Charity Shane' Presents A Novel Christmas - Loved the "Second Time Around" Theme - And Playlist

 

Because Santa Claus is so small, the Warriors consist of players from here and from three neighboring towns: Mariah Hill, Lincoln City, and Buffaloville. Because they are rivals in high school, it’s important to always bring them together as a team on this field. A divisive team never truly wins.

“Find some Christmas cheer, play Boyz II Men’s ‘Let it Snow’ on repeat, and write the book,” I tell her. What other options do I have? Frustrated, I add, “I need to call my ride. I’m headed back to the airport.”

 

“I don’t know why I’m here, love. I couldn’t sleep, so I decided to run and ended up here,” I admit, then sigh. Mya and I were always one hundred with each other. So, I’m not going to start lying now. “That’s not true,” I retract. “I ended up here because I didn’t dream about you last night, and that shit freaked me out. I never want to stop thinking about us or what we had. “I miss you—a lot. I’m not supposed to live without you, but I’m trying. It’s hard, though. I still can’t spend too much time in the house. Again, I am trying. I try every day to do what you wanted: live, be happy, and find love again,” I say, repeating her final wish for me. She told me those words daily. “The last part is the hardest,” I admit. “It threatens what we had, and I don’t like that. How can I find something that I gave all to you?” The sound of a lawn mower interrupts my words. I glance around and see two groundskeepers on riding mowers. One approaches me, riding in the row in front of me. He kills the engine. “Sorry, sir. I didn’t see you. I can come back later,” he apologizes. “You’re good. I’m heading out,” I tell him because I’ll return on Christmas Day and bring tulips. “See you on Friday, love,” I say to Mya, then nod at the groundsman.

My head tilts down, and her face lifts up. Our eyes meet. I think I’m losing my mind because everything in me wants to kiss her. I mean, I really want to possess her lips with mine, and this pull is definitely a first. I haven’t felt this strong of a pull to any woman since my wife. “My bad,” I utter, then drop my hands. “You don’t have to,” she starts, but she suddenly stops, then turns around. She steps back to the chair and grabs a bag of marshmallows. “So, how do I do this?” she asks. Crystal stands, then steps closer to Saira. She grabs two sticks. “The only thing that goes on the fire are the marshmallows,” she begins. “You got to get it good and hot.” “And melty,” Devyn adds. She stands too, and the three women work together to make the s’mores. “Baby, I’m about to go get me a drink,” Keith yells out. “You want something?” “If there’s some more hot chocolate in the carafe, then a cup of that with my Kahlua. It’s in the refrigerator,” Devyn replies as she places two large marshmallows on a stick. “That sounds good and warming. Can you get me one of those too?” Saira says. “Me three,” Crystal adds. “Aye. Y’all Negroes come with me. I ain’t got that many damn hands,” Keith huffs. I definitely need a damn drink. I’m all off of my square around Saira. I’m doing stuff that I usually don’t do. I was all up in her space, uninvited, rubbing her arms. What the fxxx! “Let’s go,” I say, then start trekking to the cabin. I need to put some distance between us so that I can clear my mind. Halfway to the cabin, I realize that I’m walking solo. “Damn, Negro!” Keith yells. “Slow the fxxx down,” he says. In my haste to get away from Saira, I’m power walking, and Keith and Mike are steps behind me. So, I stop and wait for them to catch up. “You good, man?” he asks. “Yeah.” “You sure? The way you just took off without us, ion think so,” he says seriously. “Miami got you shook?” he asks. “A little,” I sigh. “Shit! I don’t know. I’m not supposed to be,” I start, then stop. While shaking my head, my mind drifts to Mya. A heavy wave of guilt rushes my entire body. “I’m drawn to her, and I don’t know what to do,” I admit out loud. “What the hell you mean? Shoot your shot, Negro,” he barks, and my eyebrows furrow. I sigh again. Picking up on my hesitation, he takes a step back, then says, “Oh. Right. My bad. This is different. She’s different. You’re really feeling her?” “I am.” “Then the same advice applies, man. It’s time, and it’s okay,” he says. I met Keith right after Mya died. When I finally joined the SCFD, he was the first person I talked to at the firehouse. He was adjusting to the small town, and I was adjusting to my new life without her. We bonded quickly, and he was a good friend on those hard days when I needed one. “Coach, she’s feeling you. We can all see that,” Mike adds. “Man, Ray Charles can see that shit.” Keith slaps my back. “Don’t overthink it,” he adds. “Bet. You’re right,” I say. “I always am,” he jibes. “Now, can we go get my Yak and kill this girl talk?” 

