Letters to Carol - An Extraordinary Memoir-Self Help Presentation - From Blob to Beauty Queen; From High Living to Living on the Street -A Review and Discussion and Featuring Complementary Music Videos!

Dear Carol, Let’s go back a little in time. Your grandmother had died. Madea lived in Watts. By this time, she told neighbors she was moving and not to tell your father she was moving to Scottsdale City. Dane was still traumatized over your grandmother’s death. This is when Madea placed the burden on him to father his own brothers and sisters, which was a huge mistake, because the monster Dane allowed him later to perpetrate familiar child abuse tragedies on his own kids, later in life. Carol, because you are such a nice person, subliminally, you understood the pressures Madea placed on your brother, Dane. You knew more after Dane married Perry. She defended his heavy abuse of his siblings. That is why you wrongfully believed tolerance was love again. Notwithstanding, and on top of the pain you endured at home, at school it was worse. Following tortuous hours of “Girls Punishment” with your neck cracking, your body tired, and after hours of abuse, you had to straighten up to go to school for more abuse. It’s important to state that at eleven-years old, a child is not mature enough to know what compounded abuses can do to the maturation of a growing child’s mind. This is why the child internalizes dangerous emotions that can ruin a child’s emotional maturity, much later, in life. This is another reason why by the time you were in your mid-sixties, your inability to find and or handle housing matters had a lot to do with the interruptions of your now fragile emotional stability, which began a huge pile-up from 1955-2023. In 1966 you were in the Black schools, like Mark Twain and Ralph Bunche, where it was normal to be a dark-skinned child. When Madea moved to Scottsdale City in 1966, your dark skin was not accepted by the white kids in Scottsdale City. 

Carol, by the time you entered Junior High School, you were dealing with the pain of an enlarged heart, Post Traumatic Depression, abuse by your brother, Madea and a sister that hated you. It was the end of three-years of being called, “The Blob.” You were tired mentally. You have now stored over a decade of abuse in your emotional cache. The personalities are tired. We have all waited decades for you to be ready to tell your “real” story. To that end, we are all proud of you. At home, things worsened when Madea called you lazy. Getting up to do household chores was dangerously killing you. One day on the track at Garey High School, where you attended for three years, you ran the track. This occurred late in the afternoon. The football field where the Vikings practiced was empty. On that unusual eve you collapsed. As a child without guidance or love, you took care of yourself. You lay on that track, with horrific pain in your chest. On that ground, you prayed to heaven for your grandmother. You knew at any moment you could die, but this was to you another challenge you had to get through. You lay where one of your personalities showed you how to breathe. There, you clutched your heart, not knowing what a dangerous situation you were in. All you knew was there was a lot of chest pain. You laid on the tarmac of the racetrack until the pain subsided, having no clue that your heart was attacking. Later, at home you performed your household chores, including washing walls in the house on Fowler Avenue. You tired easily, but you washed the walls anyway. You did not have support from family to even tell one soul you had a heart attack. A few weeks later, when the school district ordered a physical, their medical staff wrote Madea a shocking letter. In it they told her you had an enlarged heart. Back then, instead of Madea checking all this out with emergency doctors, she continued to ignore the matter not caring about the outcome. “You have an enlarged heart,” she said to you one day when you were sixteen. Giving you this information, did not include following up. In fact, Madea simply waited for you to die. If you can’t accept this information about Madea, your end-of-life maturity will be heavily compromised, Carol. You are not writing this all down for brownie points, or to impress anyone. This is being said correctly now because this is your life. This is a moment of clarity, which will in turn, save us from being on those cold/hot streets, again. We must get this all out. You must cry. You must embrace this pain with the knowledge you never afforded yourself to engage longer than a fly before. I love you, Carol. I know this is hard for you. If Madea thought so little of you to not take care of your mental or physical health; then why would she care about your having an enlarged heart? I am sorry that you are crying. Cry. You must cry to release these feelings from your wreckage of memories of the past. These are the things about your upbringing you refused to face in the past years. You are facing these issues now. This is the most important information of your life. We hated being on the cold streets not knowing how we got there. This information is being given to you, through me, by God. Moreover, Madea was more vicious towards you than you are willing to talk about Carol. What mother allows her older son to daily punish and molest a child with a life-threatening medical condition? It’s time to purge the pain Carol, please ask God to forgive your demons, Carol. You must see Madea for what she was; instead of what you wanted her to be. Carol, this is a must. When people criticize you…When they say leave it in the past, surge forward. This is your life. You are already being freed, as you tell your story through me. Here is where the truth will not be a stranger. Here is where nothing will hide. All human beings deserve to be heard. Listeners will be educated. History will be informed, while this time potential publishers will know the real you. I want them to know that Carol Denise Mitchell is an honest, amazing, smart, beautiful woman, who is at last owning the rights to her safety. Carol deserves love. Carol is for the first time becoming whole. Carol’s story is one of sheer survival!

~~~

I have read several books by Carol Denise Mitchell but none like her latest. Nor have I read a similar book by any other author.  It is, quite simply, unbelievable and  extraordinary, yet, for many, it may be quite confusing. Carol has chosen to declare this a fiction book; however, in my opinion, this is a disservice to potential readers. Carol is protecting herself legally--for she has self-taught about employment discrimination, civil rights, et.al.--by claiming fiction. I, on the other hand, believe she should be broadcasting the truth of her life and what she is, even now, still dealing with. For, as some of you know, I, too, am also dealing with and trying to write my own story... So, if your early life was full of pain, confusion, hate, abuse, or other negative things that can happen to any one of us... I highly recommend you spend some time reading Letters to Carol..." For believe me, as you finish reading, crying for words shared in this book, you will know you are reading Truth...

And the way she presents her story is through the voice of one of her inner selves, who still remembers what happened, and guides today's Carol through each and every single incident where she was abused in some way... is the extraordinary part. Letters to Carol is Carol writing the book, but as if it were dictated by another individual... That part deep inside Carol where all of those memories that she could not confront ever again, had been pushed so deep that, physically, and of course, mentally, she had chosen to live and move forward.

Until that day, maybe she snapped, maybe her body could no longer handle the pressure and...collapsed. Some of you may recall this is what happened to me when the first thing that happened was that I could not stop crying... Only by reading books was I able to escape... One of those books was Whatever Happened to Suzy? Reading this story by Carol was the first of many of those who share childhood pain through their writing...

For me, I found parts of me inside her memoir story... Other readers might also find parts of you, or others in your life. What do I mean? Well, think about how you might represent yourself at your job, as opposed to how you are with a close friend, or better yet, in a crowd. I know that I "put on a face" not literally but figuratively, in each of those scenarios. On the job, I put on my face of a professional, dedicated to doing my job from the first step into my office. I rarely stop for breaks, rather sipping tea while I continue to work. And, most of the time, expecting much the same from others... Get the idea? Most of us have ways to act in different life situations. While Carol calls these different personalities, diagnosing herself, "One day, inside my bedroom closet, I developed dissociative identity disorder, better known as Multiple Personality Disorder. I began hugging myself, promising to develop protective mechanisms to help me deal with daily trauma.  

Now I knew exactly what she meant. In fact, I have used one of the oldest affirmative statements known from the time of Socrates, as my guiding mantra, as I've gone through specific time periods, or traumatic experiences with an inner eye that watched, and remembered... In fact, Carol begins with a first statement of her learned life realization : “No two lives are the same, such is the spice of life!” --CD Mitchell

Also at the beginning of her book, she includes a note that I might have written, from my perspective, if I were to write a book with a dedication: I dedicate this book to anyone that loves the power of God. Many individuals have relied on the love within to get along in life. You are special, you are somebody. We all need to discover the sanctuary within our souls to rest, to be good to others, and more importantly, be good to ourselves. Your health is your wealth, your success is imminent!

Now in my life, I was early involved with the church and quickly learned about the Holy Trinity: God, The Son and the Holy Spirit. I honed in on God as Father since my early father was killed in a mine accident while my mother was carrying me. It was easy to see that I still had a Heavenly Father, who made it clear to me to remember:

All I had to do is know that I know that I know that if I am still then God is there with me... 

He is the Great I Am!

