Thursday, May 9, 2024

Talking with Kelsey Carlee, Author of Double-Crossed & Unraveled - A Memoir - A Couple Surprises


I woke up this morning singing this song in my sleep. I awoke just as the words were "For Thine is the Kingdom, and the Power, and the Glory, Forever... Amen... I knew that God wanted me to post this song with this post - Another God Incident in my life - I was led to this song, sung by Rhema Marvanne, who asked that her song be shared... Rhema sings the song, as I would sing it. I knew this was the child I had been led to to open this post... I believe that God is speaking to us today. To those who are listening for His Word... It was Jesus who spoke of allowing children to come to Him... I firmly believe that it was my early life, in getting to know Jesus and that He loved me, that I was led to this day to speak out... I thank Kelsey and Rory who agreed to participate in this extremely personal discussion...  I believe it is what Jesus wants us to know about how America--the world--have and are treating His children. People are speaking out. Memoirs are being written, fictional writers are including these things in their stories... and I also am writing an Open Memoir, some of which is included in this post... 

If you have read yesterday's post about Kelsey's book, Double-Crossed & Unraveled, you will already understand that the topics covered in this book are extremely revealing of Kelsey's early life years. I quickly was invested in knowing more about Kelsey. Her life was so different than mine in so many ways. Yet it was alike in one way... Please note that there are three generations included in this discussion. All of them are still living in America. I am one of them. I was led this morning to differentiate the responders simply by color. Readers will undoubtedly see who is speaking; however, I am led to say that we are mere representatives of children living in today's world...

And Jesus is Crying for His Children...

Once in a while, I've bought a book purely because of its cover. I pictured the author creating this one. Then on the inside, there is also an almost magical use of dots and dashes, as if a secret code...To me, this means that the writer has an important statement to make and she wanted to do it--her way... I could relate... While reading the book, I was curious to know more, so I've asked the author to come to Book Readers Heaven to talk about about what was covered. But, further, I wanted to look at the issues from a time perspective, from my own experiences, the author's...and from a later time period... I knew just who to contact... 

I am incredibly glad that you reached out to me! I cannot wait to see this on your blog and link it to my website. It really means a lot that you are asking these questions and your words about my cover art and the use of morse code (as when we are abused, we use secret codes and hiding things to protect ourselves, especially when the abuse is at the hands of family members).

With that said, I drew my cover art while sitting on my front porch with a pencil on a blank piece of paper. It represents the innocent girl I once was, sitting on the steps of the arched stairway in Seattle right before fleeing the Fat Tuesday Mardigras riot. The MMI represents the year 2001, the morse code along the bottom reads Seattle, and in the cobblestone is a memorial plaque for a young man who gave his life helping a young woman up from the ground.

I want to do a comparative look... I believe it is a contrast that must be considered as we move forward in today's world... Primary issues are dating, car privileges, sexual activity, parent interaction, peer relationships... Based upon the book, but also based upon sharing today's thoughts and opinions...

Was religion a part of your early life? Did it play a part in your teen relationships/dating? Was there religious instructions regarding sex? How does religion fit in your present life?

I have to admit that I've been amazed at the differences of those who are much younger than me. Reading this story reminded me as to just how times have changed. I think that is an important factor since each of us normally have at least a memory or living grandparents, as well as parents. Each generation appears to be quite different--and yet--very much the same... I hope this discussion will  bring that out to be considered...

For me, living in a small town, the church was the only real center of gathering. We had two churches where I grew up. Both were protestant. We did have BYF, Baptist Youth Fellowship which was merely meeting by age groups and studying scripture or related learning materials. There was NO discussions or guidance on dating, teen relationships, or religious instructions regarding sex. I was baptized at 13 and have been active in one church or another for all my life, up until recently when health issues resulted in several surgeries and a need to stay at home. Of course, Covid led to much of that time period. Earlier, though, an incident at church resulted in my leaving... I have a wonderful relationship with God through His Holy Spirit, which is, perhaps, extraordinary at times...

I remember there was little about religion in your book, until the very end. So, could you share a little, please.  

Religion was very much a part of my early life. I never had any instruction regarding sex as I attended private school. I don’t currently practice organized religion, but I very much believe in God. 

Yes, Christianity. I received no religious training. In fact, religion did not play any part in my teen years. By that time, I had stopped participating in church. And, religion is not a part of my present life.