We start back to the cabin. When we enter, Mike heads to the bathroom, and Keith and I stay in the kitchen. After washing our hands, he checks on the hot chocolate, and I grab the Kahlua and my bottle of 1942 out of the fridge. Mike starts talking as soon as he walks into the kitchen. “Crystal just texted. She said to bring the whole bottle of Kahlua.” I slide the bottle over to him, then search the cabinets for cups. I find the to-go coffee cups with lids and grab the pack. “Is there any hot chocolate in the carafe?” I ask Keith. “It’s half full,” he answers. “You might as well grab it too,” I suggest. “Bet.” With our arms full, we trek back to the fire. The ladies are sitting in the chairs, which are now closer to the fire. I rejoin Saira. Keith hands Devyn the carafe, and I open the pack of cups and distribute them. When I pour my Don Julio into my cup, Saira holds her cup in front of me. “Can I have a splash, please? I think I want that in my hot chocolate instead.” I put the spout over her cup. “Tell me when,” I say, then start to slowly pour it. She taps her cup on the bottle. “That’s enough,” she utters, and I raise my bottle upright. After closing it, I put the bottle on the ground next to our chair. Then I reach for her cup, and she hands it to me. I pass it to Crystal, and she fills it with hot chocolate. As soon as it’s back in Saira’s hands, she sips it and smiles. “You got enough tequila?” I ask her. She nods her head as she sips in response. My eyes travel the length of her, admiring all that is her again. That’s when I notice that the ingredients for the s’mores are gone. Even though I didn’t want any, I ask teasingly, “Where’s my s’more?” She stops drinking from her cup, but her lips stay glued to the rim of it. With raised eyebrows, she utters, “I didn’t know you wanted some. After making one, we gave the rest of the stuff to them.” She tips her head over to the others around the other fire. “Did you like it at least?” After placing her cup on the arm of the chair, she responds. “It was okay.” All the excitement that she had when we got the ingredients has faded. “I don’t know what I was expecting, but that wasn’t it,” she shrugs. Her beautiful eyes drift up to my face. “Did you really want one?” “No. I’m good,” I say, and her face quickly relaxes. Then her lip does the little curl thing. Damn, she’s so pretty.

~~~~

Folks, it's been a long time since I got excited about a purely romance story... I don't know why this one did it for me. Perhaps that, from my older age, I've noticed that our black neighbors are deeply involved within their own community. I've always assumed is was because of the racism that so many have voiced against them by my race... But this story revealed a depth of love between man and woman which I've not seen before. You're right, I'm not a fan of romance books... I need a mystery or a problem to solve in most books to keep me happy. But...I have to say, the characters in this book were so finely drawn, that I was pulled into the story just because of each of those characters!

It was kinda interesting, too, that the title, A Novel Christmas was a perfect choice for the plotline... You see, the main character, Saira, is an author who has received a "slight" warning from her publishing company that they'd like to see her write books geared to the holidays as well as what she was writing. Saira had purposely avoided that for her own reasons, but her agent made it quite clear that there was no longer a choice... She was to write a Christmas story--or else!

Saira was not happy, but if she had to do it, she figured she better find some way to actually get into the holiday spirit... She realized she needed atmosphere to do that... So she started searching for towns that naturally emphasized Christmas and found a small town called Santa Claus! Checked out possible accommodations and without any further delay, was on her way...

The only concern she had about the town was whether or not there were any black people living there. If not, she wasn't sure how to get past that to get to know the town... But that turned out not to be a problem since a young sista caught her attention and immediately headed for her as she arrived... And

immediately bought what she was selling for the local Fire Department... A Christmas calendar... And the cover--and Mr. December was... a gorgeous man... so immediately, I had an image... based upon what I'd read so far... Shemar is known for many TV shows, but this picture showed the kind of serious man who you will meet. He is a widower whose wife had died from cancer 3 years ago... He had been devastated, but had been coaxed into becoming a voluntary fireman and had begun to come out of the shell he had placed around himself...

Saire was to be the first woman for whom Dorian has developed an interest... and he was having a difficult time, often finding himself feeling guilty for these new feelings...

The book goes back and forth for first person between Dorian and Saire... Readers will experience both the excitement...and the frustration... of each of them as they don't know how to relate to each other... Saire only has a week to be in town... Yet, the pull toward each other forces intimacy, simply because it turned out that Saire had rented a side of a duplex...from... yes... Dorian! 

Readers will enjoy the fun Saire displays as snow comes to town... Saire had never seen snow that accumulated in inches! So she was gung-ho to build snowmen, make snow angels...and all the things that come with winter weather... But she quickly learned that her body had become attuned to Florida's temperature where she lived, and was freezing most of the time... The fireman knew that when she brought lighter fluid to use on her fireplace, he would have to be watching her and teaching her a lot of stuff just to make sure she didn't burn the duplex down. LOL!

So was this to be love at first sight? NOT! Saire had been burnt before and still not over how she had been treated. She was not willing to fall in love and have her heart broken again... Dorian was still taking flowers to his wife's grave weekly, to spend time with her, telling her about his life now--by the way, he'd become a coach as well! What is that old saying? The heart's going to do what the heart wants to do... And they soon became a couple attending all the festivities happening in a town call Santa Claus as Christmas drew near... And there was really no way they could ignore how both were feeling...

“Then amuse me, beautiful. If I was in your book, how would you write me?” he challenges. He may be the athlete, but I’m competitive as well. So, when challenged, I gladly accept. I sip my hot chocolate, then lean back in the booth. My eyes inspect him again as I gather my thoughts. When my words come together, I begin. 

“Sitting in this diner, I can barely finish my drink because I’m mesmerized by him, all of him.  His deep amber eyes and flawless ebony skin captured my attention first. His manly, sexy, spicy essence trapped me next. However, his chiseled chin and beautiful smile took me over the top. He’s sexy, handsome, and fine. How can I forget the chiseled arms and strong, muscular legs that are all apparent even though he’s fully dressed? I can’t. I won’t. He’s etched in my brain, scribbled in my thoughts, and imprinted on my soul. He’s a landlord, coach, firefighter, and to me, a hero. He kept me from setting myself on fire, and he rescued me from the brink of death at the hands of deadly creatures. He’s everything, but if I must simplify him, I can just call him . . . Dorian.” 

“Damn,” he utters. 

While smiling and internally patting myself on the back, my mind temporarily drifts to Marle, my publisher. Forget her! I still got it!

~

But soon it was time for Saire to leave and write the book she was committed to before the publisher's deadline... Time...went...on... But, the ending allowed me to add this to my, last, perhaps, 2025 Personal Favorite!

GABixlerReviews

With a personal Christmas Thanks to Charity Shane' for her Lovely Story...

from Gabby...

Ken Weene, Writer Contributes A Christmas Poem Suitable for Today--Sadly - We Must Fight Against Authortarians!

 

Christmas Poem 2025

The children gathered at the gate.

Some were early and some came late.

It didn’t matter what their order,

the train would take them to the border.

All would have to go, all be deported

from the only home they’d known

from the crops they’d help to grow.

The soldiers came shortly after

to find the only child who mattered—

the one ordained to be a king,

the one for whom the angels sing,

the one who came with magi gifts,

the one whose birth had been reported.

The one to kill, the one without a permit.

Their names were Pedro, Juan and Jesus:

those children taken to the border.

Innocent, they fled in terror

while angels sang and shepherds were transported.

I watched a star that seemed to hover;

it was a drone sent to rain down fire

on innocent migrants who ran for cover.

~

~

~

Did Jesus actually get thrown out of the United States?

Ken Weene's poem places what is being said in a different perspective, doesn't he?

Can you not see that Ken, though, possibly speaks truth?

Then how do you know Whose Truth to Accept?

What is YOUR Reason for Celebrating this Season?

Gabby

Long-Time Contributor, Guy Graybill, Announces Rhymes from the Hinterland--Just Out! Presenting Isle of Light

I've already talked with Graybill and have been given authority to share selections from this new book! Plan on seeing him as an ongoing contributor in the future... Or check out in the right column more of what he's been writing!

ISLE OF LIGHT 

As ancient tribal bowmen might fight a bowless band,

A nation’s modern weapon can crush a weaker land.

Upon a distant island, a plane was set on course;

Within, unseen in warfare, a new and Hellish force!

 The plane droned through the darkness; its crew a chosen few. 

They flew above the ocean; a somber, starlit view.

 Within the target city, no one foresaw the guest.

 Most rose to greet the new day; while slumber held the rest. . . . 

But, then arose a thousand suns; one blinding, searing flash! 

What Twilight bathed in glory, foul Dawn would bathe in ash! 

The victors won their skirmish, with soldiers undeployed. 

They also won their battle. The vanquished were destroyed. 

That bomb destroyed an empire. Proud leaders had to bow. 

But, that is all behind us; for we are here and now.

Soon, other nations differed and later wars were waged. 

Old conflicts are forgotten; Fate’s diary must be paged. 

My sadness overwhelms me. My sorrow overcomes, As I recall how fickle we’re made by martial drums.

 As decades drop behind us, the bomb begins to bore, As ‘just another weapon,’ in ‘just another war’. . . .

~

While historians speak of past wars, today we see the same

But this time something's different, the U.S. has lost its way

War is instigated by one man, instead of the government as a whole

Why is this allowed? We surely do not know...

Men who crave and lie for power

Who sit at home while citizens die

Cannot be allowed to continue to win

The rich get richer as widows and children cry...

Who are we who only choose peace

We lose so many in response to so few

When the majority wants only for wars to cease

Who are we? Who want only Peace...

Gabby

Do YOU Remember the Reason for the Season???

Heading to British Country with Victoria Tait for art, music, and mystery in Gavels, Tinsel and Murder: A British Cozy Mystery (A Dotty Sayers Antique Mystery Book 4)

 “Francis Bacon’s guilt and feelings of betrayal after the suicide of his longtime lover, George Dyer, are expressed in his later paintings. Can you feel the raw emotion as he painted this contorted figure?” Though I found these paintings, they are not shown here..."

“Truth Descending upon the Arts and Science,” remarked Gilmore, breaking into her thoughts. She started. “Did you know, the artist Robert Streator painted the ceiling’s thirty-two panels in Whitehall, London, and transported them to Oxford by barge?” Gilmore continued. “The fiery centre symbolises Truth triumphing over Envy, Rapier and Ignorance.”

“Ladies and gentlemen. If I could have your attention,” announced George’s amplified voice. Conversations in the marquee slowly stopped and George said, “Our first Lot is a meal for four at the Le Manoir aux Quat’Saisons.” Bidding was strong for the items on offer, which also included a week for eight people in a villa on the shores of Lake Garda, and one week’s skiing with a chalet for six people in Val d’Isere, France. “The next Lot has kindly been donated by Jay Newton, Tracy Ivers and Faye Dewey. It includes signed copies of Jay’s original hit with the Spinning Newts, Cries of the Street, a CD of the revised version called Who Can Hear Me, signed by Jay and his co-singer, Cadence Colby, and Cadence’s Janis Joplin denim jacket, which Faye was wearing when she sang so fantastically this evening.” Guests applauded and whistled. “We already have a bid of £1,500. Any advance on 1,500?” George scanned the audience and Norman waved and pointed to a curly-haired lady wearing a yellow silk jacket. “1,600,” declared George. Other guests raised their hands, and the bidding increased to £4,800. “Selling at £4,800. Any advance on 4,800?” asked George, looking around the marquee. “Sold.” The winning bidder was the curly-haired lady who’d made the first bid. Dotty was pleased for her. “And the final Lot I’ll be auctioning tonight is a wonderful L.S. Lowry painting entitled, Lunchbreak, generously donated by Lord Stanley-Rudd,” announced George. Again, the guests clapped. “We already have a bid of £8,500.” There were a few intakes of breath. It was a high starting price. A man approached Lord Stanley-Rudd and whispered in his ear. The lord turned puce and exclaimed, “Not that jumped-up, little weasel.” He raised his hand and called, “£8,550.” George’s voice rose in pitch as she slowly repeated, “£8,550.” Was the weasel Lord Stanley-Rudd was referring to Ken Tyler? Now Dotty thought about it, there had been a K. Tyler as top bidder on the internet for one of the items. Would Ken bid against Lord Stanley-Rudd to win the painting back? She looked around but there was no sign of the blue-jacketed Ken. “Any advance on £8,850?” asked George. None of the guests moved. “Sold to Lord Stanley-Rudd for £8,550.” There was loud applause and a few cries of “Good man” and Jay stood and walked across to His Lordship’s table.