```

Before I go any further with the book content itself, I want to use a present day illustration of what happened to Carol... Have you noticed that many Far Right political people will repeat over and over and repeat again and again, things that we KNOW are lies. Yet some of us have learned from the study of psychology and other communication processes, that, for many people, if you hear the same thing over and over and over, you will possibly come to actually believe and accept it as truth, even though you can do the research and discover that it is a lie--but you're still not totally convinced because you've heard it pounded into your mind day after day after day?!

At a time when we are seeing more and more hateful actions due to , politics, social media and television, etc., it is still hard to realize just how cruel one individual can be to another. 

Carol was a smart little girl, but coming from a large, poor family she was overweight. (I know the feeling, but my story was a small not hidden memory)  compared to what happened to Carol which had been pushed down deep, forgotten, but still an unresolved abuse.  We don't know how much she weighed... What we learn is that her teacher gave her the nickname, Blob! And, of course all the kids also called her by that name!!!

Carol had hoped to escape the significant mental and physical abuse that she was given at home. Her mother also belittled her, used hateful words when addressing her...and, possibly, stood by while her brother raped her. We do know her brother raped her, we don't know definitely whether her mother knew about it. The key point that the home environment was full of children and Madea instructed her son to be like their father (a little short of 20 children by her mother) and, given that her mother ridiculed Carol, all of the other children did as well...

During this time period, Carol fortunately found one counselor who worked with her for three years. While her self-esteem was raised, still there was so much happening, that the good never quite overrode the bad that was happening.

For instance, Carol was able to lose weight and became interested in entering a beauty contest. She won Miss Congeniality! Note that I found this a quite affirming thing. Even though she was the only black girl in the contest, it was Carol's personal interactions with everyone which brought about her selection. Take note of the praise that was made in the book when she realized that even with the things in her past, she was still bringing light and good wishes to others...

Too bad she lost her trophy. She had placed it in a paperbag... But, when Carol graduated from school, her mother kicked her out with the few clothes she had and a paperbag that was soon lost in the shuffle of accepting that the only thing she had to sell was her body and she began to prostitute herself. After all, she wasn't a virgin, right?

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But one thing that her counselor had pointed out to her and that she realized herself was that she was a good writer! She wrote her first book, What Happened to Suzy and a new anniversary edition is out now!

She studied hard and became involved in helping individuals with job discrimination, writing another book about what employers don't want us to know! She became well known because of this nonfiction book which was used by employers and employees alike.

It happened to me not long after my official leaving of a long-term career at West Virginia University, when I discovered that I was no longer able to keep my mouth shut, even in sensitive meetings... For Carol, you'll find it was a cumulative experience, much longer than I had...It was years passing as Carol got married, more than once, had children, more than one and had many different jobs beside a significant career as a published writer.

What we do know that is at some point, Carol was homeless and even at that time, none of her family would respond to her need. About that time, I'm sure she began to think, "I don't need you; I don't need anybody!" But that's a lonely existence and scary especially when you are homeless...

When that last straw was broken. Carol had begun to go to counseling and almost immediately, the man who she had gone to for help, promptly took her to a motel and forced sex as part of her treatment... Yeah, right! Carol knew all about that, but, when it happens with a professional to whom you sought help, it creates a response so deep that one can begin to feel that nothing and nobody would ever be trustworthy enough to help me!

While the style of writing is indeed like creating a letter to another person, you will find quite a bit of repetition. Some may see this as what some people do...routinely repeat over and over what they've talked about in the past. This is not that type of repetition. Consider, if you would instead, that one of Carol's grade school abuses was being called "blob" over and over, primarily by white children... As mentioned above, if you are told something day by day, even though it hurts you greatly (or even if it is lies that are not true), there is a tendency for us to believe it "must" be true since it has been said over and over... Breaking the tight bond of abusive language is extremely difficult and you will see that Carol, in trying to move forward without facing her early reality, created a period of so much confusion that it is hard to even consider what exactly is the truth by which you are living.

Fortunately, I would guess from her grandmother who had named her, Carol found a relationship with her Heavenly Father. And, as I read each of the individual letters, I felt that I was reading a God Incident--a book given to Carol Denise by The Holy Spirit. I believe that God through His Son loves all children and grieved for the little girl who was never called by her real name--a child of His... Carol mentions in several videos that she sometimes doesn't know what she is typing--such as the time she needed to share with others about her attempt at suicide. For it is the Holy Spirit that often brings up to us exactly what we need to hear, think about, and possibly act upon. Or perhaps it is both! My above concept of putting on "faces" for different events or people... and a very real awareness that The Holy Spirit has often been using my fingers to write when I allow myself to open to God's Words.

God Bless you Carol

and all the other children hurt by somebody who should be doing just the opposite. I've come to know and love you through this latest book in particular. Thank you for writing it... Many will find themselves in these pages and...find...hope!

Gabbie

 

James Patterson, with Maxine Paetro - Latest in Women's Murder Club - Club Members Threatened!

 

AS HE DROVE at the residential speed limit of twenty miles an hour, Blackout’s immediate plan had been to get off Taylor as fast as he reasonably could. He had taken the first left at Filbert, then turned up onto Leavenworth, passing the house where Catherine and Josie Fleet had lived. A man he recognized as Catherine’s husband, Brad Fleet, had been coming down the front steps. He’d looked both ways and, not seeing his wife and daughter, had no doubt assumed that Catherine and Josie were still in the park. Poor bastard. 

As police cars, sirens screaming, could be heard on the street below, Blackout proceeded to the location for his most important scene. Now, hours later, safe at home, he thought how long that drive had seemed with the woman and baby tucked away inside the trunk. And he’d had a few thoughts about the senior citizen who’d seen too much, lying dead on Taylor between two parked vehicles. 

He’d charged up his video glasses in the car as he drove and later, filmed the perfect ceremony for his victims—without interference. He’d felt peaceful. Reverent. That part, the end of their story, was one long four-minute shot that might be even more bittersweet with music. Something classical, he thought. Albinoni’s “Adagio in G Minor.” Better yet, Ravel’s Pavane for a Dead Princess. 

