Now Reading: The Light of the World: The Life and Teachings of Jesus of Nazareth

 

Two night ago, I woke up in the middle of the night and heard one word. Speiss. That's all I really needed because I knew what I was to do... I've read enough books about how religion has infiltrated into politics and all that entails. Now, I needed to move on from those and talk about Jesus. He Loves His Children, You Know... And, His Love Is Greater Than Any Other Who You May Care to Love... I've been in Peace since the time I got another message: I've Got This Glenda...

I believe that what is happening right now in America is God's Plan. He has been watching how so many people are being hurt, murdered, and even rejected because of who they are. Those who are not white. Those who are not from one specific political party. Those who have chosen power, hate, and violence, over Love... The Love that Jesus asked us to receive from Him. A Love that would allow us to both love God and love our neighbors as well... In yesterday's review, I pointed out that Jesus didn't say Love All--but these people... This book that I began to read the same night that I heard the author's name, includes commentary by the author. What he is suggesting is something that, to a lesser extent, I had known and recognized for many years...

Jesus gave us a new Life In HIM. He died for US! ALL of US... For most of my life I've been a person who asks WHY. Since 2016, I've been asking WHY some chose to follow the former president, while at the same time saying that He was chosen... Now, I do believe that God does choose people. I'm One of Them... But, there are MILLIONS who also are chosen of God, through His Son. He extended a Hand to those of us who would be living on His Planet named Earth and even at one point Sent His Son!!! To Die For US! And then, He returned to His Father, but He left His Spirit within each of us... All we had to do is open our heart and mind to hear His ongoing Message...

But just like those who chose Barabbas over two thousand years ago, to live, many have never actually listened to the words of Jesus, allowing them to be learned and remembered in our minds... Those who were left after Jesus went back to be with His Father, continued doing exactly what they had always done?!? Why? Why had they chosen Barabbas to live rather than Jesus? If you think very hard, without allowing your own opinions and life fog up your thinking, you may remember what Jesus Himself taught... Jesus was not on Earth to establish a rich kingdom where we could worship Him rather than God Almighty. The Great I AM!

Jesus told us not to worry about our lives, that He would provide, just as he did with the birds and all of creation. He told us that riches here on earth was not important, even that we should give up all that we owned to enter His Kingdom. Yet, how many place money, riches, all that make us popular and a leader here on earth... Even though it is worthless if we do not Love... Many have been given riches and used to help others here on earth... Jimmy Carter comes to mind as one of our politicians who gave part of his life in service to our nation. And, when he was not reelected, he simply continued to serve people all over the world. Truly He had been called by God... I remember a lady, wife of a pastor, at a church I attended half a life ago, who literally beamed Love. Her husband had died and she had continued her Love for all God's children as long as she lived as well... We didn't have to wonder--His Love flowed outward to anybody within her presence... Not all are called to be such outward servants of God... But when I asked my foot doctor to pray for me at my side when he was operating on me, He did that. I heard him respond to a question that, yes, I had asked for his prayer and he did as I asked, but added that he prayed in advance before all of his surgeries... I remember one of the thousands of writers I have known in my life. I've told this story before... His Name is Harold Michael Harvey, a Black lawyer whose books I'd read and had the chance to talk with him on social sites. One time I was needing prayer and I asked him to pray for me...He immediately began! I'm sure I could go on...just as many of you could... I don't possess that outward show of love as many people do... I'm a Listener, though, and when God needs somebody to listen and share His words, I'm one of those people, ready and waiting to pass on His Call to Love!

Do you Speak Jesus? What gift do you have that God asked you to use? I believe the author of The Light of the World was given a very important job. He was to be specific and open to tell the world that their continued use of rules, commandments, even some prayers were nothing unless we Loved our Neighbors.  My guess is that he has been criticized, turned away from and, yet, he continued to write the book as He was directed. It is up to you whether you read his book, which includes his commentary... Or, just start to read the first four chapters of The New Testament... Or, saying it another way... Read the Words of Jesus Alone! After all, He died for us, after traveling the world at that time, spreading his love, demonstrating how we were to act toward others, and assuring us that He would provide a messenger for us to remain in contact with Him!

What I know is that there is joy, hope, and assurance crossing our nation these days. I've seen one candidate for our presidency speak about helping those of us who need help in so many ways... While the other speaks of violence, hate, and white supremacy... If you cannot see and know the difference, I urge you to talk to Jesus... And start Speaking Jesus... Here's a little of what you will be reading...and Hearing...

Recovering That Which Has Been Lost… 

To those who think they know “Jesus Christ,” the following illustrations will help you understand that which has been lost. Imagine you were kidnapped and put in a horrible place, and other than the kidnapper, there was only one person on the planet who knew where you were.  Fortunately, this person cared about you and although they were half way around the planet, they knew someone near you who could rescue you.  So, they wrote a message to the prospective rescuer, telling him exactly where you were and how you could be rescued.  They then mailed the message to the prospective rescuer.  The message arrived safely at the remote post office, however the post office employee only delivered mail to the rescuer occasionally. So, he took the letter and placed it in a large envelope with many other letters to the rescuer, and on the outside of that envelope was written, “Important Messages.”  By the time the rescue letter was delivered to the rescuer, it was just one note among many hundreds in the large envelope labeled, “Important Messages.”  Therefore, your note was ‘drowned’ in a sea of other people’s notes, and thus you had little hope of being free from your bondage any time soon, if at all.

Here is another illustration to help you understand what has been lost. Imagine you are stranded on a remote island with only one piece of paper, pen and bottle.  So you write a note to tell those who find the bottle where you are and your situation and you throw the bottle into the ocean.  The bottle finds a current which carries the bottle towards land, but there are thousands of other bottles in that current as well.  It seems there were many people who, while not desperately needing to be rescued like yourself, nevertheless greatly enjoyed putting messages in bottles and throwing them in the ocean.  Unfortunately for you, all those other bottles found their way to the same current which carried your bottle, and your bottle arrives at the beach with thousands of other  bottles containing ‘urgent’ (but pretend) messages. Thus, you have little hope of your message being found anytime soon, and little hope as well of getting free from the island. 

Perhaps the most accurate illustration of that which has been lost, would be as follows.  Let us say you wandered into a large and dangerous city and got yourself lost in a maze of streets, and you desperately need directions out of the city.  Let us say that a person who knows the way out of the dangerous city has clearly and concisely written the directions down in two sentences on a page of paper.  That person makes those clear directions available to any who request them and many groups and organizations of people take the directions and use them for their own purposes. In your case, the person you requested the directions from is a member of one of those organizations, and they felt they needed to add to the directions, even though they don’t know for certain the way out of the city because they have never been out of the city.  So they write, on a copy of the correct directions, their beliefs on how to get out of the city.  And so, when you are handed the one page document, the two sentences containing the way to freedom are surrounded by many sentences which contain errors and which at best confuse you and at worst, hide the truth in the two sentences of the way out of the dangerous city.  Thus, you don’t find your way out of the dangerous city because in your sincere efforts to read the directions, you get more and more lost due to the errors surrounding the facts. 

To continue that illustration, let us say that many people regularly get lost in the large and dangerous city, and so there is a regular need for clear directions out of the city.  However, the main authority of the city benefits economically from having more people in their city, even if some are lost and don’t want to be there.  The paper with the two sentences of clear directions becomes well known amongst the city dwellers, as well as the one page that contains both the two sentences of clear directions surrounded by the erroneous opinions of others.  The city authority wants to give to those people lost in their city, the confused one full page of ‘directions’ instead of the two clear sentences, since they gain city members and make more money that way.   So that authority formally makes a diligent practice of telling the people that the one page document is one-hundred percent truth and they ought to believe all that is written on that page.  They also tell the people that the page with the two clear sentences of correct directions is ‘inadequate and incomplete’ and people should not rely solely on that document or its instructions.  

Now, if a person looking to escape the city respects that authority-person more than wanting to know truth (correct directions), then what will happen to their ability to find their way out of the city?  Will it not be compromised at best, or destroyed at worst?  If disagreeing with the authority will have uncomfortable consequences, or even cost the person something they value, won’t they be in even a worse situation to find the truth buried in that one page? One final step to complete the illustration… 

In the same way, what if there is a book which contains sixty-six chapters, and only four of the sixty-six chapters contain what you need to be set free.  And what if an authority that many people respect including yourself, and who claims to know the book better than you, tells you that all sixty-six chapters contain the truth that you need to be set free.  And what if they tell you that the four chapters which contain what you need to be set free are “inadequate and insufficient” in-and-of themselves?  If you respect the authority more than wanting to know the truth, then what will happen to your ability to find the actual truth in the four chapters?  Will it not be compromised at best, or destroyed at worst?  And what if the cost of rejecting the authority’s beliefs about the book will mean you will be rejected by friends and family?  Perhaps you will pretend the dangerous city is not so bad after all?  Or perhaps you will believe that the dangerous city or places just like it, is all that is available on the earth?  Or perhaps you actually like some aspects of the dangerous city and thus you are not looking to be set free since you see no need to be? 