~~~~

If you have not already guessed, we are in the midst of a number of activities that are managed by those in the business of making auctions happen... In fact, the beginning of the book is spent in discussions related to this work. I admit I tried to get some samples to include from all that was happening, but began to wonder if I were finding the right pieces... In any event, if you begin to feel lost, hang in there, as I did, because you are about to get involved with a mystery like no other! It is indeed a cozy murder mystery, but this time there is also a bit of art thievery thrown in to expand the complexity of the plot! It worked! Prepare to work hard to try to determine whodunit. It was only toward the very end that I began to wonder... And it resulted in a sad ending for some...

Dottie is our amateur investigator, but she is also part of the group that prepares for auctions for paintings. But there is also another component of the business which includes antique sellers so she is usually involved wherever she is needed... Her off-hours are spent taking classes to learn even more about art history... And it was there that she found herself developing an interest in one of the lecturers...

A wide cast of characters makes this a page-turner as readers begin to meet the "more refined and upper-class owners and buyers of works of art. Indeed, we learn that those in this class often have found it harder to keep up their inheritances, often choosing to get copies made of the personal paintings, so that they can then sell the real painting which is now worth much more than when it was purchased--so they could fix the roof, or some other maintenance to their homes, which are now being used to host events of various types in order to bring in money...

It is nearing Christmas and an auction planning is underway. One of the highlights of this auction will be a valuable painting donated by Lord Stanley-Rudd, a local contributor to the arts... This time, however, when he learned that there was already a bid received in advance of the auction--and who it was made by--he actually broke into the routine bidding process and immediately bid for the painting he had donated. And raised the bid by 50... It was natural to assume that he had changed his mind about giving up the painting, and so the auction continued...

But soon a bidder which Stanley-Rudd had out-bid was found murdered... near the picture which had been on display!

The thing about the victim, as the investigation began after the end of the auction--the staff had quietly removed the body, letting people think he was just injured--was that he was a conman of the worst kind. He used the one thing in the background of people about which they were ashamed... And then demanded some percentage of the individual's livelihood to be turned over legally to him. Most had agreed... But as the investigation began with those in attendance at the auction, the number of potential people who would want the man dead kept growing! 

Interestingly, having to reveal their backgrounds during the investigation, often relieved the minds of those who had been blackmailed...