Yes, that was more appropriate, a fitting homage to a killer he’d often thought of as a teacher, almost a friend. He was sure his mentor would like the results of the day’s work and pictured him now: a superior executioner confined to a cell at San Quentin. A man named Evan Burke.

~~~

The main thought that continues in my mind at the ending of this new book was that here was a group of women, and men, who truly cared for others... And truly were committed to ensure their lives continue in this world where evil is constantly striving to win... The caring, sharing, ongoing contact within this team of those committed to various parts related to the legal system is written so well that we readers also feel empathically what is taking place in one of the most extraordinary novels for this series. Which is already a best seller.

I remember I read the first book or two of the series, but was so busy with requested reviews that I stopped reviewing for major authors... In fact, most of those major authors have been side-lined given the wealth of writers that are out there today, who, however, may have not yet won name identity... You will find many of those talked about, though, here at Book Readers Heaven. Just a thought! Take a risk, try some of the new writers out there as well... You will be pleasantly surprised with the quality of their writing!

Serial killers exist in reality; however, even more in novels... One of the reasons I spotlight the writers' spotlighting emotional involvement of the characters is because, the level of violence in the world is rising and, suddenly, we are more aware of how the level of violence, itself, is intensifying.

Patterson and Paetro have garnered both my appreciation for, and compliments for softening the novel through the characters fighting evil. For, surely, as we see two separate serial killers spotlighted, we find the callous disregard for human life... Too much of a "bad thing" is not necessarily good. To illustrate what I mean, I refuse to read true crime books, I have stopped watching Criminal Minds on television. The competition to see which writer can create the most heinous crimes has gone, in my opinion, too far. Too far in exploring the details that really don't need to be exposed as viewers root for the good guy over the bad buy, don't you think?

One of the members of the Women's Murder Club, has just released her book which is an authorized biography of a convicted serial killer, You Never Knew Me. It was Evan Burke who contacted Cindy Thomas, a local crime reporter, to write his story. Thomas was proud of her book; however, the actual interaction with Burke had been a traumatic experience for her, as she had to listen to all that he had done--and felt about it. Crime fiction is something I won't read, nor watch on TV... Cindy was repeatedly shocked by Burke’s ruthlessness, the pleasure he took in killing. Unable to wall herself off from the sickening details of his crimes, Cindy had come to know Evan Burke too well. And that knowledge had changed her. In fact, this is the very reason I won't expose myself to this type of writing.

Nevertheless, Cindy had taken on the project and needed to follow through with it, through the normal book tour process. At the first signing, there was a woman who began by questioning Cindy's position on the book.

“Open it,” she said. I clicked. The email was blank so I downloaded the video. Like the one Blackout had shot from the back seat of Hammer’s Camry, this was also as seen through the killer’s eyes. “Body cam?” I said. “Video glasses,” said Alvarez. “So says Rich’s tech.” “There,” I said, putting my finger on my computer screen just above a woman in a red tracksuit jogging toward the camera. There was sound: birds, wind through leaves, then, Blackout’s digitized voice, which was pulsing but clear. He said, “This is the kind of girl we like. Twenties. Limber. Strong.” 

I said, “We? Who is we?” Blackout called out to the runner, “Excuse me. I think I’m lost.” The young woman stopped running a few yards from Blackout, caught her breath, walked closer. She had chin-length, wavy brown hair, a pretty face. She asked Blackout, “Where do you want to go?” “Brooks Avenue,” said Blackout. “Where’d I go wrong?” Behind my shoulder Alvarez was watching as I reacted to the scene playing out on-screen. 

“Oh-my-God, oh-my-God,” I said. “This is last night’s victim.” The runner was looking at a map on Blackout’s phone, pointing out that he’d passed Brooks Avenue, tracing the correct direction on the screen. Our view changed. Blackout was looking up and around, as if he was visualizing the route, giving us a panoramic view of the Fuller Theological Seminary campus. There were lawns. Winding paths. Park benches. Sabal palms. But this was not a sightseeing tour for my benefit. Blackout was making sure the way was clear. His gloved hand dipped into the pocket of his black windbreaker and came out clenched around a small canister. The runner looked at it, puzzled. She didn’t know what it was. The gloved hand aimed the nozzle at her eyes and pressed the lever with his thumb. The woman shrieked, tried to clear her eyes with her hands and sleeves, but she had no chance against this man who reached for her. She backed up, stumbled, and dropped to the pavement. 

I gripped the edge of my desk as she cried out, but all I could see of the scuffle that followed was Blackout’s right hand clapped over her mouth, his left arm angling her into a carotid restraint hold. He formed a right angle with her neck in the crux between his forearm and biceps. He used his full weight to subdue her—and he squeezed. Alvarez and I watched in shock as the woman’s writhing and kicking stopped. The leather-gloved hand came off her mouth and she didn’t cry out. She was lifeless. Dead. Blackout stood, and again panned the campus before walking out the way he came. 

Sound came up, classical music I recognized as “Adagio for Strings.” Soft. Mournful. A dramatic bass line. Blackout’s view shifted upward as if he were looking through palm fronds overhead. In his digitized voice he said, “Dedicated to you, Mr. Burke.” The image of palm trees backlit by an indigo sky froze. Then faded to black.

~~~

While Cindy continued her tour, a second serial killer, calling himself Blackout, was responding to every book signing with a murder. Each action was caught on video, provided with sound and sent to Lindsay Boxer, homicide detective, who was lead on the case and who tells the story, first person.

It was very clear that Blackout was a fan of Evan Burke and was copying his life style, but with a clearly electronic upgrade... With each video that was sent, classical music apropo of that individual chosen was added as background.

This continued until the beginning of the ending... and Cindy herself was kidnapped! And Blackout's deal was that if Cindy started talking and telling him all that she knew about Burke, he would let her live...

And while all that was going on Yuki, the prosecutor of a domestic violence case was seeking attempted murder charges against the victim's husband. An appropriate twist, post the period beginning with Lolita, for example, of the inclusion of "being rough" during sex was explored, proved to create a gripping trial dialogue between the two lawyers, with Yuki of the Women's Murder club, getting the maximum decision from the jury...

Tension was getting higher, Lindsey even took time to visit with Dr. Greene, her psychiatrist. This discussion, actually more of a dialogue, allows us to see the personal turmoil, anger and rising temper as she's trying to deal with one of her best friends being captured and, undoubtedly, torture... And knowing the entire team was also sifting through every inch of information, trying to find out who the Hell was Blackout...

My line rang again. Bobby, manning the desk outside Brady’s office, called the radio room. He motioned to me, spinning a finger like a reel of tape on a spool. I understood. They’re on it. Blackout said, “Sergeant?” “Yes.” And I rephrased my last question to Blackout. “How’s Cindy?” 

“She’s not talking,” he said. It was an ambiguous answer, and I didn’t like it. I gave Conklin’s arm a reassuring squeeze. “She’ll talk to me if you let her,” I said. He didn’t reply. Instead, he talked about Cindy. “I read the book she wrote with Evan Burke. I read her first book, too. She was a remarkable writer.” Was? The past-tense usage was either deliberate or unconscious. Or both. 

“What are you saying?” I asked, as Conklin lunged toward the screen. “I envied her, you know,” he said. “I would have liked to be with Evan all those months she spent with him. What a lucky thing for her. Anyway. I’ve got to go.” There was the click of the phone hanging up, but the video still rolled. Blackout put on his glasses, looked at the shabby sofa. 

I caught a glimpse of Cindy but then she disappeared from the frame. Music came up, a dressed-up symphonic rendition of a pop song I remembered from childhood. My father sang it at odd times, in the car, around the house; singer Peggy Lee’s version of “Is That All There Is?” The lyrics were about disillusionment after important personal events. House fire. Circus. Falling in love. The second line of each chorus: “If that’s all there is my friends, then let’s keep dancing.” 