This brings us to that which is most valuable and has been lost. What if there was a man who said… “I am the Way, the Truth and the Life, and no one gets to the Father except through me.” …and… "If you continue in My word, then you are truly disciples of mine; and you will know the truth, and the truth will set you free." …and He performed many miracles including defeating death to prove what he said was true…

But other’s came along after he leaves and places his Words in a big book with many other people’s words and say, ‘this whole book is truth,’ not just the person who says, “I am the truth,” …and the religious authorities who like having authority over others say, ‘you need more than the red letters, you need the whole counsel of God’s Word, and you need us to understand it.’ 

…and as years, decades and centuries pass, the book is handed down from generation to generation, each generation before it saying that the whole book is the truth that people need.  And if a person can’t understand the book due to the errors and contradictions, the people’s religious leaders say, “well, you need us or christian leader so-and-so or bible scholar so-and-so to properly understand the book. And the religious leaders, whose authority the people respect, point people to the book as well as many other voices, both dead and living, in addition to the one who says, “I am the truth.” and they say, “the book and all these other voices which quote the book are “the truth” you need to be set free, not just the one who says, “I am the Truth.” 

Not just the one who says, “If the Son sets you free, you will be free indeed.”

If this happened, then isn’t the truth of the statements above by the one who says, “I am the truth,” LOST as the people look to the book and other’s words and other voices, and those other words and voice’s nullify, cancel or make of no effect the one who says: “I am the Way, the Truth and the Life…” and “All who are of the truth listen to MY voice.” ?

If this is so, then is it not true that those eternally valuable truths… “I am the Way, the Truth and the Life, and no one gets to the Father except through me.” "If you continue in My word, then you are truly disciples of Mine; and you will know the truth, and the truth will set you free." They have been drowned out … buried … LOST. 

And so, that which is extremely valuable - and which has been lost - has been revealed.  The Creator/Father sent One beloved, error-free Messenger who can bring freedom from your hopelessness, confusion, bondage or pain. But his voice has been drowned out, nullified, hidden, obscured, spoken over, made-of-no-effect, ignored… Lost. 

It is a difficult truth to receive, but in truth, the teachings of the One who calls himself the Light of the world have been covered, buried and for all practical purposes, lost.   His Voice has been drowned out by thousands of other voices.  In fact, at the most essential level, his Voice has been replaced by a book, ‘the Bible’, by a clever sleight-of-hand which says that the book IS (or accurately represents) His voice. His statement, “All who are of the truth listen to MY voice,” has been changed (and thus corrupted) to, ‘All who are of the truth listen to the bible’ with all its millions of words and its many contradictory concepts, accounts and teachings.  

Perhaps the reader has believed the lie that the bible has no contradictions?  Here are just a few of many:

“If I sharpen My flashing sword, And My hand takes hold on justice, I will render vengeance on My adversaries, And I will repay those who hate Me. ‘I will make My arrows drunk with blood, And My sword will devour flesh, With the blood of the slain and the captives, From the long-haired leaders of the enemy.’ “Rejoice, O nations, with His people; For He will avenge the blood of His servants, And will render vengeance on His adversaries, And will atone for His land and His people.” (Deut. 32:41-43) 

"There is none like the God of Jeshurun, Who rides the heavens to  your help, And through the skies in His majesty. “The eternal God is a dwelling place, And underneath are the everlasting arms; And He drove out the enemy from before you, And said, ‘Destroy!’ (Deut. 33:26-27) 

“Do I not hate those who hate You, O LORD? And do I not loathe those who rise up against you?  I hate them with the utmost hatred; they have become my enemies.”  (Psalms 139:21-22) Versus "You have heard that it was said, 'YOU SHALL LOVE YOUR NEIGHBOR and hate your enemy.' "But I say to you, love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you, so that you may be sons of your Father who is in heaven; for He causes His sun to rise on the evil and the good, and sends rain on the righteous and the unrighteous. (Matthew 5:43-45) 

One can pretend there is no contradiction, but that only proves that one is NOT listening to the one who says, "I am the Truth."  

Paul’s teaching of all scripture being inspired by God has God inspiring Moses to bring violent vengeance on his enemies, and David to express his justified hatred for his enemies.  

Contrast that to the voice of truth which says, “Love your enemies.” 

And so, the time for the printing of this book is quite long overdue.  It should be curious to the reader that there are no similar books easily available given the thousands of books about “christ” and many dozens of bible versions available.  Why is it that so very few are concerned about focusing wholeheartedly on Jesus and his person and his teachings ONLY?  Perhaps, just perhaps, these things are true… 

"This is the judgment, that the Light has come into the world, and men loved the darkness rather than the Light, for their deeds were evil.” "But because I speak the truth, you do not believe me.” 

Maybe the truth is that the one Voice that brings freedom, offends the vast majority (especially the religious people who claim him as their ‘Lord’ and ‘God’), and they do not want to let His simple and uncompromised truth shine forth?  Perhaps most christians/biblians are especially loath to turn to the Light because they very much like believing they are “saved” and “heaven bound” while they continue to ignore the real Light of the world and instead live the way they want? 

…beware of the all too common self-justification and self-deception of, ‘oh yes, that is true, but not of ME or MY church’… 

This commentator hopes that those who are in the darkness of bible and christian religion will allow the Light of the world to shine on their hearts.  Seek to understand this key saying of His… 

"He who loves his life loses it, and he who hates his life in this world will keep it to life eternal.” 

…and then, please, come, follow HIM!

God Bless Us All

Gabby

Robyn Gigl Presents Nothing But The Truth - A Significant Addition to the Legal Thriller Genre And Personal Favorite for 2024!

 Peg took a sip of her coffee. “Wow! Were you such a feminist before you transitioned?” Erin grinned. “I wish I could say yes, but probably not. As they say, ‘Perception is reality.’ ”

November 20, 2009 THE CANDLES ON THE ALTAR FLICKERED, THROWING STRANGE SHADOWS across the enormous stained-glass windows that rose up to the vaulted roof of the chapel. Erin McCabe stood among a group of people she had come to know over the last five years. Their journeys were all very different, but they were compatriots nonetheless, joined by a common thread. A thread that also knitted them to the names being solemnly read to the fifty or so people gathered in the pews near the front of the chapel. “From the United States—Caprice Curry, age thirty-one; Jimmy McCollough, age thirty-four; Foxy Ivy, age twenty-five; Kelly Watson, no age; Eric ‘Beyoncé’ Lee, age twenty-one; Paulina Ibarra, age twenty-four; Mariah Qualis, age twenty-one; Carson Stevenson, age forty-seven; Jacqueline Ford, age sixty . . .” As each name was read, it was displayed on a large screen. Each name a life lost, most of them young, most women of color, all of them killed in the last twelve months because they were transgender, nonbinary, or gender nonconforming. Tears rolled from the corners of Erin’s eyes. This was her third year attending the International Transgender Day of Remembrance at the Princeton Chapel, and each year was harder than the previous one, as the list of names grew longer every year. Tonight, she and her companions took turns reading each of the 163 names of the people lost. After the last name was read, they slowly returned to the pews and took their seats among the others in attendance. When they were seated, a Unitarian Universalist minister slowly climbed up to the pulpit and offered a moving prayer about love, compassion, and acceptance. When the minister finished, a singer sat down at the piano and, in a beautiful contralto, offered moving renditions of “Imagine” followed by “I Will Remember You.” As the final chords faded, Erin remained anchored in place, allowing the solemnity of the moment to linger, taking a few more seconds to remember those who had lost their lives, especially those who were remembered simply as “Name Unknown,” a final indignity to lives tragically cut short. 

After several minutes, Erin turned to the woman on her right, Rachel Stern, a retired IRS Special Agent, and gave her a hug. “I hope you didn’t mind that I added Jacqueline’s name to the list,” Erin whispered, referring to Rachel’s friend Bradford Montgomery, who had also gone by the name Jacqueline Ford. “No. It was nice,” Rachel replied. “I know Brad spent his life in the closet, but he was one of us. Although, we both know Brad’s murder was politically motivated, and not because he was trans.” “That doesn’t make her loss any easier,” Erin replied, purposely switching pronouns to reflect who Brad truly was. “No. You’re right,” Rachel replied, and sighed. “I still miss her.” 