In the meantime Dottie was busy but had been asked for a recommendation of a Christmas gift by Jay, who had hosted an event. It needed to be somehow related to music which was not handled by their company so she started looking for another distributor. Found one. The owner paid for it, and Dottie picked it up, only to determine, when they opened the gift, that it was...fake...

And, that, as they moved forward, realized that the painting that had been donated for the auction was also...fake!

The murder had not been solved! Now an entirely different crime had been added! Who was making fakes, replacing originals, providing fakes to the owners, and then selling the originals at full price to private collectors who didn't care about provenance!

By the way, the gray cat belonging to Dottie is called "Earl Gray" - loved the play on the British tea specialty. And that there is an entirely separate plot surrounding the life of Dottie and where she lives... Quite heartwarming... as they prepared for how to celebrate Christmas... with plans being changed left and right as...life...goes...on...

For Dottie...

Substituting for Vienna Boys Choir...

An extraordinary, thoroughly intriguing look into the art world--of criminals and murderers! Highly Recommended.

GABixlerReviews

YA Novel - The Weight of Echoes by Erin Giannini - With Music Playlist...

  They pushed me out of the way to clasp Dad’s hand, pat his back. I backed up, wanting to be far away from all of them. As I started to turn away, to run to my room, and wait for Mom to come home to find out if she was infected with this, too, the guy who seemed in charge turned to stare at me. He’d been handsome before he got all soft and jowly. He turned his round blue eyes on me and my knees went watery. When our eyes met again, I could see the flames Dad talked about, like a forest fire behind his eyes. I turned and ran into my room and locked the door...

There was only one thing I could think of that scared me, Robert James. Even thinking of his name made me shudder and I wondered if Dad finally got a taste of that. --Veronica

Imagine if you would, as I did, that the setting of this book is in a small town, either at present, or as planned for the near future... No, I rarely know the storyline before I get a new book... Title and cover is enough, as long as it is within my budget... I have to admit that I'm beginning to feel like these books are coming into my hands "supernaturally..." Because this story is too close to what we've been learning about plans of "project 25..." where government at the lowest levels is being taken over by Christian Nationalists... or MAGA...or whoever is behind all the chaos!

Veronica is our main character and the book ranges from her being 12 through to present as she is moving toward high school graduation. Veronica is an only child of two loving parents. The father has been offered a job and they move to Dalesville where he will be working for Faith Fellowship...

With absolutely no explanation as to how, when, or the possible why, Veronica has a special psychic gift of, upon touch, she is able to read another person's mind... There is no reference that even her parents know about this ability... Of course, Veronica may not have been given this ability until the relocation.

Because since they've been to Dalesville, Veronica's mother has disappeared. Her only clue since that happened, is that, in shaking hands with a woman at church, she saw a vision of her mother, in bed as if ill. Of course, there was no way for her to question a church member as to how she had seen her mother...

Veronica saw a definite change in her father. He was changed from the fun-loving father she remembered:

Dad was the lively one, in both voice and manner. He was always enthusiastic about something, whether it was stoking the coals of the barbecue or scribbling notes in books or on articles. I’d pick those up later, most sailed high and wide above my head. “Colonization of the other?’ or “PG again,” although not all, I picked up one article praising former president Nixon full of margin notes reading “asshole” and “dipshit.” Dad caught me with it and yanked it away, blushing. Then he gave a big booming laugh and ruffled my hair. “Your old man’s got some strong opinions, kiddo.” “I don’t mind.” I pointed at the picture of Nixon in the center of the article. “He looks shifty.” He’d swept me up in his arms and planted a kiss on my forehead, the tickle of his beard made me giggle. “My kid’s a friggin’ genius.” Mom came in at that moment, a stack of papers in one hand, a gallon of milk in the other, and asked what we were laughing about. Dad told her, and then she kissed me, too, and told me I’d earned a special trip to the bookstore. That was years ago. It was easy to see things were different.

The four who wind up as the lead characters in this YA novel are among the outsiders... Not because of who they are, necessarily, but because the town has two major institutions--one a corporation; one a church... Actually there is a tendency to realize that the two have leaders who are representing all of the town in some major way--either as employers, as a church member or student at the church school, or as those who have spent time at a facility run by the church but in another town... 

I tried to think objectively about the situation. There was a certain degree of comfort, even relief, in knowing one’s purpose, of being told exactly what you have to sacrifice—autonomy, career—in order to achieve it. But was anybody really ever aware of how big their sacrifice would be?

And then somewhere along the line, I learned that this was an evangelical college... No wonder I recognized the authoritarian aspect of the town...

When he did speak, it was the same kind of thing I’d been hearing for years. “I’m going to have to be gone a great deal over the coming weeks. I trust you’ll continue to behave in the ways I’ve taught you. What I don’t see, God does.” The words were the same, but the tone was wrong, it crackled with something unspoken, something that couldn’t be said. The knuckles that gripped the chair were white. “Do you understand?” Was he talking about Theo following me?

These four students became friends, perhaps, caused by their own rebellion--maybe they were unhappy with the way things were in their own homes... As mentioned, Veronica's father moved to Dalesville to be employed by the church. Chris is also a high school student but writes for the school paper. His father is "Big Pat" and is the owner of the company which supplies most of the jobs for the community, outside of the church campus and other activities they sponsor. The other two are gay; most people don't accept them... I "think" one may be also black, which, well...you know...

We meet the four of them at The Club which is the only entertainment location in town. Veronica sneaks out to go there. Chris dresses differently in rebellion to his father by wearing dark clothes, painting his nails black and adding other goth-type accessories... Being together as a gay couple is fine at this Club... A mosh pit gets the action going...

Now Veronica, who, as mentioned, has a gift or a problem, depending upon how you look at it, and stays away from dancing most of the time... And, she also has a personal reason for getting to know Chris. She's hoping, as a reporter, that he may be willing to help her either find her mother or discover what happened to her. But, little by little, the heat between these two becomes a reality and when a slow jam then starts, Chris asks Veronica to dance and she finally decides to try it...

After I pulled it shut and twitched the curtain closed, I made my way down the alley that ran the length of our subdivision toward Sunset, the road that ran east-west through this crappy town. Toward downtown, where all the freaks hung out, hoping this was the time I’d run into Chris. I thought he might be able to help me keep my promise to myself to find out what happened to Mom. Whatever other motivations I had I did my best to deny as I walked down the hill leading to Sunset. “I’m trusting you,” Dad had said. More’s the fool him. Trust was for suckers. 