I’m a literal person and I wanted a literal answer, not an enigma wrapped in an old-time tune. Was Blackout saying he’d killed Cindy and that it was a big disappointment? Or that every life is a disappointment and that included Cindy’s? 

I looked at Alvarez. She shrugged sadly as the video feed cut out. 

A title card appeared on-screen. It was in a large bold Arial font, white letters centered on a black ground. It read, 

“Blackout out.”

Please Welcome to Book Readers Heaven, Cameron Rascoe, Spotlight Author/Creator, Featuring Restless for Retribution, The Next Sister Act III - PH Block Party!?!

 

“Damn, when are you knuckleheads gonna get it right? Now take it again from the top! On me! One, two, three and pop. Yeah, that’s what I’m talking’ bout.” Chandler’s chastising turned to praise as he attempted to whip his latest boy band into shape. In his mind this group was no better or worse than any of the bands he’d created in the past. Chandler was convinced that if a group had the least bit of talent varied with vocal ability, he could groom them into stars. Very demanding Chandler was of his talent and often the protracted hours of form design wore him thin. Creating was overrated in Chandler’s mind; invariable persistent duplication is the key. Churning out the same with a little twist was Chandler’s greatest talent. “I’m the star! The music industry is filled with my puppets. I am the ultimate Geppetto; he had one dishonest puppet with a long wooden nose. Me on the other hand; my puppets deceive the whole world and entice them to join in the lie. They all sing a song and dance a dance of deception. This all, hatched from my brilliant mind, one mimics the other. Yes, I am a genius.” He would proclaim to anyone in the music industry who’d the misfortune of spending time in his presence fell upon. Overly impressed was Chandler with his own talent which caused him to be very persistent in his attempts to immerse them all in his superficial greatness.

Ras Cat grew to be a leader not only in the streets but also in community activism. He led a few boycotts and held town hall meetings in his twenties in protest of one injustice or another. Not much happened in Pine Hills without it being filtered through the “Mayor” at some point or another. He was dubbed the “Mayor” by some street rivals in an attempt to bring him disrespect for being so involved positively in community projects. The thug sentiment was that he was a hypocrite for getting money in the streets and then standing in front of the cameras and telling folks what to do. Ras Cat reasoned that we all have good and bad in us so why should we let the bad disallow us from utilizing the good we hold within us. “We all sin but doesn’t the Lord want us to go to church and repent if we do wrong. Are we to refuse to do good because we’ve done bad?” Ras Cat announced to an audience at a Pine Hills council meeting. The community latched on to the title of “Mayor” so the title was used by all when referring to the Ras Cat... He was a leader in music with the label Ras Cat Records. The label was owned by Ras Cat, a real Pine Hills G. A man in his mid thirties who knew the streets backwards and forwards; never committed a heinous crime, but been on the grind for decades. He’d done some of everything and never spent one day in the pen. Ras Cat was an intelligent man but he just decided to play the cards he was dealt. Smart enough to own three local profitable businesses but still had a real passion for Music, the one thing besides athletic competition he had to hold on to during his own painful childhood.

~~~

They called him the Mayor since there wasn't anybody in the position, but Ras Cat "earned" the title by doing anything and everything to help the people in the community of Pine Hills, also called Crime Hills by the rich and famous; but, a place where people of all races seemed to find a home, perhaps because of the atmosphere that was brought about by Ras Cat? Of course, there were still guns and drugs to be had and; based upon the family, sometimes, it depended how the teens would look forward to their future lives. If they favored a special uncle, who happened to find easy money through the sale of drugs, then they might wind up either hooked or in jail. While, others might recognize that they had to act on their own to get to the place where they wanted to be. And, if you were that type of boy or girl, and happened to have music in your blood, then Ras Cat just might be the role model they followed!

For surely  Ras Cat was the person to whom, when a group who was hoping to make a career in music, they came when they realized that they might have been "screwed royally" by their present manager. And, yes, they were under contract. The thing was that, the group wanted to go one way, even recording a song that they'd put together on their own; but their manager didn't even want to consider changing his routine method of dealing with groups... He saw himself as the puppet master and all of those he represented were to do exactly what he said, no matter what...

Ras Cat changed that... PH BOYZ were soon under Cat's wing and singing on tour and more! Of course, that change did not come easy and much of the behind-the-scene actions that both music fans and the rest of us never see (readers), are spelled out in the fantastic drama of Restless for Retribution!

And one scene was growing steadily toward eruption when a young boy, Ronnie, just 14, picked up a gun, and more, from his uncle who allowed his illegal activities to be seen and discussed with whoever happened to be visiting...

Ron was soon being mourned as still another Black boy was murdered...

Calls of warning were made to young Ronnie to no avail. He was engulfed in the embraces of his adolescent love, Tina. As the fall winds gently blew the pink white trimmed curtains in her bedroom window, the teens made sweet puppy love to the sounds of Chris Brown. After receiving one last dose of sugar from his number one girl, Ronnie exited her home and walked tall down Hastings Street. The cool winds blended perfectly with his mood of contentment and wooziness. Upon reaching the corner corner he took a right on Silver Star and made his way east to the Mc Donald’s. Damn this been a good night. He thought to himself as he entered the fast food establishment. After ordering a number three combo and saying hello to his Auntie Rhonda and her companion; he made his way out onto the patio to enjoy his meal by the beautiful Florida moonlight. Before the door closed behind him, booming gun shots rang out from the double barrels of a sawed off shotgun. Out of the front driver’s window of a black late model Impala leaned Tank taking aim once again at the youngster. With rims still spinning under the blaring lights in the restaurant’s parking lot, Tank pulled the trigger causing fatal wounds to the youngster’s head and face.

~~~

Of course, Ras Cat was soon in the mess of things as cries of family were heard in the streets, combined with police sirens and talk of...revenge... Ras Cat knew it could get worse...quick!

Among all that was to happen, music became a part of it, so here's a little of the major event that Cat brought to life... after...death...

This event named “THE FIRST ANNUAL PINE HILLS DAY - A DAY OF HEALING” by its creator and financer was to be like none other experienced in Pine Hills. The occasion would be part memorial service, part town hall meeting, motivational speaking, and concert. Accumulating into a joyous celebration of the tumultuous yet beautiful community embedded in the heart of Central Florida. Justly coaxed to take part in the event was a minister of Ras Cat’s home church in historic Eatonville Florida, the oldest black municipality in America. Minister Hunter, a long time friend and spiritual supporter of Ras Cat’s small dysfunctional family, was more than happy to speak at such a blissful and positive occasion. It was explained to him that it would be a secular event and there would be a lot of emotion in the air because of the recent tragic events occurring in their beloved Pine Hills. The minister replied. “You know I always go where I’m called to go and the Lord is telling me to come with you to spread this message of forgiveness, peace and love throughout this place that needs it so much right now...

Many beautiful women of all races and ages graced Barnett Park that day adding splendor to the festive fall morning. By 10:00 a.m. the park held more than six thousand people; light R&B played throughout the park from remote speakers. Students working with Ras Cat presented their own works... Then... DJ Chamber played Frankie Beverly and Maze, Earth Wind and Fire and Patty Labelle to the audience’s delight. Ras Cat greeted Reverend Hunter as people continued to pour onto the park grounds.