I was baptized at 13 when I was attending a small Baptist country church. Do you mean you went to a religious school? If so, I guess I am surprised that you had freedom of the car...Me? My older sister wouldn't even let me drive, until she wanted to go out on a date with a new guy and wanted me to drive our carpool members home. LOL, I stood up to her and said no, you wouldn't let me drive before, and I'm sure not going to drive after not driving for years!

Was incest or sexual abuse an early event in your life? What did you do about telling what happened? Do you believe that what happened affected your life, short-term? long-term?

I'm single and never married, by the way, and I realized that I didn't ask too many personal questions, so, are you married? Involved?Any children? And, if you have children, what are you doing, if anything, about talking about sex? 

I am not currently married. I have loved and trusted, but sexual experiences do not have any influence on that current decision. It’s just a personal choice to be single at this season in my life. 

I am married and have a young child.

 Although there was no talk about the early experiences in the book, I do want to include some basic info. I know it is sometimes difficult to share about what happened when you had no ability to control what was happening. I have to believe that what I remember was true, but I'd be happy to have you provide any feedback if you wish.

I don't know when and how my first sexual abuse happened. What I remember is that, when a certain uncle died, it was as if my mind remembered something. In those days, a body was often "shown" at home prior to burial. I remember the house clearly. It was one where you could walk all the way around the floor, going from room to room, coming out where you started. That day, it was in a room which was rarely used for routine events. I remember that I walked around and around and around the circle of rooms, crying deeply and whispering to myself "I'm glad he's dead. I'm glad he's dead. I'm glad he's dead. And when I came into the room again where he was, I would cry even more, because I felt guilty for being glad he was dead... I would imagine that I was at least 8 or 9 when he died. I heard people saying that I must have really liked him, which made me feel even more guilty... I WAS GLAD HE WAS DEAD... Struggling with guilt did not change my mind about my feelings about his death!

Again I don't remember my age, but there were three other individuals who I remember touched me inappropriately, all in my family. I've shared a little with my two sisters in later years. Neither of their responses held my respect for their answers. All four individuals were also active church members. I never told anybody what had happened, really, until the time when the "Me-Too" movement began... 

I agree with what you said about the “me too” movement, which makes it much easier to talk about these types of things that happen.  I was six when I was first sexually abused by my uncle. I didn’t speak up for many years, until it happened again when I was in my early teens. Incest was normalized in my family, and my talking about it was quickly dismissed. I always knew it was wrong, but no one was ever shocked to hear about it until I told someone in a hospital. I think it very much influenced my life and my ability to trust others. It’s a very deep betrayal to be molested by a family member under the guise of love.

The way you phrased that last sentence, set me back to wondering about something, so this might be a time to bring the issue up... I was the baby of four children; my mother was pregnant for me when my father was killed in an accident. I wondered if things would have been different if there had been a man in our home. What you mention as "normalized," I wondered about whether this was part of normal curiosity of children at various ages... Although I've obviously heard stories about "playing doctor" but I, too, always knew it was wrong, so what or how is secret touches determined to be "wrong" by the child (even if they never share what happened with anybody)? Many years have passed and I am still not able to trust many people...

I also agree that things may have turned out very differently if there hadn’t been an absence, emotionally in my own case, of a man and protector in the house. I think this definitely contributed to the situation. I didn't tell anyone until years later. The result for me was long-term since I do not easily trust others...

I was molested by a member of my family. I didn't tell anybody until years later when my best friend shared a little about her own life with me. I remember she included that she had lost her trust and I agreed that was the same for me. 

When did you start to date? Was that a parental determination or was there a discussion and agreement? Were you satisfied with the final decision?

Did you learn how to drive and at what age? Were you allowed to drive? Did this affect how you interacted with your peers? As you look back, would you have done something different?

I don't remember dating was even discussed with me. We lived in a small town, so being the baby of the family, there was enough of an age difference with my sisters that there was nobody nearby to be my friend. My childhood "boyfriend" (we liked each other, LOL) was allowed to date much younger than I would be allowed, so it was not until the 7th grade when I started riding a bus to junior high that I even got to be friends with my peers. At school we hung around together. One of my friends was Black and there were few of her race in our age group... the other was involved so he and his friend joined us for lunches. Me, by that age, I was very overweight and although I had good friends of both sexes, dating never came into the picture during high school. 