I MOVED, THEY MOVED, we moved together. The bounce and sway of the mosh pit, the black-clad mass pressed against my body, the music pressed against my eardrums, colored lights pressed and flashed against my eyes. We were one. I flailed and fell, drowning. I leapt up and slammed against another. So much noise, I couldn’t hear my own thoughts...or anybody else’s. I was no longer Veronica Simon, alien and alienated. I was no longer alone. Just because I had a plan didn’t mean I couldn’t have a little fun, right? 

The song ended, segued into a slow jam suitable only for the love sway, couples hugging one another with no visible rhythm. Of course, my mocking was only the slim coating over a bitter pill. Seventeen-years-old, and the only commandment I’d managed to break, goddamn it, was not taking the Lord’s name in vain. I still honored my mother, but Dad cared more about his stupid Faith Fellowship Community than me, so he didn’t deserve it. And maybe I’d done a bit of coveting of a certain sharp-faced, black-haired boy reporter with a quirky little smile. The thought of him made me smile as I plowed through the crowd, trying not to touch anyone. I wouldn’t mind breaking a few more commandments with him. Much as Dad and his cohorts tried to convince us otherwise, “Thou shalt not engage in sex before marriage” hadn’t actually made it onto Moses’s big stone tablet. I almost wished it had, for the fun of breaking it. Then again, I thought, as I got closer to the bar, who knew what would happen with that much closeness? I shuddered. Keep my distance. Tamp it down. Caution: use only as directed. And if a few things still slipped through the cracks, all the more reason to keep to myself. Best to concentrate on this opportunity. I rapped my knuckles on the bar to get Mike the bartender’s attention, and gave him what I hoped was a winsome smile. I hadn’t had a lot of practice with talking to people since we’d moved to Dalesville, but the few times I’d made it to The Club, talking to Mike had been easy. Someday, I might even be able to talk to someone else. He grinned when he saw me, his natural expression. He had a kind of teddy bear face and physique that was made for tapping kegs and giving the highest of fives. “What can I get you, Veronica Simon?” “Vodka tonic, if you’d be so kind, Michael Higgens.” I matched his tone. He crossed his arms, tried unsuccessfully to settle his round face in hard lines. “ID?” “Mike. Do me a solid. Jesus’ll love you for it, you know.” The grin reappeared before he could stop himself. “You could go to hell for saying shit like that.” I felt my good humor crack a bit. It was a reminder of things I wanted the drink to forget. My smile and banter felt rubbery and fake, but I pushed on regardless. “My bad. I thought this was hell.” He coughed and laughed simultaneously. “Fine. Three bucks.” I put four on the bar. “Price-gouging bastard. Thanks, Mike. May God bless you.” He laughed all the way down the bar. 

I swiveled in my chair, sipped my drink, and watched the dancers. An involuntary sigh escaped me, and I took a large gulp of my drink. Pathetic. I lit a cigarette from the pack I’d bought at the beaten-up little store around the block and commenced watching again, but the dizzy dance-induced endorphin rush was long gone, replaced by the slow-simmer anger I’d carried for the past four months. What did I expect, coming to this place? I didn’t know anybody. Five years of home, school, church, or church-related activities had rusted any social skills that didn’t involve quoting the Bible or praising Jesus. Even with Nancy, my best friend until Jeremy Barnes asked her out and proceeded to monopolize her, every word had to be monitored and measured, so I wouldn’t offend her. She’d never be caught dead in a place like this. And Mr. Mulligan, sadly, was nowhere to be seen. I crushed out the cigarette, half-smoked, polished off the last of the vodka, adjusted my gloves, and slid off the stool. I snaked again through the dancers to the exit and out into the cold night air to be actually alone. I wasn’t alone. On the outer rim of the streetlamp outside the parking lot of The Club was a guy, leaning against a station wagon festooned with an array of discordant bumper stickers from an NRA “from my cold dead hand” to an Earth Day decal. He held a cigarette between long pale fingers, nails painted black to match both his hair and ensemble. My laugh was both unstoppable and loud. He looked up and saw me, then shoved himself off the car and ambled in my direction. Despite the vampire drag and the dark parking lot, I wasn’t remotely scared. I knew who he was, the reason I’d started haunting The Club in the first place, hoping it might be one of the places he’d hang out. Finally, risk met reward. I leaned against the wall of the club, bass thrumming through the plywood, a soothing counterpoint to the fluttery sensation in my stomach as he came closer. I told myself it was the nervousness of asking for a favor from a stranger. 

He reached into the pocket of his coat and produced a pack of cheap cigarettes, offering me one. I took it and the offered lighter. It was only then he spoke. “Were you laughing at me?” No accusation in that deep, soft tone, only curiosity. I darted a glance at him, smiled. “Yes.” He returned it. “Just checking.” I took a drag of my cigarette, exhaled the smoke toward my boots. “Are you offended?” “Terribly.” His somber voice was immediately undercut with a laugh. I chanced looking up again, and let my smile widen. “Then please accept my deepest apologies...” “Chris Mulligan.”

 “Veronica Simon.” He squinted at me as if the fluorescents above the door hurt his eyes. “You look familiar.” “I think we go to the same school, although your distinctive style should’ve made you more... distinctive,” I finished lamely. I was lying. I’d been noticing him for a long time, a math class here, an English class there, sneaking glances at his profile over my copy of Huck Finn, reading his stories in the Dalesville High Journal with a little more interest than a profile of Coach Blake necessitated. I didn’t want to open with that, though. I thought I might come off as a stalker, especially since I’d never actually worked up the courage to talk to him until now. I watched him as he took a drag on his cigarette, the sharp plane of his cheek sucked in slightly. It should’ve made him look gaunt, but his face was softened by long lashes and lips whose curves always seemed to quirk on the edge of a smile. Not that I’d ever visualized kissing those lips or anything, or thought about running my hands through that shiny black hair. Nope, not me. I wasn’t remotely disconcerted by his proximity and was in no way having any problem paying attention to what he was saying. Absolutely not. This was purely professional.

 “...anyway, there’s a day-Chris and a night-Chris. Mostly ‘cause day-Chris has enough to do getting up and getting dressed without killing someone to manage more than jeans and a shirt. Then again, my dad hates it when I dress like this.” “That’s enough of a reason to do it, yeah?” 