Once they slid out of the pew, Erin gave Logan Stevens a hug. Logan, a self-described biracial, pansexual, genderqueer attorney, had played a huge role in Erin’s last case, and was now dating Rachel. Gathering their belongings, they made their way out into the unseasonably warm evening. They stood outside the chapel in the well-lit area by the walkway to Nassau Street. “A few of us are heading over to the Alchemist & Barrister to grab something to eat. You want to join us?” Logan asked. “Sure,” Erin replied. 

“Excuse me,” a man called out as he approached. “Would you be Erin McCabe?” “I am,” Erin replied, catching Rachel and Logan eyeing the man suspiciously. “I don’t mean to be rude, but are you the criminal defense lawyer?” he asked skeptically. “Yes. I’m that Erin McCabe,” she responded with a small grin. “And to answer your next question, as far as I know, I’m the only Erin McCabe who’s a criminal defense attorney in New Jersey.” “I’m sorry,” the man stammered. “I apologize. You . . . well . . . you just look . . .” 

“Too young to be the infamous Erin McCabe, criminal defense lawyer,” Logan suggested with a chuckle. Erin tried not to blush, but at five foot five with a dusting of freckles across the bridge of her nose and a slim, athletic figure, she was still blessed with a youthful appearance that belied the fact that she was a seasoned attorney with a unique backstory. “Is there something I can help you with?” Erin asked. The man rubbed the back of his neck, appearing uncertain. “Um, is it possible for us to speak privately? I promise I won’t keep you from your friends. I know what today is. I was inside for part of the ceremony. I only need a couple of minutes. It’s about a potential case.” Sensing that Rachel was about to spring into special agent mode, Erin turned to her. “Why don’t you go on ahead with the others and save seats for Logan and me?” she said, hoping that Logan’s presence would reassure Rachel. Rachel gave Erin a sidelong glance, but headed off to the restaurant. 

Erin studied the man. He appeared to be in his early thirties, and was significantly taller than her, so her guess was that he was close to six foot. He was a good-looking guy, well-built. He was wearing a black suit, with a white shirt that was unbuttoned at the collar, exposing a gold crucifix hanging from a chain around his neck. And even though Erin didn’t sense any danger, she felt better with Logan standing next to her. “Is this about representing you?” Erin asked. “No. Not me; I have a friend who needs help.” Erin pursed her lips. “Okay, but just so you know, if it’s not about representing you, the attorney-client privilege doesn’t apply.” “What’s that mean?” he asked. “Basically, it means that whatever you tell me isn’t confidential,” she said. He sighed and looked down at the ground, seeming to weigh his options. “Okay,” he finally said. “I guess I don’t have a choice. But can we speak alone?” Now it was Erin’s turn to consider her options. She had certainly pissed off enough rich and powerful people over the last four years to be wary of someone wanting to speak to her alone about representing someone else. Perhaps she was being paranoid, but as she was known to say, “It’s not paranoia if they’re really out to get you.” Then there was also the issue of Logan, who Erin could sense was now in full protect mode. Erin finally landed on being cautious. “Please don’t take this the wrong way, but I prefer to have Logan here. Logan’s also an attorney and we sometimes work together, so anything you want to discuss with me you should feel free to discuss with them here as well.” “Them?” the man repeated, looking around. “Yes. Logan’s genderqueer and uses they, them, theirs pronouns.” “Oh,” he replied, unable to mask his confusion. “I apologize. 

I don’t know your name,” Erin said. “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t introduce myself. I’m Gabriel, Gabriel DeAngelis. But please call me Gabe,” he replied, offering his hand to Erin and Logan in turn. “How can I help you, Gabe?” Erin asked. DeAngelis seemed to glance around to see if anyone was within earshot. “Like I said, it’s not for me. It’s for my . . . my friend. He was arrested two days ago. He’s charged with murder and he desperately needs an attorney and you come highly recommended.” “Nice to know someone highly recommends me,” Erin said. “What’s your friend’s name and who’s he charged with murdering?” “My friend is Jon Mazer and he’s charged with murdering—” “Russell Marshall,” Erin said, finishing the sentence. DeAngelis took a deep breath. “I guess you saw it on the news.” 

“Gabe, unless I was living in a cave on Borneo, it would be pretty hard for me not to know about the case. A white state trooper shoots a Black newspaper reporter, in the reporter’s home—a reporter who allegedly was working on an exposé of the state police. I mean, the governor, state attorney general, and the superintendent of the state police have all condemned your friend as a bad apple in an otherwise stellar law enforcement agency.” “They’re all full of it!” Gabe shouted. “I won’t argue with you about that,” Erin said. “But from what I’ve read, it still sounds like the state has a pretty solid case.” “That’s exactly why Jon needs you. He didn’t do it. He was the one working with Marshall to expose the corruption within the state police.” 

“Look, Gabe, let me be blunt. I presume you know that I’m a transgender woman, and generally speaking, law enforcement doesn’t have a great reputation within the LGBTQ+ community. On top of that, my law partner, Duane Swisher, is a Black man. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you how sick and tired Black people are of being killed by white law enforcement officers.” “Ms. McCabe . . .” “Please call me Erin.” “Erin. I get it, but Jon’s not just any trooper—he’s gay. He’s the only out gay male trooper we’re aware of, and since he was outed, other troopers have put him through hell. They literally hate him.” He bit down on his lip, closed his eyes, and exhaled. “Jon’s a close friend. Trust me, he didn’t do it. You have to help him.” Erin stared at him for several seconds. “Based on the fact that you’re here, I’m assuming he’s in custody.” “Yeah. Bail’s been set at two million dollars. There’s no way he can make that.” “The case is in Middlesex County, right?” Gabe nodded. “Not to be crass, but does he have money to pay for a lawyer?” “We’ll find a way.” Erin reached into her purse and took out a business card and handed it to DeAngelis. “Let me talk to my partner. Do you have a card?” He reached into his pocket, took out a card, quickly jotted something on the back, and handed it to her. She looked at the card, then at him. “That’s interesting.” “Please don’t call my work number,” he said. “I wrote my cell number on the back.” “Can you call me around ten a.m. Monday?” she asked. “Yeah. Ten will work.” “Okay. I’ll talk to you then.” He turned and headed down the walkway toward Nassau Street. 

Once he was out of sight, they made their way down Witherspoon Street to join the others at the restaurant. “You going to take the case?” Logan asked. Erin shrugged. “Don’t know. At this point I don’t even know if he can afford a lawyer. Not to mention, I’m not sure how Duane will feel about the racial overtones of the case. I guess we’ll see.” “How about the fact that, based on what’s been in the press, his friend is guilty as sin,” Logan asked. “Nah. That’s not a consideration. If Duane and I only took on clients who were innocent, we would’ve been out of business years ago.” Logan laughed. “You think Gabe and Mazer are more than friends?” “Don’t know,” Erin said. “But it would explain Gabe’s desire for confidentiality.” “Why?” Logan asked. Erin handed Gabe’s card to Logan. Logan looked down at the card, stopped in their tracks, and screamed, “What the fxxx! Are you shxxxing me? Reverend Gabriel DeAngelis, Saint Raymond’s Roman Catholic Church, Franklin, New Jersey.” “You can’t make this stuff up,” Erin said. “Damn, woman,” Logan said. “You sure do get some crazy-ass cases.”

I decided to read this story based upon the title--Nothing But the Truth--an obvious legal novel which I've always enjoyed. It truly is a fascinating fictional story that comes straight from today's headlines. As soon as I finished, I went out and purchased the first in the series - An Erin McCabe Legal Thriller, to begin catching up on the main character's life.

To begin I want to share a portion of the Acknowledgements section written by the author:

Although this book is critical of some in the law enforcement community, I am sensitive to the fact that there are many dedicated people working in law enforcement—I’ve had the pleasure of working with any number of them. It can be a difficult and dangerous profession. However, those dangers should never blind us to the fact that there is room for improvement in the way the public, and in particular, marginalized communities are treated by members of law enforcement. It is no secret that these are especially difficult times for the transgender and nonbinary communities. Trans and nonbinary folks, especially young people, are under attack by people who deny our very existence and seek to take away our basic human rights. Some have vowed to eradicate us. I am an out, proud, and open transgender woman, and if Erin McCabe as a character offers any lessons, it’s that none of us choose to be trans or nonbinary—it’s not a lifestyle choice or a fad—it’s just who we are. Like everyone else, we are human beings trying to live our best lives possible. So, to everyone in the LGBTQ+ community, and especially those in the trans and nonbinary communities, thank you for your strength and inspiration. Finally, thank you to our allies who stand with us, you are invaluable.

Her words match what I had come to know as truth years ago. Given the ways in which those in this minority community are negatively treated, I knew there was No Way that they would "choose" to become something different than, often, their own family members. And, more importantly, Jesus never listed anybody to be excluded when He commanded us to Love God and Love our Neighbors... In fact, if you believe that God created us, then there really is no justification to treat them differently. And yet there have always been those who do. 