I first began to date at fifteen. There was never any discussion with my parents. I learned to drive when I was fifteen, and I had my permit by sixteen. I was allowed to take the car, and it very much affected my interaction with peers as none of them had driving privileges or access to a vehicle. While reflecting, I realize that I can’t change the past when I think about whether I would have done anything differently. There are certainly things that I wish had never happened in my life, though. 

I started dating when I was 14. It was my decision and I informed my parents. They had rules where I could see them and how often. I was never happy with their decisions. I did learn to drive at 16 but was not allowed to drive. So, I was forced to sneak out to hang out with my friends. I felt I had no choice so I wouldn't have done anything differently.

When was your first intimate sexual experience? When was sex first involved with dating? Is your sex life important to you?

I was going to say 23, but then I realized that it was earlier, probably around 20 when I had double-dated with my best friend who didn't want to go out with somebody she had just met. Both were businessmen. from out-of-town. We stayed out all night and met again for breakfast. John was the perfect man with whom to be involved. I admitted I was a virgin and he was very kind and said that our intimacy would not change that... I was happy to learn from somebody who put me first.

My first intimate sexual experience was with my first serious boyfriend, and we’d been together just shy of a year. I was fifteen, and this was the first time that sex was involved in dating for me. It was a consensual sexual experience. I am currently celibate and do not engage in sexual activity by choice. I am happy with that decision, as intimacy can be uncomfortable for me.

Dating which included sex began at 15. My sex life has been important to me.

Has pain ever been a part of any sexual experience? What did you do if it was? And, if it was, what did you decide about it or its effect on your life? Do you feel now that pain is a part of the sexual experience?

I think whatever experience that I had when I was very young must have been painful. Somehow I was sheltered from rape or anything like that--that I know of. And I had made a decision after reading some erotic books (from England) where, supposedly, young girls were sent to places to be "trained" for their future with men... I made a firm decision that I would never be willingly involved with pain as part of making love. It was, I believe, God watching over me, even then...

Pain has been a part of several of my experiences with sexual activity. I have been raped by individuals I thought I loved and trusted. I picked up the pieces and moved on with my life afterwards, feeling that I had no other choice. I decided not to let it take hold of my emotions or life. I didn’t speak of it for many years, but I decided that sharing my story might help someone else who had been through something similar. I wrote my book in hopes that others may be able to relate, as I wish that I had that for myself when I was in the trenches of suffering from abuse. Like you, I think that pain shouldn’t ever be a part of the sexual experience, and as an adult, I now realize that what I went through was not normal and was actually horrific.

I have to ask a follow up on this question. I got very emotional about your continuing a relationship which included physical abuse. You definitely were raped, but what I couldn't understand since it was going on for so long, how would your parents "not" know? Especially when the two boys had taken you away from your porch, what followed, and then for your having no support from your mother... Please, if you can, share a little about your mother in particular. Did she use the texting as you included? Why? Was there no rules ever set for time, how the car was used...and, if there was, was part of the problem that you didn't agree with them, so thought you'd ignore them? 

You ask a valid question as to why the abuse in my early relationships was allowed to continue. Throughout my lifetime, I have often asked myself that same question and have been unable to come up with an answer that makes any real sense. There were certainly a lot of concerned individuals whose names are redacted from my records with child protective services. I believe that my parents didn’t recognize the signs of abuse, and I hid them well, such as covering bruises with concealer and making up excuses. It was role reversal in a way with my mother, in that I would try to shelter her from knowing the truth in the beginning. As to why she initially blamed Cole for my EtOH overdose and now Howie and Drew, who were very clearly the ones involved, I think it comes down to shock. If I had been my own mother, I certainly would have been in shock to be woken to see myself in that state. I have at times wondered how differently things may have turned out if she had owned that mistake, those boys had been held accountable, and justice had been served in relation to that incident. At the end of my book, in the unsent letter I wrote to Howie, I reference judgment day. I believe that at the end of our lives, we will have to answer to God about the decisions we chose to make or didn't make. Writing my story down from start to finish was my own way of finding peace and justice for myself in hopes of setting it down. It also produced a tangible account that I was able to share with others. When I was going through my youth, I wished more than anything that there could be one other person to personally understand what I was going through. Abuse thrives in isolation, so being able to share my story with others has been healing and also helpful. The e-mails and letters in the book are in SIC format. I believe in her mind that she honestly believed that I was best off going to A.A. meetings and attending treatment groups. She gave me the car keys to attend these, which was ultimately where I met others who had serious drug problems, were in legal trouble, and hadn’t just dabbled socially with pot use. In later discussions, I would learn that she didn’t want me to turn out as she had. Her rule for using the car was that I was home before the bars closed and drunk drivers were out on the road, which I didn't understand the meaning behind until later in my life. I believe that when we know better, we do better.