There's a lot more in this first book, actually it's set into different parts, which focuses on the "retribution" of the individuals in the book... But, as I was working to finish what I'd be sharing about this book, Ras Cat asked one of his former lovers, who was also a music star a number of years ago, if she would sing a song for the memorial part of the day. She was hesitant since she hadn't song publicly for years, but Ras Cat had written a song for the service and he thought when she heard it, she would want to help bring it to the event. Which she did. 

Now, for me, there wasn't a song for me to find...but as soon as I thought about it, another God Incident happened... I hope the following choice, Precious Lord, Take My Hand, will represent Cam's words that needed to be said, and heard, by those mourning the young boy...and moving on from their horrible loss... Besides the one I found by Beyonce, I wanted to also use Aretha...as well as others that are the greats that we all love to hear, don't we?

Gabbie's Thoughts: Spend some time as you listen to the songs presented as a part of the memorial. Book Readers Heaven cries out for all those Black men who are chased down the streets by vigilantes, by corrupt police officers and by those who hate because they are incited to hate... One thing I have realized since I've met so many writers and read their books, we are lucky that the majority of Americans who are not white, not christian, do not rise up like the white "christian" nationalists have done! I have watched and seen that, especially those who are Black have been held down for so long--hundreds of years--that they are, sadly, "almost" acceptive of it. Still it hurts. It enrages all those who follow our goal of loving our neighbors... And even, men who are leaders have not brought about such turmoil as the white nationalists have wrought on our nation. I am ashamed... I pray to God for reparation. (the making of amends for a wrong one has done, by paying money to or otherwise helping those who have been wronged.)

And Then It Hit Me as I was reading about preparations on the 2nd Annual Event...and remembered what had been said about Pine Hills being referred to as "Crime Hill!" Now, that's a location for...Whoopie Goldberg to set her Sister Act III location - PH Block Party! Pine Hills is a widely diversified community that, according to the story, is both a high crime area...but one in which a local non-political individual has pulled the community together to work toward improvement, and, emphasizing the youth living there! In fact, Cam Roscoe has already told the story in Restless for Retribution... including a grand finale such as we saw in Sister Act II 

I meet men creators like Cam, or poets like Manny Moreno, an indigenous citizen and see no anger strong enough to reek of the smell of hate sufficient to go out and murder... Doesn't that tell us something about just "who" is acting politically as opposed to Godly?

In one of the videos from Cam, there was a comment about individuals on Facebook who join groups and/or just speak in a nasty way to whoever and whatever they feel is their right to do. There is no decency, no moral code, no common sense--no feeling of Do Unto Others As You Would Have Them Do Unto You. In fact, this is one of the reasons I stopped doing book reviews, per se. because I have read some of those who share their opinion, without regard to the overall effort of the writer. I would rather share God's Truth, here...and it will be read by those God wants to share it with...

Cam's books I consider in the urban fiction genre. That is important. If you do not know what that means, then you, in my opinion, have no right to "review" these books. The only negative thing I could say is to  highly encourage Cam to get a proofreader... For me, that was the only problem I had with the three books of his I have read, so far. Having worked with hundreds of authors over the years, I know that many find it hard to read their own stories from an editing/proofreading standpoint. Kinda like me, when I read the words of a song, I automatically start singing them... So that, I have been told, when a writer goes back and rereads...it is his final words that are remember and, actually, read, rather than the true content that appears in the page. Yet, many do not have the money to pay for those services. I would not normally even write about this issue these days, except that Cam did a little public feedback for those who have felt the need to negatively respond to his work. 

Frankly I have found the words from Cam Rascoe more real, more open, more sincere than many of the books/public posts I've read. You can certainly tell, when you read as many books as I do, whether the writer is writing to "present" their words to the public, either for political or personal reasons, or whether the writer wants to share his words so much that he will overlook those tedious tasks of ensuring that errors are corrected... And, for some, like Cam, I also overlook them, because I have been captured by what he is saying--and why he is saying them... And, besides, errors can always be corrected...not so, the meaning of words...

And I believe that Cam is a writer that will speak to many of his race. I just wish that more white people would choose to read the words of Black writers... instead of banning those books that speak of the historical and present violence wrought against the Black and other non-white races in America. Thank you Cam, for continuing to speak...and write, even when some will see only errors rather than...words...

God Bless

Gabbie

Held within every problem in life there is an opportunity. Sometimes we focus so much on the troubles that we are going through that we miss the prospect of growth and development that comes attached to it. On the occasion that adversity enters your life, find what greatness you can achieve by overcoming it. A brighter day is on the other side of each storm; we just have to make our way through it. Our most trying tribulations can become our greatest triumphs if we only take the time to recognize the opportunity

--Cam Rascoe

Find him almost daily with words of wisdom and...more...

Coming...more book discussions, individual stories...talking with Cam...!!!

EC Stilson - Sharing About Her Latest Book, Two More Years! Spotlighting Breadcrumbs From God (God Incidents!)

 When you strip me of everything: my ability to play the violin, my health, my love of writing.... When you get to the essence of who I am, I just wonder if I’ll be good enough to spend eternity wherever God is.--Elisa

The Feather Boomerang...

My mom used to tell me that if I found a white feather it meant an angel was around, looking out for me. I didn’t believe her, even if it was a neat idea. As the days have passed, I’ve sure wished an angel could be here, with me as I fight cancer...

I lifted my violin from its case. “I’m gonna play some oldies. That’s what I heard you like.” I snapped my shoulder rest into place and tightened my bow. “Mrs. Beck,” I said, because I’m super direct, “you keep calling me kid, but you said I’m older than you expected.” “Anyone under fifty is a kid to me. And they keep bringing preteens over to see me—like they’re doing a good deed or something. Why are you here anyway, Elisa? Why did you come?” 

I thought for a minute. “I guess I just want to make you forget whatever it is you’re going through, even if it’s just for a minute. Focus on something else and enjoy.” I set my violin on my shoulder. “So, I have a favor to ask you. Set down your cigarette and close your eyes.” She kinda snort-laughed, set her ciggy down, then snuggled into that huge white pillow before closing her eyes. “Now, as I play, I want you to picture a story.” And I started. First, I played the beginning of “Bridge Over Troubled Water” by Simon and Garfunkel. The music started out quiet—a trickle of spring rain. I sang the song’s words in my head as I played, causing a whirlwind of emotion to burst from my violin. And Mrs. Beck must’ve felt it because little tears seeped from the sides of her eyes. She glowed, so utterly beautiful, like an elderly Snow White or something’ with her sheared, dyed-black hair and leathery face. But instead of lying there, waiting for the kiss of her prince, she was dying. Waiting for the kiss of God. Tears heated my eyes too, and I told myself to quit being such a freakin’ pansy. I shut my lids. Instead of letting my emotion escape through the weakness in my eyes, I pushed that pain into my arms, my hands, my fingertips. And I played that violin, like a flippin’ lover. It cried in my arms, wailing over the melodies and having so much power it reacted to the sheer feeling flooding my body. I knew Mrs. Beck and her daughter could feel the sorrow buried deep in my soul—my sorrow for them. That violin was a magnifying glass, exemplifying exactly why I was there, who I was, and that I wanted to offer at least some semblance of tranquility. Then my bow grew with deep friction and strength, and I transitioned into notes and melodies that just came to me. My fingers and violin took over. That’s the funny thing about me and my fiddle; I think I have control, then that thing takes over like an addiction. I have the road map, but my fiddle has the details that always take me there—a good friend, leading me home. The song swelled, over and over. At one point, a gust of wind rode in through the open window on a high note. Right after that, my fingers and bow slowed to a stop. The notes descended to my D-string, and the weight of the music left my body. The song was over.

