Guns Everywhere - Humble Ourselves, Heal the Land - The Final Climax to The Crooked Places Made Straight

 

I finished the last two chapters of this book yesterday. This was the second time for the chapter related to Guns... I found myself highlighting even more--indeed, I'd highlighted almost the entire chapter of words... Words about our children, Uvalde springs first to mind, although that is just one of the latest we all watched occur, isn't it? 

The thing is, as I finished reading, I immediately wondered... What could I say about the fact that Guns are Everywhere in America... in our schools, in our churches, in our grocery stores, theatres, musical events--everywhere... Many times when I come on YouTube, I see the picture of a young child with his father talking about how he came to die while he was in school...

My heart--our hearts immediately begin to swell in pain, in anguish, in the final moments though, we are always asking WHY? But it is a rhetorical question... A hopeless question because we all know the answer, don't we? Every attempt to do something is stopped through the use of big money in the business of selling guns. And guns proliferating faster than we the people! Yes, there are far more guns in the United States than there are people! Far more than in any other country in the world!

And we have mass shootings in our country every day...somewhere... Someone--more than one--dies every day here in the land of the free?????

Right about then I began to ponder whether it was worth sharing further... For, as most writers do, they build up to the important points as we move further into a book. And Reverend Warnock does indeed know the pain of somebody who has died from a gun... Just as many have...

And, of course, the question was discussed... What are we doing to our children??? What are we teaching those who must attend schools, fearing for their lives... Practicing for a potential attack...

And we know that, for our Black neighbors, death has been a part of their lives right from the beginning when they were brought to America to be slaves to white men. Some may have died on the ship and were tossed overboard with no thought of grieving... Black mothers know that they must quickly begin to explain about how they can "live" with the white people who will consider them "beneath" their attention... How? Why? One thing I have learned is that what the white man has created is a race of people who are now prepared to survive, even more, to fight back...

I have learned that this is a significant difference between the black and white people... In different ways, I admire them more than many of those of my own color.

But as I went on to read the next chapter regarding climate control, with a few specific cases, documenting how it is we the people who are destroying earth, once again I came to the same conclusion... These two issues have been around for decades. Guns used for hunting were then used for sports; e.g., sharpshooting... sharp shooting led to children being familiar--too familiar with guns--guns that could kill more than animals.

So, too, has man chosen to use more and more of the earth's resources so that ultimately they needed to look for other ways to obtain them... Oil being one of those resources which is now, right now, costing all the world because of lack of control and/or consideration for planning for the future, rather than just continuing to use, use, use... Wars being fought or resources stolen, such as from South America... by those who are rich but not rich enough to be happy and live well in world around us...

And you know what, folks, from a time when, as a poor single woman, I was working to make a living to help my own family, I began to learn of those in the United States and from other countries who had much worse living conditions than we had ever had... AND, during the last decade, I have taken time to listen to multiple news sources and have read books from people who had the qualifications to help me learn more about what and why things had reached the point where we could in 2016 vote in a television reality character who had a background of bankrupted corporations, and a history of getting federal funds, while not following laws related to renting to all people, et.al. I Now Know Stuff...

And one thing I know is that the republican political party is the reason in almost every situation when guns and climate are being discussed that they have refused to even negotiate--or they may play at it, even approve it, only later to also agree to overturn what improvements have been made... 

Then beginning in 2016, it was the now president who began to either pull out of what was already established as a working group planning for the future, or removing the regulations and laws that had been put in place by earlier presidents to respond to these two important needs.

Let's face it, these two issues result in the most deadly situations that can occur. Yet congressional republicans continue to not only not support, but in some cases refuse to even negotiate on these subjects!

You know folks when I listened to the above video, I hesitated to include it, even if what was said was true.  You see, it was using satire to spotlight exactly what and how the republican party is treating the majority of United States citizens. It has exploded during this last term of the Trump presidency... So, why and how do I, we, think that anything can be done. Decades have gone by and little has been done to regulate and control guns... Decades have also gone by when not only is nothing being done on the climate crisis. In fact, many of the safety regulations have been removed by this administration... And they actually try to deny any problems with our environment. While we all watch and see more and more signs of natural and man-made created problems... Isn't it time that we begin, again, listening to our experts in science related to future plans for wind or other options...

Isn't it time that we ignore the claims of conservatives pushing pro-life, while at the same time, that same party is allowing children to be killed in devastating ways? What can we do but assume that their moral code is either ignored or not even known to exist? Just trying to understand how to proceed within this, right now, badly damaged country...