Pain has been a part of some of my sexual experiences but it was always as part of a discussion with my partner and never the type that would be considered abuse. Specifically, I would decide on a day to day basis whether something experimental would be involved. I've always felt that I was in control of that involvement. It rarely happens for the most part...

Have you ever had an abortion? What do you think about abortion in the context of your personal health... What kind of contraceptives do you use if any

I have strong feelings about abortion. I believe it is a personal issue that should never have any legal ramifications. It is a part of women's health that can often be used to save the involved woman's life. I do not believe that abortion is a religious issue! I further believe that a mother's life is more important than ever mandating a birth. Too many women already die in childbirth because of medical issues. The law should not be part of it!

In response to the abortion question, I have never had an abortion procedure. I took birth control when I was younger, as my mother didn't want me to be a teen mother as she had been. I have also taken the Plan B morning after pill one time after having been raped, and I was thankful for the local Planned Parenthood clinic. Personally, I could never have an abortion. Having children is not something that I will be able to do, so contraceptive use is not relevant for me. On that note, I will say that I believe abortion should be the choice of a woman and that "her body, her choice" is applicable. I also believe that past a certain stage of development, a fetus has developed enough that terminating its life is a complicated decision, and it’s a fine line. In my opinion, certain cases, such as rape and incest, should be treated differently. No woman should be forced to carry her rapist's baby to term unless she chooses to do so. I understand that it is a controversial topic, but those are my thoughts on the subject.

I am one of the many women who have had a miscarriage and who also had a difficult birth. It was my body that was involved in those issues. Nobody should be included in those decisions except as the woman wishes. It is not a legal issue! It is a medical issue. No different from any other medical issues where the law are not involved! In my opinion, it is also not a religious issue...

After I had already been talking about putting this discussion together, I went on to another book... I am providing a portion of that book as it relates to this discussion--the second and new participant's story...