I held my violin at my side, that extension of self, then faced the window and closed my eyes. I didn’t want Mrs. Beck or her daughter to see me cry. I even prayed the wind would come again, and God would dry my tears. The Becks were sad enough. They didn’t need to see some kid—over thirty—crying because she “felt bad.” “Elisa,” Mrs. Beck rasped. She beckoned me to the side of her bed. I wiped my eyes, then obeyed. She reached out her wrinkled hand, with that soft, paper-thin skin, and grabbed my fingers. “That, Elisa, that was beautiful.”

“What did you see,” I asked, “when you closed your eyes?”

 “Something from when I was a kid. Something I thought I forgot. My mom, dad, and I were walking in a field.” She took a very deep breath. “I miss them. They were good parents.” I had to twitch my nose just to keep from bawling even more. After all, she’d probably be reuniting with a lot of people soon. I put my violin away, then hugged Mrs. Beck and her daughter. “It was nice meeting both of you,” I said. I left the house and never saw either of them again.

Even before Elisa had learned of her diagnosis of cancer and her subsequent writing of her latest book, Two More Years, she had been providing support for those in need, in one way or another. In the right column of my blog, scroll down to do a search for Stilson's books already reviewed... Search on EC Stilson.

This latest book, however,  was a true God Incident for me... Elisa calls them breadcrumbs. Immediately, you know, like Gretel left breadcrumbs so they could find their way home, I pictured breadcrumbs being dropped from Heaven to show Elisa the way home, some day... Frankly, her book oozes with dreams or encounters in which Elisa was involved that, to me, resulted in Zap!, Zap!, Zap! and more Zaps... It seemed everything she has been dealing with during the period after which she was diagnosed with State 4, Melanoma, she has been surrounded by God or his angels, human and heavenly! Of course, for those of us who have been connected for a while with her, we recognize just how she draws people out just by being...Elisa! And even though she had gone through many trials, including the loss of Zeke, her son, she, was, for the most part, wondering whether she was still...worthy... of even spending eternity with God... 

During this last book, her best, in my opinion, she has many of her earlier experiences brought to mind, as she is dealing with her pain, or the latest test, or scan of her body. One is described so realistically, that I felt myself pulling in my own body in empathetic screams of fear of what was being done... 

You see, no matter what is the truth, Elisa has decided to share as much as she can so that others may be at least prepared for what they might one day have to deal with, with cancer... And, to remind us that, if Elisa can do it, so can we...But it takes God's help to walk in her slippers... Because, it is clear that God is using this Girl God Incident, to speak to me...and to, possibly, millions of people across the world... I consider this a Must-Read, not just because of learning about the reality of melanoma, but for all of the other issues, beyond medically involved, that readers will find while meandering along with Elisa as she writes about this or that...or more on that... The book is divided into chapters; however, the narrative many times feels like an insert into a journal, a diary... The openness, the intimacy of her inner thoughts are revealed in such a way that, by the end of this and other books, we may feel like we know her! And indeed, she shares about at least one individual who came up to her and cried out, "Elisa," as if she was a long-lost friend... who Elisa could not remember... Only to discover that the individual and she had indeed never met... THAT'S how Elisa becomes to each of us who reads her words--her desires, her fears, her joys, her love, her...everything... It's laid bare because SHE is part of a plan that God has for her...and readers are privy to her wanderings and wonderings as she follows where He leads...

I was lost at the picnic. Droves of people weaved past, making me feel minuscule—insignificant. Then I saw her. The woman wore short brownish-auburn hair, a checkered apron, and the cutest smile ever. She parted the crowd easier than Moses parted the Red Sea, and I giggled when I spotted her! My grandma—that tricky possum—ran toward me and clutched my hand. “You don’t need to be scared of them,” she said, motioning to the crowd, “or of the future. It’s all been figured out.” 

And as soon as I saw her, I wasn’t scared at all because, well, I wasn’t quite so lost anymore. My grandma died over a decade ago, and we had so much to catch up on. I wanted to tell her all about my kids and our lives. Relay to her how hard it’s been being sick, hurting so much, and watching everyone else worry and cry. I wanted to tell her that the thought of an early death is daunting because I don’t feel like it’s time to go. 

As if she heard my quietest thoughts, she peered into my eyes with so much love, and whispered, “Now, you’re gonna come here much earlier than you’d want to. But don’t be scared, Elisa. I get to be the one to show you around and help you get used to things. That’s why I’m here, to tell you I’m waiting. Don’t be scared. I’m here waiting to help you.” I glanced at her apron again—something she’d always worn during her life—and with that vision slowly fading, I woke up.

Now many might think that the dream was just a work of the subconscious mind, trying to deal with what might happen in the future... But, did you ever hear about getting a confirmation? Well, Elisa tells about receiving a package of goodies from one of her relatives...and in it, surprisingly perhaps, was an apron... Me, I call that a true God Incident... Signed, Sealed and Delivered! Cool, right?!

But there is much to ponder and consider as your life takes a unplanned for path... 

“I’m scared. I’m so dehydrated and sick. I feel feverish. If things don’t get better fast, I’ll need to go to the ER.” Mike brought me some food and a drink. I tried to eat slowly, but despite anti nausea medications, my stomach already churned. “Mike,” I said, “can you please pray for me?” Mike doesn’t pray. But he did then—and it meant the world to me. 

After falling asleep, I rested in the fetal position in God’s massive hand. I couldn’t see anything other than His hand and the sky which He lifted me into. And even though I didn’t have a blanket, it felt so warm and perfect. This strange energy flowed through every bit of me, simply filling me with resilience. Even in the dream, a strange thought came to me: that someday I’d be in remission. This sounds crazy because all the doctors have said I have an incurable mutation of melanoma. Even if radiation and the new immunotherapy do work, they will only extend my life, not save it. Yet, there was this feeling... and an unimaginably beautiful dream. That morning, I woke up stunned that I’d kept the food down. I sat at the kitchen table with Grandma Dee, who was visiting from Missouri, and Trey. I couldn’t shake the feeling of lying in God’s strong hand. “Look,” Trey said, pointing out the back window. Dee and I turned to see a huge hawk, perched on a branch about fifteen feet away, just staring at us. After it flew away, I tried drinking more water. Amazingly, it stayed down. I’m trying not to get my hopes up, but that dream and its premonition have buoyed me through radiation this week. What do I have to lose anyway?

Worth case, I’ll be let down; best case, I’ll see a miracle. Regardless of what happens, I’m thankful to have a renewed faith in the future. 

*** “Grandma,” I said to my Grandma Stilson when I was in elementary school, “I keep going to church to get saved over and over.” My grandma was a different religion than me, and she didn’t fully understand what I tried to convey. “Wasn’t once enough?” she asked.