My voice didn't shake at all. Go me. “Pretty much.” He finished his smoke and ground it out under his boot. “My friends are going to think I died. I should get back in. I’ll look for you.” “Do that.” He smiled and was gone again into the bowels of The Club, so named because it was the only one in town. I hefted myself upright from the wall, turned and stared at the door that shut behind him. In the minute after he left, I knew I could pull open the door and follow him inside. Hell, maybe I could ask him to do the sway. Instead, I crushed the smoke, turned again, and made my way through the parking lot and out into the streets of downtown Dalesville. The night was sullen with silence as I walked past alleys lively with trash and their furry inhabitants, boarded or soaped windows of stores and restaurants, victims of the now decades-old mall where the shinier kids took their economic and social business. As I meandered past the shuttered Blue Moon Café toward the square, I wasn’t sure why I hadn’t gone back inside, found him, and asked him to do the clutch and sway on the dance floor. I’d been waiting for this opportunity. Keep your distance. Find out what happened. All my planning and thinking hadn’t given me any idea on how to achieve both. Focus on the latter, I lectured myself as I continued my walk, the square coming into view. That was the important thing, wasn’t it? Not the way his smile quirked on and off, like a shorted-out lamp, or his gangly walk, or the shock of black hair he kept pushing back from his forehead. I wanted him intrigued, not me. You could just ask him. My foot stumbled over a rock on the sidewalk. I kicked it hard into the street. 

When had asking nicely ever gotten me anything? The nip of night air felt nice on my skin, and I let my sudden bad mood trail away. I dug another cigarette out of my bag and lit it, focused on the fact I’d kept my head around him, and known to quit while I was ahead. The light from a trashcan fire in the alley next to the St. James Hotel—formerly the “jewel of downtown Dalesville” and now home to anyone who could pay the ten dollar a night charge—illuminated the stark dark branches of the catalpa in the center of the square. I ambled over there, took a seat on the warped wooden bench under the tree, and leaned back, sending smoke up toward the icepick stars above. Alone was better. 

Dad would be home on Sunday, in time to drag me to church, where I had the joy of being surrounded by people whose only connection was how much they hated everything not like them. I wasn’t like them, and the effort to hide that was exhausting. Worse, the collective crazy of Dad’s church of freaks had a way of sneaking through the chinks in my mental armor even without touching them. I hugged my arms more tightly around myself. Alone was definitely better. 

The square was deserted, and the silence loud. My ears strained to pick up a sound, any sound. Relief came in the form of an idling car nearby. A door slammed, and I stood, turned away from the street. It was time to move on, sneak back into the house. “Hey. I thought it was you.” I spun around again, on my guard, and was facing Chris, giving me that same flickering smile. He stepped back, the smile gone. “Unless you didn’t want to be bothered.” 