After VBS, I scanned the adults leaving the building. “Did you get a lift?” Conrad asked. He patted his truck and told me to climb in. I was honored. Conrad was young and popular, especially with the kids. Preachers had dedicated their lives to God, and were cut from a different, more holy, cloth. We generally idolized them as being better than us and so I felt special as I climbed into his truck and cranked the window. We drove down Highway 89 and saw a hitchhiker. “Scoot over,” Conrad said. “I’m going to do a good deed.” “What?” This seemed foreign, reckless, and invigorating. I had an appropriate fear of strange men on the side of the road but not for people in the church. There were good guys and bad guys, and the formula for telling which was which was easy: church people were good, everyone else was suspicious. But Conrad was joking. He sped past the hitchhiker, and I was relieved. After winding down the long gravel road to my house, he shifted into neutral, pulled the emergency brake, and asked, “Mind if I grab some water?” I wasn’t supposed to bring boys in the house when my parents weren’t home, a new rule now that I was no longer in elementary school. But Conrad wasn’t a boy. He was twenty-three, eleven years older than me. Plus, he was a preacher. He picked up on my uncertainty. “For whosoever shall give you a cup of water to drink in my name, because ye belong to Christ,” he said. “Verily I say unto you, he shall not lose his reward.” “You memorized a Bible verse in case you ever needed to ask for a drink?” He flashed a grin. “Did it work?” We climbed the stairs and walked past a porch swing my dad made. The door wasn’t locked, and the kitchen still smelled of bacon grease. I handed him tap water. He tossed back the water and thudded the glass on the table. “Gotta go. Catch you tomorrow?” He didn’t look at me as he headed out the door. A few seconds later, however, his face appeared through the screen door. “Forgot my keys.” I let him in, and we looked on the countertops, near the sink. Nothing. “Check your pockets?” I asked. He reached into his front right one and his left. No keys. “Maybe you left them in the ignition?” He left the kitchen, and I followed him. “Your keys won’t be in there.” He walked into my grandmother’s old room we’d repurposed after her recent death. There was a love seat along the wall, and her power-lift chair in the corner. Suddenly, his hand was on my face, and he turned me to him. He was looking at me in a funny way. At school, we played a staring game, the first one to look away loses. But this was different. I wanted to look away, at the floor or my hands—anywhere but his eyes—but looking away felt like defeat. He held my gaze, then leaned in and hugged me. I awkwardly accepted the embrace. But after I pulled away from him, he kissed me, moved me onto the small sofa, and climbed on top of me. I froze as his hands slid into the bra I’d only recently started wearing and reached for my zippers and buttons. A few things happened all at once. First, my sexual purity—vow or not—was shattered. Second, I became “damaged,” ruined for all future love interests. He moved on me, his thin lips and pointy tongue on my mouth. It happened so quickly. There was no fumbling, no exploration, just direct and confident motions toward parts of me normally covered in clothing. Parts that had never been touched. He was fast and deliberate, like doing combat maneuvers. Then it was over. He climbed off me, stood up, and smiled. “Well, look at this.” Conrad patted his back pocket and pulled out a key. “If it’d been a snake, it would’ve bit me.” He smiled, before a sober expression passed over his face. “You can’t tell anyone about this. We really shouldn’t have done it.” He tucked a wisp of hair behind my ears. “If people think a preacher’s a hypocrite, they might not believe in God.” And with that one comment, I gained a secret burdened with the weight of other people’s eternal salvation. He walked to the door. “Catch ya tomorrow, okay?” The screen door slammed shut, locking me inside with my shame. What happened on my dead grandmother’s love seat was reserved for married people. At the same time, I was conflicted. He was a preacher, and he chose me over his deeply held biblical beliefs because he liked me. I was special. I was a different person the next day, walking back into vacation Bible school. Older. I didn’t need a scarlet letter to know I was a trampled rose now with no chance at getting my life right. I pushed this dread away. For the first time in my life, my real life conflicted with my spiritual life, and I was adrift, and I didn’t know how to fix it. It was a dreadful feeling to have ruined your life at such an early age. For months, Conrad popped by the house to visit my parents, before secretly stealing visits with me on the porch for some variations of the same activity. Preachers weren’t inerrant, but they did hold the keys to salvation. Men made the rules—both the patriarchs of the Bible and the church. Conditioned to appreciate any attention men in spiritual authority might give, to obey their teachings, and even alleviate any of their inconveniences, I never even considered putting a stop to this. All of this must’ve been okay, I decided, because he’d one day ask me to be his wife. I’d been told this sort of thing should happen only within the confines of a marriage bed. He’d said that, and I believed my church’s moral instruction. But the secret I carried was cumbersome, and I spent all of my efforts trying to carry it alone. While Conrad attended Wednesday night services, I sat in the pew stealing glances in his direction. He never met my gaze. After a few months, he hadn’t dropped by the house in a while, and he was keeping his distance from me at church. At first, this seemed like a romantic cat-and-mouse game. It took me a few weeks to realize, with a sinking sensation, that it was just abandonment. He’d ruined me and left. I’d thought my relationship with Conrad meant I was “in,” but it shoved me “out.” The warmth and comfort I’d always felt from church was replaced with a cold dread. At first, I still sat with the youth group on what we called the “amen pew,” dropped coins into the collection plate, and volunteered to read the Bible passages. But my innocent, wide-eyed faith was gone, and all of these familiar activities