You know, folks, from my perspective as a Christian, none of the prejudices that some people develop and attempt to justify hate and violence against others are valid. Nevertheless, as we have seen, it is only on the individual person level that we can truly know who others are... I don't profess to know how others choose to be as an individual, but then, many would never accept that I find fulfillment in reading and talking about the books I read, instead of some other activities that ar available to me... Yes, in my mind, there really is no difference in being called a "Single Cat Lady" as opposed to being a mother, by a vice-presidential candidate than in hearing any other critical evaluation made from one individual toward another... And, in the political world, in my opinion, the extremes that is happening right now in America is totally unacceptable. I didn't know about the characters identities before I started to read. To me, it didn't matter...

Nuf Said...

Erin McCabe is the main character and is a criminal defense lawyer who is rapidly building a name for herself... Standing tall, literally, beside her is a Black former FBI Agent/lawyer who has become a perfect partner for two individuals who've had some difficult history to go through. Like many of us... BUT, for me, my difficulties may not have been my fault but are the types of things we must all deal with, it seems, especially in the present when after too many years, we are still dealing with those who choose hate, prejudice, fear and violence, to be their life choices. My point? I've never experienced personal hate and violence against me like Erin and those who are "different" in some way. You see, I am a white woman and only recently began to see the total indifference from many who see the elderly as a minority they are not interested in supporting... Or, worse, all women who have had their basic rights for feminine health care taken away from them!

This book centers on those who are targeted...just...because...of...who... they...are... And, all those who love them...just...the...way...they...are!

The book opens when Russell Marshall, a local investigative journalist is murdered in his own home. He was Black and soon an openly gay State Trooper is charged with his death. Marshall had actually been working with this trooper since he was doing an investigation on the targeting of Black and other minorities by a group within the State Troopers known as the Lords of Discipline. Jon Mazer had been working with Marshall on his investigation since he had, himself, filed a Internal Affairs report about being harassed by certain Troopers.  

First they discovered his fingerprints in Marshall's home which then led to the fact that one of his guns was used for the murder. Jon's Priest was the one to contact Erin in the hope that she would agree to defend his friend. She took his card and told him that she would discuss the case with her partner. The primary reason to clear with Duane Swisher, known as Swish, was because of the ongoing killing of black men by cops and whether he could handle working closely with a state trooper. But during the initial interview, it was Swish who began to talk about the costs, leaving Erin to recognize that he was willing to take the case.

What they discovered during an in-depth investigation is truly direct from the news headlines. Indeed, Marshall, the news investigator had uncovered the reality that there actually was a group who worked to bring harm to those who were in non-white groups of people. And, verified that the earlier internal investigation had been falsified. The final draft had been shared and ready for publication... That evening Marshall was confronted and murdered!

Erin and Swish are excellent characters. They are loving to each other, totally committed to their professional relationship, and, have to deal with family relationships just like the rest of us... More specifically, they treat each other and their clients as all should be treated--with sensitivity, concern and a dedication to ensuring they have done the best job they could do in defending their clients.

Lots of kids have to deal with issues over who their parents are. But that’s not a reason to shy away. It’s a reason to move forward. Because it’s only when we refuse to be intimidated and we stand up to the bullies that we can move past the hatred and bias to a place of love.”

You will learn that the haters can be situated in just about any position that is available. You will also learn that those who have accepted an oath to protect may willingly choose to break that oath based upon their own prejudices, biases, or because they have been incited to break their oath by those in supervisory positions. And, importantly, you will learn that those who have been targeted feel just as you might feel if you were discriminated against. Rather, that decisions are often made to support their personal drive for power and higher salaries. And, most of all, you will see and read how those who are focused on hate, speak, act, and strive to ensure that their hatred is known and, ultimately, felt by those toward which hate is pointed. You will read language used by the haters that is obscene, yet you will read it as spoken by the haters. In fact, during the trial, you will explore just how much of that hatred spewed by those haters is acceptable, even to prove guilt.

Erin thought. Rule number one—the person responsible will always try to blame someone else when questioned. “Your Honor,” Erin began, “I will represent to you as an officer of the court that neither I, nor Mr. Swisher, has provided any information to the press.

This is the best legal interaction within a novel that I have read. One significant difference was that the judge herself, was much more active during the trial than I had witnessed even through hundreds of hours enjoying television's Law and Order programs! I like to think that this evolved because of recent television court cases that have been shown. Frankly I enjoyed the judge taking a leading role, rather than leaving it to the prosecuting team to control the activities.

One of the areas that came across clearly in the course of the legal preparation was that both sides needed to know much about all forms of computer technology and how it can be used to create, secure and share. In this case, it came to be the computer experts that led to the final decision... For me, I have no concern about how things can be done, rather I want to know what is possible. There will always be those who strive to communicate secretly, for whatever reason. Bottom line, for me, I learned much simply from reading this book!

One final point, there is considerable discussion about women's reproductive issues, including for minority people. I learned much from this book as well. Women's reproductive rights is uppermost in women's minds these days. Given one party's attempts to move us backward, while science has gained leaps and bounds in improving options in this very personal field, I found myself grateful for the author tackling the legal methods by which women can ensure that their needs are met within the laws but in support of what the medical professionals must address as well. Both were exceptionally well presented with specific issues and character involvement.

This was my first book read by author/lawyer Robyn Gigl. Her skills and expertise in both fields is so revealed that she's given me one of the most comprehensive fictional legal book that I've read in many years. It's an important read for women experiencing today's trauma at the hands of the republican party. Women will begin to understand the complexities of just how many issues that can occur in reproductive health! It will provide women with an exploration of how the doctor, lawyer, family dynamic can effectively occur--even without the government!!! I loved it and will continue to at least read this series...and more... Highly recommended as an addition to my Personal Favorites for 2024!

GABixlerReviews 

“... think about it. Isn’t everyone’s desire to have a baby inherently selfish? Mind you, I’m not talking about an unwanted pregnancy or someone who’s raped, I’m talking about a mature couple that decides they want a baby. Why do we do that? Why do we think the world will be a better place if we create a child?”

Some Books Are Meant to be Read; Some Are Meant to be Experienced - Tears of Kindness: Finding Hope in the Shadows of the Past by Imran Usman