I let my face relax. “No, it’s fine. I wasn’t doing anything important.” It quirked on again. “Cool. We’re,” he gestured toward the station wagon, where two shadows lurked in the depths of the car, “going to Sam’s for some coffee and grease. Wanna come with?” “Well...” I thought about the walk and the pleasure of solitude, that smile and the sharp teeth of the wind. Thought about sitting next to Dad and being harangued for my sinful nature in this our sinful world, anger like incense lingering in the air. Smiled, because it worked. “Why not?” We walked together toward the car. Chris opened the passenger door for me. Up close, I noticed two boys in the backseat sporting a motley collection of piercing, tats, and other blasphemous attire, and scrambled right in and slammed the door behind me.

~~~~

The smell of incense was worked into the wooden pew. In front of him was the doleful face of the suffering Christ. He saw no judgment there, no expression carved into the face that said, “Chris, you have sinned. You are cast from my kingdom.” There was enough of that in the pinched faces of the communicants’ heel-toe-ing it up the aisle. He stared instead at the lip of the pew where he was kneeling, trying not to slump and lay his head there. The wages of sin were falling asleep in church and waking up to see the red creep up his father’s neck, and the disappointment in his mom’s eyes. His father—his Dad’s friends called him Big Pat, and so did Chris in his head—was always angry about something lately, and thus easy to dismiss. Mom’s disappointment was rarer and harder to take. Be a good boy. When he was little, he’d wanted that life. A modern-day Saint Francis, working with the sick and poor. A life of service to the greater good. Christ’s representative on earth. That was all gone. He wasn’t sure exactly where it had gone. Maybe it was as simple as getting old enough to be horrified at the idea of never getting laid. Maybe it was Catholic grade school and the bitter nuns and pietistic priests and the hypocritical good boys and girls they praised, who were no better than anybody else. If it hadn’t been hard for him to figure out they were full of shit, shouldn’t people who’d devoted themselves to God be able to see through all that crap, too? There was one thing left that could still give him an echo of that old magic. The darkened church, priest in the nave with a large candle, and then the parishioners lighting their candles, each to each, until the church was full of hundreds of flickering flames. Easter vigil: 

the return of Alleluia, the return of the Lord from the hell of death. Eventually, the candles were snuffed, and he’d start counting the hours until the vigil was done. “The mass is over. Go in peace to love and serve the Lord.” 

The organist crashed into the recessional like he was playing Notre Dame rather than a mid-sized Midwestern Catholic church. Chris wasn’t the only one who jumped. He suspected Big Pat actually had dozed off, given the wide-eyed bleary gaze he returned to the priest. Still, he managed to get himself together to lead the procession out of the pew as soon as Fr. Nickols and the altar boys had swept past. Chris outdistanced his family almost immediately, pulling on his jacket as he walked down the aisle and out the doors into the sharply cool sunlit Sunday morning. He lit a cigarette the minute his feet hit the mended asphalt of the parking lot, picked out their rust-bitten station wagon among the shiny sedans and SUVs of the other parishioners, and strode in that direction. Their newer truck was in the shop, and money was tight while Big Pat was on disability. From that vantage point, he could watch his parents nod and smile at Fr. Nickols, watch his sister Meg squirm with irritation at being forced to stand still after an hour of sitting in church. He took a drag of his cigarette and followed the lazy drift of his thoughts to Friday night and the girl who got into the car. They’d driven over to Sam’s, the mangy twenty-four-hour diner on Sunset amid with strip malls and dollar theaters and fast food joints like neon pimples on the green backside of the hills surrounding the town. The fries were undercooked, the pie was rubbery, the coffee could either strip paint or be thin enough to read through, and the air was thick with cheap cigarette smoke, old grease, and beer sweat from the good ole boys who’d stumble in when The Rambler across the street closed, but it was theirs. The girls with shiny hair, the guys with visible biceps? They never set foot in Sam’s. It was the boys clad in black, pale from choice or from spending hours in their parents’ basement reading Lord of the Rings or playing Dungeons and Dragons, the girls who pierced their noses or dyed and spiked their hair in electric blue or Kelly green or cherry red. Even more subtle outcasts—the girl who’d rather read English lit or was too fascinated by string theory, the boy who liked to draw, or even the ultimate crime in a mid-sized Midwestern town in the mid-nineties, the boy who like other boys—flocked to Sam’s. Sam’s, The Club, the Blue Moon coffee shop, Lou’s Used Records—those belonged to all of the above. To hell with the rest of the town. 

Chris was counting the days, and his savings, until he could leave for good. They’d stood in the doorway, and he could recognize almost everyone under twenty. Mark, who could quote verbatim from The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy and laughed at any mention of the number forty-two, or Cecilia and Tim, with heads both shaved on one side so when they sat together, it looked like one head of dyed black hair. They were the town’s answer to Kim Gordon and Thurston Moore, and played their brand of odd, intellectual rock every other Saturday at the Blue Moon. 

Veronica? He couldn’t remember her at any of those places, only coming out of the ground fog at The Club, laughing at him, or sprawled on a bench under the worn catalpa in the square, staring up at the sky. That was weird. She was memorable. Tall, with dark brown hair in a careless ponytail, and a glance so sharp, it could cut glass...

...he realized what it was: he felt chosen. But for what?--Chris

Robert James, staring at me with that smug little smile as he said, “No one will stand in our way.”

Reading this book set in the '90s was a new experience for me... I realized just how little the gulf between people actually was and, still, is... That's sad, don't you think? My thoughts turned to just exactly when large churches became so influential and massive, often separating parents from their children--their children who witnessed a change of the level of fun and happiness in their home, which was the only barometer that could be used at their age...

Once again, I am caught trying to understand just how white men ever got the idea that they are special... especially knowing that the greatest man who walked on earth, at least in my opinion, was not... 

“You know, sweetheart, the fear of the moment is always worse than the reality.” Mom’s voice was so clear in my head I could be sitting next to her in our old white truck, with its sprung seats and tall stick shift one of us would always knock into getting in or out. We’d sat outside of school for what seemed like forever, the truck growling and rumbling as it idled. I hadn’t wanted to go in, something bad happened—a fight with a classmate, maybe, or something embarrassing like my shorts falling off in gym class, too many humiliations to count—and I hadn’t wanted to walk through those doors either. “Always?” She leaned over, knocking her elbow on the stick shift, she ignored that and kissed me on the cheek. “I promise.” I took one last drag and stood up, dropping the butt in the ashtray by the door. I could disappoint Dad and drive off Chris, but I owed it to Mom to be strong.

Here's one reader who hopes there will be at least a sequel to this extraordinary novel! The book was published this year, so I didn't expect another to be available, but I still went looking... The book did close out the theme that was running through the book, but... Either this book is a fantastic first book with some type of follow up book/series, or it lacks the closure that I needed to see. I don't regret reading the book, but if the things that remain hanging, especially with Chris and Veronica, it's my guess that 95% of readers will be heartbroken, especially the teens... I've done a little research and can find no reference to there being a next book... BUMMER! Rating reduced to 3 then...

GABixlerReviews 

Ted Dekkr's Heaven's Wager - A Mockery? - Personal Opinion Discussion

 “And all along, the drama unfolding in the spirit world is hardly noticed but no less real. In fact, it is the real story. We just tend to forget that because we cannot see it.”

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Anthony_van_Dyck_-_Mocking_of_Christ.jpg

She looked at her mother again. Helen had clenched shut her eyes and lifted her chin so that the skin on her neck stretched taut. Her face rose ashen to the ceiling and Gloria saw then that her mother was crying. Not crying and smiling like Spencer. But crying with a face painted in horror. “Mom?” she asked, suddenly worried. “Oh, God! Oh, God, please. Please, no!” Helen’s fingers dug deep into the chair arms. Her face grimaced as though she were enduring the extracting of a bullet without an anesthetic. “Mother! What’s wrong?” Gloria sat straight, memories of the incredible laughter dimmed by this sight before her. “Stop it, Mother!” Helen’s muscles seemed to tense at the command. She did not stop it. “Oh, please God, no! Not now. Please, please, please . . .” From her vantage, Gloria could see the roof of her mother’s mouth, surrounded by white dentures, like a pink canyon bordered by towering pearl cliffs. A groan broke from Helen’s throat like moaning wind from a deep, black cavern. A chill descended Gloria’s neck. She could not mistake the expression worn by Helen now—it was the face of agony. “Nooooo!” The sound reminded Gloria of a woman in childbirth. “Noooo . . .” “Mother! Stop it right now! You’re frightening me!” She jumped up from the chair and rushed over to Helen. Up close she saw that her mother’s whole face held a slight tremor. She dropped to her knee and grabbed her mother’s arm. “Mother!” Helen’s eyes snapped open, staring at the ceiling. The moan ran out of air. Her eyes skipped over the white plaster above. She mumbled softly. “What have you shown me? What have you shown me?” She must have found herself then, because she suddenly clamped her mouth shut and dropped her head. For a moment they stared at each other with wide eyes.