now felt like they were happening on a stage. I was acting. I’d learned about sin when I’d gotten baptized “for the remission of my sins” the previous summer at camp. I’d emerged from the swimming pool waters spiritually pure and clean. But that evening at church camp, I’d laughed at a joke someone made at another’s expense. I was crushed that I hadn’t been able to live a full day without sinning, and I didn’t know how to tap back into that sensation of purity. The only way I knew how to achieve this was to “go forward” during the “song of invitation” after every sermon, as preachers asked wayward souls to come forward and either get baptized or confess their sins. When I got back home after camp, I walked down that long, lonely aisle as the congregation warbled the words of “Just As I Am.” The preacher looked surprised to see me, since such public confessions were usually reserved for public sin like an unwed pregnancy or upcoming jail time—something obvious a person couldn’t hide. When the preacher handed me a white index card to document the reason for my public confession, I didn’t know what to put. I checked the box for “unspoken sin.” My desire for absolution, of course, embarrassed my family, who had been shocked to see me walk down that aisle. I’m sure all the people in the congregation had assumed I’d been caught up in something scandalous. Truth was, I was keenly aware of my own shortcomings and had no idea how to deal with them. Now that I truly had a scandal, I was too ashamed to go forward. You can’t go forward during every service, and I’d already wasted my shot over something trivial. Plus, I couldn’t go forward as Conrad sat on the front row glaring at me. The church convinced me sin would send me straight to hell. Once this was my inevitable eternal destination, I resigned myself to it. I had no recourse. I wanted to be pure again, but I was too damaged for that now. A hard carapace formed around me, a shell of cynicism to protect me from my newfound lack of hope. I started skipping Wednesday night class and sneaked off with a friend named Henry who was two years older, someone who was already on “the outside” ever since his parents’ divorce. Henry and I pretended to go to class but instead walked the long rural road in the dark, learning to smoke cigarettes together and popping mints before we returned to the building. He didn’t ask why I was suddenly morose, and I never asked about his parents’ divorce. We were malcontents, wondering if any of the church teachings were real. When I went back to school that fall, my moral standards slipped. Any time my friends and I weren’t directly supervised—between classes, in the locker rooms—we played a game in which we held our breath while friends pressed down on our sternums. We passed out in each other’s arms, coming groggily back to the harsh reality of school with great reluctance. It was dangerous and terrifying, but I enjoyed the lightheaded, skin-tingling sensation of not being present in my own body. At sleepovers with my school friends, I watched Freddy Krueger movies, smoked Marlboro Lights, and pretended to like beer. One day, a school counselor conducted a special gathering of eighth graders. She wrote her name on the board in cursive: Ms. Shaw. My cheerleading friends shot me a sideways glance. Nothing screamed “lesbian” more than her short hair and her identifying as a “Ms.” I’d never known anyone to identify as a Ms. That was just something we’d learned about in grammar lessons, a question on an elementary school test. The only way it would come up in real life is when we didn’t know whether a lady was married and didn’t want to offend her. It’s a whole different matter when someone chooses it. “First, I’m going to define sex abuse.” Ms. Shaw’s speech was the first time anyone had ever introduced the concept of kids having bodily autonomy. While she sat on a stool at the front of the class, I picked at my fingernails. A football player slapped me on the back of the head. “Listen to the butch, will ya?” He made a V with his fingers and a sexual gesture with his tongue. My friends giggled. My skin grew hot, but I laughed too. “If you’re ever touched in a sexual way by an adult,” she continued, “please tell a trusted adult.” My heart pounded, though I didn’t believe I was a victim of anything. I had secretly dated a preacher and we’d broken up. If anything, I was responsible, since I’d let him come into the house and caused him to stumble. A pedophile was a guy behind the wheel of an ice cream truck, not someone who loved me. Conrad had loved me, at least, until I did something to lose that love. What? I didn’t know. But I’d never heard we were too young to consent or that adults who pursued us were predatory. If Ms. Shaw explained these concepts on that day, I didn’t hear it over the thudding of my heart. I contemplated making a secret appointment with her and confessing everything, asking for help. “If you’re ever in a bad situation, my door’s always open.” She climbed down off the stool as my friends made snarky comments behind me. She said all the right things and her office was right down the hall. But I was like a drunk swimmer unable to grab onto the life preserver because I didn’t identify that sinking sensation as drowning. My heart was broken, but that was the cost of what I’d done. Conrad had taken away my innocence, my church community, my relationship with my parents, and my faith. He had also messed up my perspective of other romantic possibilities. When guys my age had an interest in me, I clammed up and expected the worst. I couldn’t go back in time and be casual about romance again. I used to fall in and out of love so innocently that I didn’t even identify it as love. I’d taken love for granted...

This is a First Major Thrust of
my Open Memoir
A Single Christian Woman:
Is Sex All That?

This will be posted on Both of my Blogs
Be Prepared For Links

All Participants are Welcome
Formally or By Comment

There are none so Blind than 
People Who Will Not See...

When I had cataracts removed,
I had to wear glasses to keep my eyes from bright lights...
Are we wearing dark glasses rather than
seeing the Light of Jesus?
Do you Hear What I Hear above the noise of the World?

Watch for More Books on Today's Issues!
and God Bless Us All


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