“Maybe,” I said. “But maybe not. I might just be bad, and that’s why God is doing this to me. When I close my eyes, I can’t make the words stop. I keep seeing stories in my head. I pray that God will save me and stop the words. He’s punishing me for when I’ve been bad. That’s why He’s making me see the words.” 

She laughed so hard before trying to clarify. “Seeing the words?” “On a keyboard,” I said. “Someone’s typing them.” It was always the same. I’d see these crazy hands typing more and more. A stupid red mug—with swirly paint— sat by the keys which never stopped clicking. 

“Maybe it’s you,” Grandma Stilson said. “Maybe you’re meant to be a writer.” It was my turn to laugh. “No. God is doing this ‘cause I’m bad.” Then something hit me. “If I am meant to be a writer, there’s just one thing I’ll need.” “What’s that?” “Someone who’s really good. I’ll need that person to teach me.” 

My grandma died a little while after that. She’s the only grandma I’d known. Whenever I wanted to give up on anything, she would be there, wearing her beloved checkered apron, and cheering me on. After she passed, sometimes I found it hard to keep believing in myself as a writer. I think that’s why my grandma had to send me an angel. 

Many years passed after my grandma’s death. I picked up writing again and even hired an editor to perfect my fantasy novel. But after I sent her the payment in full, the editor pulled out of the project. “Unfortunately, the payment was over a $1,000 worth of dresses I sewed for her daughter,” I told a friend on the phone. “Reselling them would be a nightmare. It’s just such a specific size. Plus, her daughter looks so happy in the pictures. So, I just let the lady keep them. I guess they’re going through some hard times.”

 

“Oh, wow.” “Yeah, but what am I supposed to do now? There’s no way I can pay someone else.” After a small pause, the woman said with a hint of excitement, “I’ll help you!” At the time I had no idea who this woman really was... (but she became soooo important!)

One of the intriguing things about Elisa is that she acknowledges a strong belief in God...but is still searching, even within the time period of the book, into different religions, since she was still not sure about Jesus...

Can't say that I blame her...Elisa, and many other young people are being turned away from Christianity in today's world. Many consider those who claim to be Christians to be hypocritical or, worse, extremely fanatic and domineering. In another book, and which is also mentioned in her latest, is the story of when Elisa first left home...after being put through what they called an exorcism by her church. Why? Because she had had sex. Today, we see things even worse, as we hear of, for example, of a ten-year-old girl in Ohio being raped through incest, and who, was forced to go out of state to get an abortion due to the ridiculously extreme laws that are being implemented by the republican party... 

It appears to me that it is not God guiding these actions--rather it was a desire to regain power over women's bodies after having had women gain free access and attention to a comprehensive medical review related to all aspects of women's reproduction concerns which should always be something discussed between the female and the doctor! Just like that--for many those rights have gone!

Rape and Incest are, literally, rampant, at the same time that there is little if any, guidance given for teens related to sexual activity by the church. Can you imagine, after, perhaps, agreeing to sex, or having a date rape drug given to you, or, even, an incest act forced on a child by a relative, that a church would choose to have an exorcism...or, without regard to the female, be forced to have a child who has gone through date-rape or incest-rape. [Note that Elisa did become pregnant, but made her own decision to carry the child...] Hypocritical? Yes, of course! For it is men of all ages and relationships who have initiated that forced intimacy... or, just as bad, made teens of both sexes, to feel so much guilt that they were afraid of parental or religious condemnation. So fearful, that they act either to escape--to run away--or to hurt themselves thinking they have no options in any given situation.

I have to add, because both are so entwined these days... At the same time, consider the irony of this being called by Christians, Pro-Life... While NOT being willing to ban assault rifles to stop the murder of children of all ages, as they live, go to school, to church, shopping... No way around it...the logic of the republican party and the Supreme Court related to PRO-LIFE  IS NON-EXISTENT! No wonder we are ALL confused with what is going on in America...

Except in placing power within hands where it does not belong!

 It is quite easy to see how Elisa has grown to be leery about anything she might do or want to do. For, like many, she has not been able to find support from where it should be freely given. Based upon those early years, we see Elisa moving from depression into joy often... The key point is that, she has self-taught herself that she, by now, even as she fears for her life, can and should consider just exactly what she must do related to each situation. And, most of all, she has come to know and accept as her primary determinant, that she will do what is best for those she loves most--her husband, her children...

Yet, when she learns that her tumors are spreading, or they are

growing larger, she, just like the rest of us, becomes so scared, even to the point that the pain of the tests themselves, makes her hesitate. Can she continue to put herself through the torturous processes through which she must go to allow a certain part of her body be approached--without damaging another part....

And, each time, readers see her weighing

 Face Cage worn during radiation

options, seeking help or support, even to writing to monks in South America, for prayer... and, once again, allowing herself to go through the pain with the thought of ensuring her family be together for however much longer is possible!

Elisa somewhere took a test to know her greatest strength. It came out Positivity. She was disappointed! While I, nearly twice her age, was thinking that is the best strength anybody could have! To be able, even when feeling depressed or sad, to somehow find your way out of the darkness...and back into the light! Many of us find it hard to move back into the light... But then again, we also don't have a desire to...go through an airport playing her fiddle!

Or when we are in the hospital, seek out others who may need whatever we can give...

When things had totally quieted down and the door shut, the third woman spoke. I leaned forward, grasping onto every word, but she was so terribly hard to understand. “You asked,” she lisped, “what I’ve learned. I haven’t really learned, but it’s been confirmed that life isn’t fair.” 

“You got that right!” She continued to explain that the cancer started in her tongue, and she had to have some of it removed. I blinked back the heat in my eyes because I suddenly knew why she’d been so scared to talk in front of the others. “They’re doing radiation on my neck now.” She spoke slowly. “The cancer... has spread.” “I can’t imagine what you’ve been through. I thought I’d been on one helluva journey!”

“But you don’t look like there’s anything even wrong with you!” A male tech came and called my name. At that point I struggled to stand, and my back had been pulled so badly that I hunched over and tried to walk straight. The woman gasped, surprised at how I walked. “Talking with you was the best part of my day,” I said. “I’m Elisa.” “Sarah,” she said, placing her hand on her chest. 

The gong resounded. Another person had finished infusions. Dozens of people clapped despite the IVs in their arms, and I was sure most of us smiled under our masks. But I wondered if anyone else felt the same way I did. I might never get to hit the gong. I might never be done with stupid infusions. I might never... get... better. I wanted to pick up the mallet and go hit it hundreds of times just to say I have. But I’m not a two-year-old, so I didn’t. I also kept myself from saying any of this out loud. My mother-in-law sat beside me as medicine dripped directly into my veins. And we really were having having the best time playing cards, visiting, and laughing. I didn’t need to mar that with a sob story. A woman near us spoke to a nurse, her words drifting through the partition that separated us. 

“He’s awfully sad. He needs to do this.” My ears perked with interest. Who was sad? Who needed to do what? Then, a man’s voice began singing songs from my childhood—spiritual songs that are hard to forget. And as he quietly sang “How Great Thou Art,”

I wanted to sing with him, this faceless man who sat in another cubicle, and the desire mounted stronger than almost anything in the world. But it seemed embarrassing to sing in front of my mother-in-law and more than fifty other people in the room. Sure, they couldn’t see my face, but they would hear me. “I’ll be right back,” my mother-in-law said as if discerning my thoughts, and when she walked away the man started singing one of my favorite songs in the whole world. “Holy, holy, holy is the Lord God Almighty.”