I stopped reading this book at about 60% last night... I just couldn't take any more of this writer's "Wager." 

Over 20 years ago, I'd learned of this author--about his books which covered the supernatural aspect of God. I don't remember whether I read at least one to see what it was all about. If I don't remember, that probably means that I wasn't impressed... I do know that I've not read any of his books since that time. However, as you know, I'm a member of BookBub and this book was offered to me based upon my expression of interest in Christian books. So I decided to give the book a try. Not really considering the exact name of the book until I mentioned it Tuesday here on my blog.

You see, right from the very beginning I was having problems with the author's...writing... Quite a surprise given his number of books... This book, though, appears to be an attempt to write a contemporary story, which I found more like horror rather than Christian... In any event, I had the weirdest dream just before I woke up this morning.

A meal with ham had been served and I was apparently cleaning up afterward. Somebody had gotten to the remaining ham first and hacked it badly... There were chunks which included internal fat lines for one. It obviously had not been prepared for future use... As I was in the midst of picking it up with my hands, trying to figure out what to do with it--and eating a few bits as we all do--I began to notice that something was "attacking" me. I realized that something within the ham was doing it. Should I throw out all that was left? I didn't know how the preparer of that ham would feel so I kept on getting "bitten" by something... Until I woke up... 

This is the word that came to my mind upon waking: 

Mockery...

I knew immediately that referred to this book

And that I should write about it after all...

When this happens, I don't just start writing. First I checked when this book was copyrighted (2000) but this book I'd been reading was published as a "debut" in 2010. I then went to Amazon and read a couple of the low ranking reviews. They also questioned the concept for various reasons. Then, for some reason, I remembered the Biblical reference of demons being moved into swines (pig - ham dream) and they running off a cliff... Now I know there are probably connections to all that I had not worked out. So this discussion relates just to the book itself, if I may...

Dekker begins the book without any leadin; that is, the setting, the background or the characters. Lots of authors do this, but as I moved on, I realized two points:

The main "villain" had been working much overtime to create a banking program that could be used across the whole banking area. He had succeeded and rushed home to tell his wife and child that they were going to be able to enjoy life more, starting with a trip to celebrate. I recall that I was happy for him/them...

Then the next major thing that struck me was that his wife, his son, and his wife's mother routinely met for prayer. They had been praying for the "villain" for 5 years... There was no explanation for this supposed need for prayer for that many years, other than that he worked too hard and didn't participate in their religious lives, even though he at one point told his son he believed in God...

Now this prayer activity got into supernatural interaction with God... And the book points out that those in Heaven didn't know what to do about all these prayers... ??? that had been coming for years.

In the meantime, the programmer had completed his system development and it had been submitted for recognition at a large event...

The subtitle of this series is Martyr Song 1 - But, from my understanding of the term Martyr, I really wasn't sure who the martyr was... But, death does strike for two (at the point where I stopped)

Because the assumed "martyr" of the book was called back home. He was to be the main speaker, but it had now been done by his boss who had contributed very little to the project. His wife had died by the time he got there...

Within weeks, his son had been killed in an accident... Somewhere along the lines, Job was thrown in as a possible tie in...I didn't think it was relevant given the book's content...

So let's stop and take a look at the title: Heaven's Wager... You will see that I pulled in a hit song from years ago about the Devil going down to Georgia. In fact, there have been literally hundreds if not millions of books that revolve about Christianity and the relation to demons, the devil and violence from other humans! I can immediately think of some that I've reviewed here... Declan Finn, in my opinion, has done the best writing on this topic...

I've probably said this before but I picked out a video that speaks to what I'm trying to say:

Have you ever heard of The Self-Fulfilling Prophecy?

When I was a child, I learned the song above, as a children's choir song... As a literal reader, I learned that I was to hate the devil... In fact, I believed this so much that I would not even allow myself to say that name... or sing it in the song. Years later, I went to see a movie with a friend when it first came out: The Exorcist scared me so much that I almost fell and would have as I was leaving if my friend had not helped me by grabbing my arm... I believed that demons did exist...

But then I learned that when you are older, you put away childish things--that is, you learn that many of your fears are based upon stories--either heard over and over or read to you as if it was God's Truth...

As you all know, I've been struggling since evangelical christians chose to support a criminal, a conman, for president. The logic is just not there for this to have happened. I know that, but then...WHY? Could it be that this particular president has a habit of talking over and over and over things that he wants us to believe? And, even when we can produce videos of his changing his words/his opinion only what he has said over and over and over is remembered?

If we allow ourselves to believe based upon repeated rhetoric without any Truth behind what is being said, then we are prone to accept them and they become a self-fulfilling prophesy... Remember when Trump said he thought he could kill somebody on the street and get away with it? Well, consider that hundreds of people have already been killed within the last 6 months by bombing of boats in South America... Or consider that millions have died based upon the first closure of USAID to people around the world, simply by two men pulling the money and deleting the program... AND, choosing to burn the inventory that was available rather than give it out...

Obviously we could go on about hundreds of firings or deletions of programs... We can see that the pardons now being given, possibly bought, are all for profit of the president... Yes, including a major drug czar from South America who was just pardoned...

Now, with those thoughts, let's go back to the villain of Heaven's Wager, which implies that the fight is between Heaven and Hell... Or, specifically in this book, the family who loves the villain versus the rich men (2) who decided to take the bonus of millions for those who created the new bank computer system...

You see, the premise apparently is that taking his wife and son was the "wager" provided on one side. While the loss of millions and the villains subsequent actions--planning to steal the millions he felt he was due--on the other side... But, wait a minute. Dekker shows visions of his wife and son being happy with God--which of course makes the God side a good thing? 

To me, The Word Mockery Denied that part of the equation... And, Indeed Jesus had been Mocked by many during His life...

And, while one side is supposedly heavenly; the other side is primarily rich men who are stealing the portion of the millions that was due to the actual creator of the program... Purely human actions in my opinion and cannot be considered as the Devil's part of the wager. After all, the men had the choice of how that money was to be distributed...

And then it begins...

This is when I stopped reading, because we then go into pages and pages of how the programmer plans to get his millions... and, even, takes the time, to meet with his old girlfriend who makes it clear she doesn't support what he plans... Then begins the stealing, including of a body...and so much more. It became, frankly, boring if you want to be real about it--it just did not fit with the beginning of the story. Now, if you were really a genius of using computers, do you really think that the guy needed to steal a truck to pick up a dead body... Why NOT use the computer that he supposedly knows... It tells you what he's going to do...but then he gets hung up with what he's going to do to not get caught... Duh... A flaw in author's writing--his lack of computer expertise of its capabilities?

From a reader's standpoint, I'd give the book a 2, maybe even 1 if I had been forced to continue reading... And it takes a lot for me to stop in the middle of a book... 

From a conceptual point of view, the attempt to place miracles into contemporary settings has been far better done--I've reviewed them! From a personal viewpoint, whether my dream and the word Mockery was from my own brain or a true God Incident, I'm not going to try to persuade you...my dream was my dream... 

I'm going to close with a personal note. Some time in my early life, my mother said about her husband/my father that "God always takes the Good Ones First." Even at that early age, I didn't accept that God had taken my father. I still don't. Just the thought is, to me, illogical. Why did Lazarus get to come back? You might ask... Why doesn't God heal everybody because we know He can? These are all illogical to me. Especially in the year 2025. My father was kicked by a horse which was being led out of the mines in 1944. I don't profess to understand why millions are being killed through war caused by power-seeking men. What I do know is that God gave us Free Will. And allowed us to use it as we wanted... There is NO WAY that God should be blamed, in my mind...

What do you think?

GABixlerReviews

Took a lunch break! OMG! What happened to "Do No Harm?"? Is there anything that can be done by this administration, without an automatic awareness that MONEY IS IN THE DECISION-MAKING...

As opposed to Promised Affordability for all citizens...

Gabby