 Ethan had always been fascinated by human behavior, leading him to pursue a PhD in Psychology. Little did he know his own life would become a subject of study. After work, he used to write down his reflections on human behavior before sleep overtook him. Despite his credentials, he viewed himself as a lifelong student, learning from each experience. Now, that nightly writing felt like a distant memory, replaced by the bleakness of his prison cell. Years ago, he had penned a poignant truth: “Every person has a story to tell; we write our own narratives, or we become part of others’. But a story is only alive if it progresses. Villains, in their unpredictable actions, propel the narrative forward. While heroes represent goodness, it’s often the flawed villains who leave a lasting impact.” Ethan set down his pen, turning off the lights in a dim room filled with shadows of his past. Life continued outside, but tensions grew. Howard, once peaceful, was increasingly aggressive, and Dan's patience was wearing thin. “I can’t understand Howard’s change. He feels like a stranger,” Ethan thought. “Dan has been a father to me in every way that matters. Emily, my mother—this truth was clear from the start, despite them not being my biological parents.” At fifteen, Ethan had overheard a conversation about someone named Jack. The hushed tones revealed secrets he wasn’t meant to hear. Conflicted, he kept these thoughts to himself, grappling with his identity. “For years, I tried to figure things out alone. I could see the love Dan and Emily had for me; they were my real parents in every sense. But I couldn't shake the feeling that I was different. Howard had always known but never mentioned it.” As he reflected, memories of that evening returned. “Howard was shocked when I revealed I knew about our origins. He spoke of our birth mother, Elle, with fondness but labeled our father a coward for abandoning us. It was painful to hear, yet part of me longed for that connection.” In his solitude, Ethan vowed never to confront Jack. The hatred simmered for years, complicated by love for his adoptive parents. “I cherished the stories of Elle, feeling connected to her spirit, yet always refrained from speaking about Jack. That was a promise I intended to keep.”

~~~

Your little brother,

Ethan

Love you always! P.S. I’m taking this butterfly with me. It doesn’t belong pinned in a book.

Let in death, I confide; let it run away and hide,

I will find you, searching every ocean’s tide.

Take it, as it may be my only pride,

My love grows, more purified,

Remember, the corners of eternity

 are shorter than your glide.

The heartbeats are my only guide.

If ever in my quest I turn blind,

I will find you still till I rest inside.

Let in death I confide; I will find you, 

even if I have to pluck away every tide.

We write our destiny. We can never blame it for all the miseries in our lives. Our actions shape our fate. Now, the question remains: was the arson at South Laron Street mere fate? The End...

When the author wrote to me about reviewing his book, he described it differently than the book description online where I bought it. Neither really address exactly what you will find if you choose to read this story. It was the title that drew me first. Kindness is an action, isn't it? Many around the world have shown that kindness is not something that is no longer to be taken for granted. Indeed, amidst the hatred, anger, and violence, it is hard to imagine that there is such a thing as kindness still in existence... Yes, we may see it between those who are close to us, yet we know that many do not even have a small act of kindness to brighten their days. Surely in war zones, kindness is not known at all. Rather those in power choose to fight, to kill, to murder those who are hated. It is hard to even distinguish between which side "hates" the most, yet call it some other name to obscure their true intent... You may find that, in reading this book, you will find it hard to distinguish what emotions are being reflected by the characters. But, is that the fault of the writer or the reader? Or perhaps both? If you try to say the writer cannot write, may I suggest that you be a little more kinder and start to reread this book. I did... Not because of the writing, but because there had been a break in my reading and in finishing the book, I found the names of characters had to be refreshed... So I turned to the beginning and started again... It's the first book that I felt needed to be really understood. There is a deeper message to be found, if you are a reader who wishes to work on the overall theme...

You see, it's about a butterfly

And a man who is not guilty, but was convicted of murder... During the execution, it took three times to take action to actually have him die. Was that a message that should have been considered by the officials? Or simply bad equipment? But somebody who had begun to question, went to his cell, which had been new whitewashed but found one scrawled message: “If only one knows how butterflies are born.”

Do YOU know how a butterfly is born? Could you have lived through such a transformation and made it seem as if you knew exactly why your life changed so dramatically? Or would you lament that you would rather have been your most beautiful self all of your life and had been cheated in some way in the past?

This is a story about two brothers who were born into a loving family. A man and a woman who had come to know each other intimately and felt such love that when their first child was born, they were thrilled, excited and loved their child who they named Howard. But, later, when she again became pregnant, she started having some problems. It was recommended that she go to another place for complete rest. In doing this, they, sadly, had to leave Howard with their best friends. Jack loved Elle so much that, when Ethan was born, and Elle didn't make it, Jack went to pieces. When Ethan was placed in his arms, Jack felt nothing, yet he could feel love only for his wife and the child was part of that last separation... When Jack went into a mental hospital, Ethan was sent to be with his brother and ultimately adopted parents...

For those who enjoy a twist, let me throw in what had happened earlier than even Jack and Elle's marriage. You see, Elle was involved with another boy. Jack looked on, loving Elle with all his heart, but not brave enough to even approach her. Until a tragic incident in which her lover was killed. Once they learned that and some time had passed,  Jack's best friend told Elle that Jack was interested in meeting her formally... And that led to their marriage and children... But at some point in Jack's life, he began to question whether destiny was in control and had it been, perhaps, that Elle rally shouldn't have married him?

While Jack is dealing with all the issues in his own life and the total loss of his family, if he couldn't get his act together, he learns that Ethan is close to death--his heart is defective and must be replaced if they can find a donor... And Jack's love bloomed alive for his youngest son and began to consider what he could do.. His decision was to give his life for his son! It took place in the hospital, where the doctors were in place to immediately operate. It was successful. But Ethan does not know where the heart came from...

Along with the family drama is a story about a rampant serial killer (or two?) who has the entire area afraid and fearful of being out alone. And a court scene. Each has a different name, but the officials saw that one individual had ended his reign, it seemed, at the time the next started...

Ethan becomes a doctor, while his older brother Howard often was in trouble and we even see that when Jack tried to visit, Howard spit on his face... At some point Ethan contacts Howard, hoping to help him move past his problems... They hugged and Ethan quickly wanted to offer him tea so they could talk... Talking so much, that the water boiled away and Ethan had to grab gloves to pull the pan away from the fire... He and a glove were burnt, yet Ethan turned around to his brother and started laughing, telling him that there'd be no tea. And both laughed even more...

It was those gloves that were to be the primary proof when Ethan was arrested, charged with murder...

As readers switch gears to the trial, investigations and more, Ethan is kept in solitary for protection since the crowds have stirred up the town and the media was saying they'd found the serial killer thankfully! It was there in prison that Ethan often thought about the butterfly, sometimes even thinking it was there with him. And, with nothing to do, he starts reading the writings of those who had occupied the cell in which he was kept... And he kept reading... And, suddenly, you, the reader, along with Ethan, will recognize that the story is being continued on the wall, filling in so much more than he had ever known... Yes, Jack's story was on that prison wall...

Elle had told Jack, when he bought a gun, that she didn't want it in their home. She believed that God will protect the family. Jack buried the gun to respond to his wife's desire... But it was later to be used once again... Now Ethan knew when and where it had been used the one and only time it was fired...

When love cannot be fully expressed, Tears of Kindness can be the first step forward to healing... Pain may ultimately be used to journey forward. And sometimes, a butterfly can be the messenger... Prepare yourself before you start reading... Watch for the butterfly when it appears... You, too, may read beyond the very last page...and beyond. Perhaps somewhere over the rainbow... where butterflies fly...

Have you experienced Tears of Kindness? This is a family drama under the shadow of murder, a story which you may never forget...

GABixlerReviews 

Jennifer Chase Continues Series - Count Their Graves - Detective Katie Scott Book 12

 “Let’s go check out the children’s rooms—and especially Tessa’s room.” The worst part of Katie’s job was seeing murdered children. No matter how much you tried to prepare for something like this, nothing ever really prepared you for the violent death of children. It was always disturbing, causing her anger to rise, but she had to keep her head and focus on finding the killer before there was another family crime scene.

“What are we looking at here?” said McGaven. “First, the wire that was used to create these crude versions of hooks is just any wire you can buy in the electrical area of a hardware store,” he said. Katie was surprised. “We also excavated some wire near Tessa’s body that is made from a strong version of steel, high carbon, to be exact. It’s super-resilient and will last a lifetime, which is why it’s mainly used for fencing and in some tools.” He pointed to it. “Okay. The wire in the hooks looks much older,” said Katie. “At first glance, it does. But it’s a cheap stainless version that’s made to look old and is easy to manipulate.” “So you’re saying that the person who made these hooks and placed them in the mouths wanted them to look old on purpose. But why?” said McGaven. “That seems pretty extreme,” said Katie. “And a lot of trouble.” “Nothing this monster does is random,” she said as she thought about the profile she was putting together. “Fishhooks have been made of all types of things throughout history,” said John. “Bone, wood, shells, you name it. But the bottom line is that a good fishhook needs to be strong, have good surface quality, be long lasting, and inexpensive.” Katie looked over the wire samples. “So the killer chose a cheap version, which can be found in any hardware store, to make his hooks. That tells me that it’s all for show and not for craftsmanship or durability. It’s a symbol to him.” “Take a look at this,” said John. He showed the detectives one of the hooks. “You can see with a naked eye that there are indentations of something consistent with a standard pair of pliers, most likely needle-nose pliers.” Katie studied it. “It reminds me of jewelry making.” “That’s a good description.” John moved to one of the computers, where there were websites up that had several pages of fishhook history from books published both recently and as far back as sixty years ago. “When I was searching for specific types of wire used to make fishhooks, I came across some interesting facts that might be useful for your profile of the killer. I sent the list to your email, but I thought it was interesting enough to bring to your attention.” Katie and McGaven read over John’s shoulder. 