I held my mouth shut. I’m not even religious anymore. I go to church, and I love God with all my heart, but I don’t believe most of the things they teach. And yet, I could not control myself. I breathed deeply. I didn’t need to sing with this poor man. Why was the desire overpowering? “Holy,” my voice joined his. “Holy.” The harmony floated atop his deep baritone—matching perfectly in thirds. He must’ve heard me because his voice swelled with strength. He’d been shaky and scared at one point, but now his song grew strong and majestic.

“Almighty God,” the words just flowed. And as we got louder everyone in the room quieted and simply listened to a moment that will always resonate within my soul. We sang several verses and as much as it had grown, it finally came to a quiet, beautiful close. 

When we finished, a woman whispered, “Did you... did you... hear that voice singing with you?” “You heard it too?” the man asked, dumbfounded. And even though we’re not supposed to bother other patients, I grabbed my IV stand, stood from my chair, and peeked over my cubicle. “It was me,” I said, almost giggling. 

A stunning girl of about twenty stared at me with the widest eyes. Her dark skin glowed, and she beamed under her mask. “That was amazing you started singing too. I can’t believe you knew the words.” “Thanks for letting me join in. Hang in there, you two. This isn’t easy.” And although I couldn’t see the man from my angle, I sat down as my mother-in-law returned to the room.

“I sang with him!” I gushed. “It was awesome!” My mother-in-law laughed. She’s the sweetest woman, so full of love even though I’m the most random person ever. The singer and his guest must’ve left soon after because a couple of the nurses came over to me and said, “That man was so sad and scared. His daughter said singing always makes him feel better. And what you both did. Well, that is one of the neatest things we’ve had happen in the infusion room.”

“I couldn’t help myself. But next time, you guys need to join in!” “I really wanted to, but I didn’t know the words. And then I realized, nobody wants to hear me sing,” one of the nurses said, laughing. “Oh, but I do! So, get ready for it. I’ll be back in three weeks. While all of you are singing, I get to play the gong!” I could just see myself going crazy with the gong while everyone sang. It’s probably my favorite memory so far from this crappy cancer business: the time I got to sing with a perfect stranger who found some unexpected strength right there in the infusion unit. I still can’t believe they momentarily thought I was a real, live angel!

She got a mischievous grin. “Well, I’m not the one who painted it, but I know who did. And those notes on there... well, they might actually be a real song. Maybe you should try playing it.” So, that afternoon Mike and I pulled out my violin and asked the kids if they could video us as I tried deciphering the notes from the rock. Mike had to hold it on his lap, since it’s so heavy. But he said he’d rotate it slowly as I finished each section. Indy began recording as Trey sat and watched. The notes came out tranquilly tranquilly at first. I had no idea what the song might be until we reached the third measure. After that, the melody swelled inside of my chest, and the meaning behind the words shot through my heart and my fingers. I could hardly believe what song the artist had chosen: “You Raise Me Up.” The words empowered me as my bows skillfully danced across the strings. I thought of standing strong and braving stormy seas. My violin rose to new registers as I willed myself to “be more” and totally trust in God’s will...

Everyone wants to die well, valiantly, in a way that will make our loved ones proud. I didn’t want to be a sniveling person begging to end the pain or crying out for more life. At the Yom Kippur meeting, they talked about forgiving ourselves and others, about releasing ourselves from vows we’d felt forced to make, or vows we made but could no longer keep. I remembered my New Year’s resolution for 2020. “I vow to become as refined as possible,” I’d said quietly to myself. More than a year of hell later, refinement didn’t sound quite as romantic. That’s a vow I’d like to forget. 

When I returned to the synagogue for the second Yom Kippur meeting the next day, I had no idea what to expect, but I knew one thing: It was time to let go of refinement and unattainable goals of perfection.

“God,” I prayed during one of the songs, “I get it now. We were never made to be perfect. I might as well be chasing rainbows, trying to reach my self-imposed goals. Can you please just love me, always, as I am? I make more mistakes than anyone I know, but I love you with everything. Please be with me in life and when I die too. I feel ridiculous asking for you to heal me, but please have your will in my life.”

About this time, I felt thoughts and words coming into my mind... God Incident Walking Through Me Now, selecting music and more...  

I exhaled, feeling oddly lighter than I had in years. And when I opened my eyes, a strange light shone through the synagogue windows. “Kadosh. Kadosh. Kadosh. The whole world is filled with your glory.” The music seemed more ancient than time, forged by generations of people who unflinchingly revere God. 

Given the power of the music and the place itself, maybe it shouldn’t be surprising that when I looked down, something surreal unfolded: The sun shot through the glowing stained glass and highlighted specific words on the program I held. I read the accentuated words. “We are filled with your strength. The strength to bear our afflictions. Add your strength to ours, oh God. So that when death casts its shadow we shall yet be able to say: ‘Oh Source of Blessing. You are with us in death as in life.’ 

Those words. I can’t tell you the power of the words “in death as in life.” I knew then God would never abandon me. 

A powerful musician stood in front of the congregation and blew the shofar horn with such beautiful resonance that it stunned me. The blast lasted much longer than I’d expected, then went up a fifth and continued until it vibrated me to the core. I cried right there, my program still illuminated as I shook, my burdens lifted, and my heart full. Before the “break the fast” celebration, I managed to catch a couple of pictures of my program before the lighting changed too much. The whole world really is filled with His glory.

Dear Friend, My Elisa,

How are you? I just had to send a note to tell you how much I care about you. 

I saw you yesterday as you were talking with your friends. I waited all day hoping you would want to talk with me too. I gave you a sunset to close your day and a cool breeze to rest you--and I waited. You never came. It hurt me--but I still love you because I am your friend.

I saw you sleeping last night and longed to touch your brow so I spilled moonlight upon your face. Again I waited, wanting to rush down so we could talk. I have so many gifts for you. You awoke and rushed off to other things. My tears were in the rain.

If you would only listen to me! I love you! I try to tell you in blue skies and in the quiet green grass! I try to whisper it in leaves on the trees and breathe it in colors of flowers, shout it to you in mountain streams, give the birds love songs to sing. And brought other, stronger, birds outside your window, to tell I'm here to protect you. I clothe you with warm sunshine and perfume the air with nature scents. My love for you is deeper than the ocean and bigger than the biggest need in your heart!

Ask me! Talk with me! Please don't forget me...You knew me long before that false prophet came into your life, who used my name to exorcise something that was not my will for him to do... I still love you and have so much to share with you! Wipe those memories from your mind as I now speak to you alone... I need no other to speak for me, other than what I have placed in your heart--My Holy Spirit... My words will guide you each day if you will open your ears to hear my words... I do love you... I died for you... That ensures that you will be with Us Always...Yes, for Eternity...just as you long for...

I won't hassle you any further. It is YOUR decision. I have chosen you and I will wait-- I love you. I really am in no hurry... I am the Holy Trinity--God, the Father, Yeshua the Son. and I will give you His Spirit's gifts to dwell inside of you... Whenever you are ready... And you will never feel alone again. Or Wonder if You Will Abide in me Always... Because, I AM... And I Love You Elisa, Child of My Heart!

Your Friend

Jesus*

*Adapted from The Letter