited with our loved ones and friends gone on before us who are already safe with our Heavenly Father. This is the peace of God that we, the people of God have and the world can never offer. And there are the angels, some unseen and some in human form that do battle for us as well. This is my personal testimony on behalf of God for those who may need to be encouraged, and I am blessed to be among those who are the living proof of God’s love and faithfulness.

Time may be relative, but death is not; “dead is dead” Young Frankenstein said. Now, while he changed his mind that was a film. But I believe Henry Thoreau had a better idea in saying the plant only dies down to the root, ready to spring back to life when the conditions make it possible for it to “resurrect” once more. And so I believe in resurrection to life everlasting for the children of God.

Still, the quest for an answer to what “Life” really is goes on among scientists and we will continue to be titillated by “Crossing Over” in spite of the many charlatans, and as long as humankind is possessed of self-awareness, imagination, and curiosity, whatever the source of these, we will continue the quest. I look forward to the “surprises” along the way.

In the meantime, I maintain the hope that I will only die down to the root and spring forth again in the hereafter to join loved ones and friends that have gone on before me, no matter where they have “gone on.” It will be heaven enough for me to rejoin these loved ones and friends wherever they are. It’s all about the kind of hope that love inspires. Those without such hope cannot possibly find much of value to comfort them in this life.

But it certainly would be no kind of heaven if the monsters that prey upon women and children were to make it, and I hold to the biblical belief that Jesus declared there are those born of the Spirit of God and there are those that are not, that there are children of the Devil just as there are children of God.

However, Jesus declared his kingdom was not of this world; but even some professing Christians that should know this act as though they did not. As the song has it, “This world is not my home, I’m only passing through.” A real faith and belief in God, the proof of hope and love in a person’s life will always manifest itself by the way a person chooses to live in this world.