“So in some cultures the fishhook symbolizes the relationship between humans and the ocean, according to these historical articles. Catching a fish is about hope and determination,” John said. “Hope and determination seems like an unusual pairing of words,” she said. “I agree. That’s why I wanted to bring it to your attention, whether it’s helpful or not.” “The hooks in the mouths of the families obviously means something significant to the killer. But we have to find out what,” she said. “Here it also refers to the hooks as representing strength, prosperity, and good luck.” John turned to the detectives. “I thought it was interesting that there are several passages in these articles published through various historical fishery and outdoorsman sites that refer to ‘fishing for souls.’ There are also a lot of references to various religious and philosophical beliefs.” “That’s creepy,” said McGaven. “Why does that sound familiar?” Katie said. “Many famous painters through history have depicted scenes of the devil looking for souls,” said John. Katie thought more about it. It did seem to symbolize a part of the working mind of serial killers; how they fantasize and hunt for their victims. It could be the key Katie was looking for. It may have something to do with a life event or the childhood of the killer. “I can see the wheels turning,” said McGaven as he watched his partner. “I think we have stumbled on something,” she said. She looked at a diagram of a hook in one of the articles. “There’s four parts,” she said reading the screen. “The shank, the bend, the eye, and the barb.” “I never knew there was so much to know about a fishing hook and what it symbolizes as well as the physical qualities of the pieces,” said McGaven. “I thought the same thing,” said John. “Was there anything unusual about how the hooks were placed?” Katie asked. “They were fastened the easiest way, to the backs of their throats postmortem. It was just enough underneath the soft tissue to keep them from falling out.” It made Katie shudder just to think about. 

“A few other things,” said John. Katie could see his frown, which meant it wasn’t necessarily good news. “We tried everything we could think of, but as you know, the video security cameras at the Bankses’ residence were destroyed. The dress in the bag at the creek was new and there wasn’t any type of evidence left on the dress or bag.” “Okay,” she said. “Now the Sandersons’ residence yielded nothing in particular. The cleaner was a combination of standard ammonia and another common cleaner with a floral scent. These are found in every store, superstore, and even grocery markets.” He sighed. “The residue that was left at the house indicated that there had been a large amount used when the family was killed and it had been drying, evaporating for a while.” “That’s not great news,” said McGaven. “What about the foreclosed house in the Cedar District neighborhood?” “Glad you asked. Sorry I haven’t gotten the reports to you yet,” said John. He moved to a computer. “Okay, the wrappers didn’t indicate there was anything that could be tested and it wasn’t clear how long they had been there, if they had been there for a while before the man and little girl were seen. The child’s clothing in the bag was the same as the dress at the Banks’ residence. It was new, like the pajamas on the victims.” “The killer bought clothes for them all as part of controlling the scenes.” “It appears so. Trying to find out which store they came from would be difficult if not impossible. Now, the tire marks and cigarette butts yielded more evidence. We retrieved DNA off the butts, but nothing has hit in the system yet. If we have someone to compare it to—that’ll be another story.” Katie was thinking about the killer buying clothes and leaving behind biological evidence that couldn’t be matched in their database. “We have a great tire impression. It came from a late-model truck tire. Not a four-wheel drive but a standard issue.” “And there are probably a lot of those,” she said. John nodded. “But we will keep looking. You need to bring in a suspect and that will change everything.” 

Katie forced a smile. It wasn’t what she had been hoping for, but they would just have to keep pushing. “Thank you, John.” “I’ll update you more as the results come in. I know you two have a lot on your plate.” “Thanks,” said McGaven. When the detectives reached the hallway, Katie turned to her partner. “I think we need to talk to Gabby Rey and Trent Gaines again.” “I agree. There’s no such thing as a coincidence.” “Maybe that was why Samantha was able to get a teaching aid job with Gabby—she was doing research. Her qualifications were much higher than an aide. She could have had a teaching position or been a substitute teacher.” “Makes sense. I think we’re just at the brink of finding out a lot more of what the Bankses were doing with all that research.” “It’s Saturday, so they’ll most likely not be working. I think we need to check out their residences and maybe do a little bit of a stakeout,” she said. “Now you’re talking.”

 “Did you know the US is one of the worst countries for human trafficking? We’re talking 1.2 million children a year. And it happens to adults too.” Katie hadn’t checked statistics, but the thought of over a million children a year exposed to these types of situations made her deeply troubled. In her current emotional state, she could cry but she remained stoic in front of the marshal. Marshal West continued, “These children are always controlled by someone, and below that there are the handlers who carry out their orders. And these handlers move around a lot, completing tasks like finding places to store the child until they receive orders.” “You mean like at the foreclosed house, for example?” “Exactly.” “But you’re forgetting that Tessa was murdered and dumped.” Katie hated remembering that fact. “So she wasn’t taken to be exploited in that way.” “It still doesn’t change anything. There are a million reasons why she could have been murdered. Maybe the situation changed? Maybe law enforcement is getting too close and he got scared?”

Leave it to me to realize that there is a song about "fishing for men" within the Christian religion. Actually, it didn't surprise me that still another author is using a religious slant in dealing with those in the world who choose to murder... sometimes based upon religious beliefs and, sometimes, as is happening in America now, only using religion to commit acts of power, fear, and hate... 

Detective Katie Scott had discovered another gruesome crime scene. An entire family was dead. But that was only after she had found a little girl during her run that morning. Actually it was Cisco, her K9 officer and best friend, who had chosen to disobey Katie and ran off, only trying to get her to follow him. Finally, she had found Cisco gently nudging a small bundle and when she went closer, she discovered a small blond child, dressed only in her nightgown and very cold like she'd been out there most of the night. Katie came close and asked her name. Emily stumbled over her name, but answered Katie's question about how she got there. Somewhat surprised when Emily told her that her mother had brought her there...

Leaving Cisco to guard Emily, she soon saw a home and started carefully down to see what happened and why Emily had been brought this distance and left. There had been blood on Emily, although she didn't seem to be hurt, so Kate pulled her gun to be ready for anything. The door was standing open and she could see blood smears and patches as she called out, ready to enter into the silence. Moving slowly she saw that the house was orderly but then saw the bloody hammer lying on the floor. It appeared to have been dropped while moving toward the door, blood drops led her backward to look toward a nearby barn. She walked softly, but then dropped to her knees. Four bodies were side by side--a man, a woman, a boy and a girl. Like little Emily, they were all dressed in pajamas. She had seen many gruesome bodies, but this scene seemed so senseless, more devastating realizing that Emily had been saved by her mother but had not been able to prevent the murder of the remaining family members.

Katie knew what it was like losing family, having lost her parents in an accident and she still had flashes of PTSD from her service years in the army. She knew she would always have flashbacks but she had tried to learn to live with it. Now she was talking to herself, telling her to "snap out of it..." She quickly moved to return to Emily and Cisco and call in for all those who would be needed to deal with the latest event that could not be explained, but yet would be their job to find out what happened. One of the first things they learned was the family was in witness protection, which, of course, would require an entirely new possible avenue of investigation for the murders. And a U.S. Marshal would soon be there as part of the investigation and, sadly, was to be a partner with Katie as lead...

In the meantime, she and McGaven were heading back to the barn where the details of the murders were being obtained. And, it seemed that there was some level of ritual to each kill, since in the back of the throat, after strangulation, had been attached a hook, similar to that of a fisherman. But these were handmade with little precision and very crude. 

And even while they were moving as fast as they could, trying to get local information completed quickly so that when the Marshall came they would have a good handle whether it had anything to do with their being in protective custody...

Then they were notified that another family had been found just five miles away from the first, they learned that it was the same family dynamic. Except, the youngest little girl was taken, while the four family members had the same hooks attached in the back of their throats!

And in the midst of all this, Katie hears from her lover and learns that he will be moving across the nation to a new job... And she didn't even have a chance to mourn, knowing that another little girl was missing!

She got even more on edge when the U.S. Marshal chose to come to her home in the evening to begin learning about the case, rather than waiting to arrive at the office the next morning... But he didn't have much experience and was quite hyper, so she realized that she'd have to babysit while the workload had increased with two entire families attacked, with one child missing, and one still in the hospital. Plus, they had found dozens and dozens of boxes in the barn of the first family and each had to be gone through before they could confirm that this had nothing to do with the reason for the involvement of the Marshalls. Still, Katie was dealing with even more... because Emily had been kidnapped!

Jennifer Chase is one of my favorite authors. She is willing to deal with the reality of child sexual abuse and, for her, at least in fiction, the child is normally found and protected thereafter... She puts in those little phrases, like saying a little prayer for Emily, that makes her reader aware that she writes, because, of what happens to millions of children across the world... There's one bit of happiness at the end to share without giving away the ending... Cisco participates throughout this book and, in the end, is given rank as a K9 Officer, which includes his placing his paw on the Bible and barking that he will uphold our laws and constitution... Hey, we even have our animals working to retain the United States Constitution.  Please VOTE to keep freedom for all!

GABixlerReviews

Mary L. Trump Shares Early Life New Book - Who Could Ever Love You: A Family Memoir

 My grandfather had a fabricated family crest and Latin motto inscribed on the pediment. Nobody knew what the motto stood for, although my father suggested it might be “Don’t bullshit a bullshitter.”

It was disappointing having to put off their travel plans, but Linda took the pregnancy in stride. She had grown up believing this was the way it was supposed to be: work, get married, have kids right away, buy a house—and in the early 1960s that was the way things were for most women, by choice, expectation, or lack of opportunity. But the idea of being a dad so soon unnerved Freddy, who was still only twenty-three. They made the most of their last summer before their first child, a son, was born. Their socializing came to include black-tie fundraisers to benefit Jamaica Hospital, his mother’s favorite charity and a place she spent an inordinate amount of time as a patient, originally because of serious complications after her last pregnancy and then because of fractures caused by severe osteoporosis. Mostly, though, Freddy, Linda, and their friends spent glittering evenings at Manhattan clubs and dined at trendy restaurants like La Vie en Rose on Little Neck Parkway.

Freddy had trouble understanding what his father expected of him—not because he didn’t have the capacity for understanding, but because the expectations were either ambiguous, self-contradictory, or ridiculous. Why did he have to be a killer? Why did he have to treat their tenants like dirt? Why, in a company that ran like a well-oiled machine, did this enormously wealthy man feel it necessary to recycle nails he picked up at his building sites? But Fred Trump couldn’t stand waste. Fred Trump couldn’t stand feeling like he was being taken advantage of. And, it turned out, Fred Trump couldn’t stand delegating responsibility—especially to somebody he considered his inferior, which, increasingly, is how he thought of his oldest son.

My parents didn’t have a formal separation agreement until 1970, so for the first couple of years after they split up, Dad came to the Highlander on the weekends when he was able to. This schedule worked for him. I think being on his own was a relief. Being a part-time father suited him: he could have fun with us without the burden of too much responsibility and for a strictly limited amount of time. Sometimes we stayed in the apartment, but only if my mother wasn’t home—she had a hard time being in the same room with him. On warm days we walked down to South Jamaica, Dad carrying me on his shoulders and my brother trying to keep up with Dad’s long, easy stride. If there was a good movie playing, we went to the Loews theater on Jamaica Avenue, an ornate 1920s movie palace festooned with decorative pilasters and finials and cherubs. By the late sixties it had seen better days, but it still retained some of its classical grandeur. I was in awe of the gilt-edged seats, sweeping balcony, and massive red velvet curtains; it might have been sacrilegious to watch a movie like Jerry Lewis’s Hook, Line & Sinker in such a place. But I loved being there, especially on hot, cloudy days, when the three of us could sit in the cool dark air together and alone at the same time. And maybe Dad, for a couple of hours at least, could lose himself. He also usually swung by to pick us up one night a week. 

By the end of 1964 he was back at Trump Management working for Fred again. This time it was clear he had no future there. His father had never respected him; after the betrayal of leaving Trump Management, Fred would never trust his namesake again.

Sometimes we went to the House, but it was better—easier, less fraught—when he took us to Dante’s, a little Italian place not too far from the Highlander on one of the quieter sections of Union Turnpike. There was a sameness about those dinners that comforted me—we ordered spaghetti and meatballs, and Fritz and I fought over the jukebox. Not over the songs we played, which were always the same—“Raindrops Keep Fallin’ on My Head,” “Cracklin’ Rosie,” and “Sweet Caroline”—but over who got to put the coins in the slot and who got to push the buttons. Since we were going to keep picking the same songs to play again and again, it didn’t matter. “Take turns,” Dad said, sliding us some more change across the heavily varnished wood table. 

If my mother and father hadn’t yet figured out a way to be in the same room without getting into a fight, my father and grandfather had figured out that there would be no salvaging their relationship at all. My grandfather had won, and Dad couldn’t move on. But there was still tension between them, which I could feel, even if I didn’t understand it, whenever we went to the House. After a dinner that we’d eaten in the breakfast room, we moved to the dimly lit library, a room with no books, in which the family spent the most time. Dad sat with my grandmother on the love seat by the bay window, and I stood next to my grandfather’s knee while he taught me and my brother how to spell words like “arithmetic” and “Mississippi” backward and forward, or add long columns of four- or five-digit numbers that he wrote on a white pad of cheap scratch paper with one of his blue Flair markers. By the time he finished writing the numbers down, he had already solved the problem in his head. Like magic.

Writing a memoir certainly brings back memories that are both joyful and painful. But in the Trump family, one never knows what will be learned... In reading this book, though, the only thing about Donald Trump that really struck me, was that when they were very young and the children were at The House, and playing outside, it was Donald who would be the "bully" who threw balls at the boys in his family that were meant to hurt, sting when they were caught... Nobody ever attempted to change that activity...

But I was most struck by Mary's personal story that is woven into and out of the family into which she was born. It is a story that touched my heart as I envisioned her; while, at the same time, comparing her life within a wealthy family to mine within a low-income but loving Christian family... Mary, whose picture is on the front cover of her book, cannot have been more revealing by the title, Who Could Ever Love You. After judging her brother's recent book as the saddest book I'd ever read, I found a different response to Mary's. Her personal early life was quite different from her brother, who spent much more time at The House and only began to question his uncle's actions later in his life. Mary, younger, had to deal with more personal aspects of life when she was still very young.

What strikes me most is that Mary was away from her parents through one way or another--school, camps, and later college. Mary was reading at the age of three, obviously very intelligent. Once her parents were separated, her mother began to make friends with other neighborhood women, often leaving Mary with a family who cared for her; i.e., until an older boy in the family decided to explore Mary until his mother walked in... That stopped that close family relationship that she had enjoyed so much.

Although it never was explained or confirmed, Mary's mother actually was abusing her daughter, Mary. When young, she began to have signs of Asthma. It would get very bad at night, in bed, so much so that she could hardly breathe. She quickly went to her mother, waking her to tell her what was happening. Her mother barely woke up, saying, she could climb into bed with her. In the morning her mother would see what the problem was and took her to the hospital... Thing is, that same scenario kept happening. By the time Mary got to the hospital, she was barely breathing. At one point Mary describes what one of the doctors in the emergency room said to her mother. In my opinion, she needed to say that she began to feel like nobody could love her, especially her mother who, of course, was depressed by, first, her husband's family ignoring her and then that her husband began drinking so much that she couldn't deal with living with him... Mary stopped short of actually accusing her mother for her near-death experiences when she was young, but surely we all realize what was happening. Was her mother taking sleeping pills or something stronger that prevented her from immediately attending to Mary? I found this an excuse for the first time it happened, but not for the later times... 

Mary's father, Fred Trump II, was a man who through his early life with lots of available money, had learned how to fly and loved being outside in the air or on the sea. Life seemed to be one big exploration of the life of the rich and famous. The thing is that Fred's love of flying or fishing led to his desire to become a pilot. His father called being a pilot a flying taxi or bus driver... Fred and Linda had been enjoying living high and being free to fly this place or that... and when his father made it clear that he expected Fred to take over the business one day, they slowly began to separate until, when married, his father was so openly prejudiced against his son's choice of a career--and a wife... that the loss of family and a lifestyle dependent upon his father slowly led to Mary's father turning to drinking to keep going. And ignoring his wife also moved to a total separation of the family structure that was ruled by Fred Trump.

1969 The lights spread out below my window, keeping me tethered. I found them beautiful, sparkling to dispel any possibility of total darkness, glittering on the other side of the dividing line that ran through my neighborhood. Jamaica, where I lived with my mother, Linda, and brother, Fred C. Trump III (whom we called Fritz), was on the wrong side of the tracks from Jamaica Estates, the white, upper-middle-class neighborhood where my grandparents lived and my father, Fred Trump Jr., and his siblings, Maryanne, Elizabeth, Donald, and Robert, had grown up. But even Jamaica was segregated. My apartment building, the Highlander, stood at the top of the hill that formed the southern border of the part of town called Jamaica Hills (although I had no idea that’s what it was called). This part of the neighborhood, almost exclusively white, with its tree-lined streets and a park with towering oaks and a pond that reached all the way back toward Jamaica High School, felt almost suburban, at least to a kid who didn’t know what a suburb was. It stood in stark contrast to South Jamaica, which was predominately Black and urban. My bed was almost flush against a wall with south-facing windows. We were only a few miles from John F. Kennedy International Airport, and large commercial planes flew past my window every few minutes. Not long before, my father, Freddy, a pilot for TWA, had sat in the cockpit of 707s, taking off on his way to places I hadn’t yet heard of. But I wouldn’t know any of that for decades. In 1969, I was four years old. Diagonally across from where my head lay on the pillow, the moon rose every night. Its light tethered me, too; its steady presence helped me keep time. It kept me company on those nights when I couldn’t sleep, which, after Dad left for good, was often. It had become easier for us since Dad moved back in with his parents, to the place we called the House. The tension in our own home faded. I no longer had to dodge the fights that often sparked between him and my mother—because of his drinking, mostly, but also because her anger about it caused them both to be cruel. Instead, I’d begun to learn how to walk on the eggshells of my mother’s quiet despair. They had both fallen so far from the early, heady days of their relationship, when my father was about to take his place at Trump Management as his father’s right-hand man, and they spent evenings in the city with friends at the hottest clubs and weekends flying to Montauk or Bimini in Dad’s Piper Cherokee. By 1967, my father’s career and health had deteriorated; my mother was effectively trapped with two very young children in a run-down apartment that we rented from my grandfather and that she hated; and their marriage had disintegrated so thoroughly that it was almost impossible to imagine how these two wholly unsuited people had come together in the first place. My mother once told me that Freddy Trump was the most handsome man she’d ever met, and he could make her laugh. At twenty-two, that might have seemed enough. What my father saw in her was harder to discern, but she was pretty and admiring. Perhaps at twenty-three that was enough for him. Now, seven years later, nearly thirty years old, my mother had no money beyond whatever was given to her for basic expenses and had no resources with which to make a new start. On top of this, her struggles with depression and her own futility were made worse by her inability to locate the reasons her life had unraveled so precipitously.

Liz had a cassette player and cassettes—hers was the only room in the House with music. When I was nine, she added Neil Diamond’s His 12 Greatest Hits to her collection. I knew his music from the radio and the jukebox at Dante’s, the Italian restaurant we went to with Dad a couple of times a month, but those were only a handful of singles. I’d never heard “Shilo” or “Brooklyn Roads” before, and I began to wish Liz wouldn’t be at the House when I came by so I could listen to the tape, flipping the cassette back to the A-side when “Brooklyn Roads” ended, until it was time to leave. If she was around, I had to find somewhere else to go. Even if she was downstairs with Gam and Maryanne, I wouldn’t have dared go to her room. It never occurred to me to ask if I could hang out in her room with her, just as it never occurred to her to invite me in, let me sit next to her on the floor sharing her popcorn, flipping through magazines, and listening to music. I eventually stole the cassette from her. I knew it was wrong, but I wanted to be able to listen to it all the time. I could have asked my mother to buy it for me, or I could have used my allowance to buy it for myself, but neither of those things occurred to me, either.

 When he saw the records on the floor by the front door, he gave a whoop. He dropped down on one knee and started flipping through them, calling out names of songs he knew with the excitement of a child. We were going back with him to Sunnyside and he asked my mother if he could take the records. She said yes—which was generally the average length of their interactions back then—and when Dad bent to pick the box up, I looked at him skeptically. But he rolled up his sleeve and flexed his bicep. I squeezed it with both hands, and he lifted me up until both of my feet floated above the ground. He lifted the box as if it weighed nothing, hoisted it on his shoulder, and carried it all the way to the car. When we got back to Sunnyside, we spent the entire day listening to song after song. The box contained everything from Benny Goodman to “Yes, We Have No Bananas” to Orson Bean’s “I Ate the Baloney” and the truly bizarre “The Great Crepitation Contest of 1946—The Battle at Thunderblow, Windesmear vs. Boomer.”

Once I got back to school, I took up the habits of smoking and sarcasm. There was no support system, so I tried to create my own, which was easier when I cloaked my despair in dark humor and asked somebody if I could have a light.

Maryanne came over to me, but she didn’t hug me or even shake my hand. It seemed to cost her, but she finally said, “Your dad was the best of us.” But how, when they made it impossible for him to be any of those things? Why couldn’t he be any of those things for me? None of them called me after I got back to school, so I had no frame of reference within which to understand this new information. To me, it was revisionist history. I only knew the man they humiliated and ridiculed until he could no longer fight back. They took my father away from me before I was even born. By the time I was old enough to be aware, he was so steeped in self-loathing, so ravaged by drinking and chain-smoking, he bore absolutely no resemblance to the portrait they sketched. I didn’t have the first idea how to grapple with any of it. It would’ve been terrible if I’d loved my father as deeply as I should have, if he and I had had a great relationship, but it was so much worse because my grandfather created the conditions that made those things impossible. By the time Fred decided he no longer wanted to bear the burden of being constantly reminded of his greatest failure—he had given this weak, unmanly creature his name, after all—he’d already conditioned the rest of us not to care. When my father became ill enough to be confined to his bed, my grandfather took the opportunity to deprive him of alcohol, without regard for the consequence. In addition to being sick, then, Freddy suffered from severe alcohol withdrawal, which would’ve stressed his heart and made him that much sicker, that much easier to ignore. When it was over, Fred was finally able to proceed as if his oldest son, and, by extension, Freddy’s children, had never existed. Fritz and I were still required to meet certain obligations, but without our knowing it, our grandfather had already erased us on paper, even though a couple of decades would pass before we found that out. My father’s tragedy was that ultimately, he believed every lie his father told about him. My tragedy was that I did, too.

As I began to think back over this book, several overall themes began to gain my attention... Each time that Mary or her brother had talked about the building where her grandparents lived, it is always referred to as The House. Consider that a moment if you would... It is never called a home... Consider that when they refer to going into the Library after a meal, they always point out that there were no books in the room except telephone directories... And, when Mary discovers that there was only one room in The House from which she heard music, it was so strange and yet so enticing, that she chose to steal what she wanted to hear more and more... It was the same little girl who, when left alone not having anybody to play with, she would steal away to her grandmother's closet where she could hide within the folds of her furs--loving the softness against her skin, while she was afraid of being caught in her grandparents bedroom...

I cannot imagine a home without books or music being part of my life. And yet, in knowing this, I thought of how banning books is now occurring once again in America... As Mary opens up about herself, she talks about the books she had read in schools, yet we know that she had learned to read early in her life. Surely the world was opening up to her in those schools where she really wanted to go--to learn, to begin to see that there was a difference to the life she had been living in... And, as she learned, she came to read a book that she says changed her life... I think you all will understand, just as I did, exactly how and why the book by William Faulkner affected a little girl who wondered if anybody could ever love her...

I've not read this particular classic, but I've read many which had similar themes of home life. Mary really never understood her family structure. Nor have I understood a major man in that family who was leading his family toward ruin, including the theft of their inheritance that by rights should have come to Mary and her brother. Yes, money is important, but Mary's life had actually been stolen, to the point that she could have died. She could not understand why her mother wouldn't help her breathe... And, later, when her brother accused her that she should have done something, she couldn't understand what she was supposed to have done... Even when she and a older neighbor had removed their clothes and been caught, she didn't know why his mother had made her leave their home... Mary Trump never had anybody to guide her, to help her through her health issues with love and patience and attention...

I was a loner too, mainly because of the age separation from my older sisters, but through our church activities, we all participated together in many ways to sing, to learn to play an instrument and to laugh together. But Mary only began to have friends at schools, camps, or more schools. She was learning much and was excelling, but her inner self remained confused and lonely, even as she began to question her sexuality.

This last group of songs were those spotlighted as her favorites in college. I found them an interesting playlist, while the earlier playlist was of her father's and she loved watching him enjoy them more than she cared about the actual song. And, only one was special to her early in life, when her young aunt closed her bedroom door to enjoy her own music, never thinking to invite others to listen, especially Mary, as she thought... Even as Mary admits she stole one of those records, she had no reason why she did. All we know is that Mary L. Trump wanted and needed to have somebody love her enough to share with her...

Even after her first book, when news representatives started calling her, she recognized, inside, that they wanted to know her opinions about somebody else--the man who has and is destroying our country, her uncle, instead of her own story... You see, I learned about this book on those news stations and wanted to read it.... Yes, to confirm what I believed about her uncle...

But once I learned the title of the book and saw her picture on the book--a little blond girl, just like me, I was anxious to actually meet Mary L. Trump. She's a special little girl who has endured much, especially without any real support system that normally comes through family or childhood friends. Knowing that her first school experience was required to be at a private school which her grandfather mandated because he was on the school board, rather then the public school which was close enough that she could have walked there with neighborhood friends made her begin to question, don't you think? I still remember my grade school teachers and the neighborhood friends I got to know and shared with through many years.

You know folks, as I close, the phrase, Little Rich Girl(s) came to my mind... remembering an old movie, which I decided to include. 

When a child is excluded from normal or routine life and growing experiences, perhaps by circumstances such as wealth or a poorer environment, there are bound to be results... Mary Trump went through a rich environment as well as a poor environment based upon the rejection of her marriage within a wealth family... Just like in the movies, they make a great story, but for that little girl who asks "Who Could Ever Love You (Me?), it can result in a withdrawn woman who finds questions within herself that nobody had ever gave her a chance to ask. Mary Trump is that little girl. Could the question have been intended for her Grandparents? Her mother? Her Brother? Her Father? For each of these individuals did little to ensure that Love was a part of each issue to be handled in Mary's youth and throughout her life. In the end, what we do know is that the adult Mary often remains withdrawn from her surroundings. Is writing to share her life, hoping others will accept her words as truth... For she has endured much more than we who live a normal life, surrounded by love or, at least, a basic awareness of her place in today's world. I applaud her for her willingness to open her own life to be explored, analyzed, and, for some, like her aunts and uncles, to be cast aside as not being worthy of further connection. Do not allow Mary Trump or any other child ever feel they... are... not... loved... 

God Bless Us All

Gabby