You know, folks, I woke up to a wonderful dream this morning. I was back to a time when I was young, my mother was still alive and we were living in a little town called New Geneva. There was a small store there and a woman ran that store. It was a day that Bertha, the owner and a member of our church, had fixed a meal to sell as a special. Time had no meaning, so I was also working and had come home wondering about what to fix for supper so I stopped in that little store... It smelled wonderful. The meal was Baked Ham, scalloped potatoes, green beans and creamed new onions... I have no idea how that last item got on the menu in "my" dream since I don't think I've ever tasted them... But I woke up happy. I woke up knowing that I had been given freedom to be very specific about what the republican party is attempting to do to the United States... And to all God's children... I knew that the stuff I had learned was to be openly shared and documented and sent out to whoever wanted to learn more... Speaking Truth is our Freedom!

Because, you see, I had also had a song identified... Almost Persuaded. Some of you may know that this is one of the songs that can be used at a closing of the sermon where the pastor performs what is called an altar call. It is a time when individuals who have not yet decided might have been persuaded by what was learned on that day, and would choose to formally received Jesus as our Savior...

I never really liked the song, but now I ran through the words, especially as it ended... where the one singing might be in some way affected, but is not really ready to give up what he or she thinks a Christian life might mean to them personally...The individual decides that "some more convenient day..." may be the one... But not that day...

And I wondered just how someone else had gone about deciding whether to follow a god... And then in amazement actually, I wondered whether each of us has created their own god... How else can religions have been formed in so many ways and by so many different people, Yet assume or believe that their god is the one god... 

But mostly I wonder just how religion and politics can ever be interactive without Love...without truth?

Or, at least, a basic moral code that would be acceptable to all people...

There wasn't a thing about this book that I didn't agree with. That was a confirmation needed at this particular time when the days have one thing said only to hear that it has been changed by the next day or even the next news program. Life in such chaos is not only confusing, but is not sustainable, given that there is no way any of us can really be secure in hearing, or, stating what they consider facts...

On the other hand, Reverend Warnock has opened my eyes to the value of the Book of Isaiah, and perhaps more, in helping to deal with today's world... For we know that the Bible has been interpreted to mean one thing while another might believe some other meaning... Or perhaps we just need more people like Raphael Warnock explaining how and when the old testament words reflect on today's world...

Because right now, many still believe that Trump was chosen by God... And, at least in one way, perhaps I agree... Because he certainly has opened the eyes of millions of people across the world and we can see why scripture says that the rich man will never find a home with God...

Key to this book, therefore, is finding the proof of Truth AND Love in Reflecting on the Moral Code of America... Confirming that something extreme has happened to create an atmosphere where words of our citizens have different meanings based upon a political party which is using criminal actions to try to stay in power and recreate a nation in the image of male white supremacists who are paying for their political officials to do what is best for the rich rather than for the majority of the United States citizens... Wow! That's a long sentence, but it seems to be accurate. LOL

Warnock ends with a CODA telling about a little country called Liberia--Land of the Free. It is a location where Reverend Warnock visited on a mission trip. It was formed at a time when some who lived in America were going back to Africa after slavery had been abolished, or at least, proclaimed by the government. This small place was working hard to create some part of the freedom known in America, even naming their capital city in honor of James Monroe, who supported repatriation. But this small location has had similar problems of civil unrest as has occurred in America... Yet they continue to believe... Warnock spoke at the local Baptist church about how the two areas have seen similar pains of separation of people. But our Senator confirmed there and now that he continues to support our country--even one which is now so divided. He urges us to recognize the dangers of our divisions. Of allowing demagogues* with no vision to deepen the differences and tear down what has been built with blood and sacrifice.

Urging for a future of hope for everyone, as Isaiah shared so clearly:

As the book closes, the Reverend shares that if the earth cannot sustain us, still those who are the least of these shall be with him... but to ensure that freedom shall survive, we must all work to raise the valleys, those of us who are in the lower "classes" of society, while the mountains--those at the top of society, the rich, shall fall lower... I've tried to share my understanding of this scripture... so I hope I've at least given you sufficient info to conduct your own research... For our Lord is stating that we must work to support the lowest in our land through voter selection and working against those who've corrupted out nation's government... 

I believe this book should be on your bookshelf and read before November...

God Bless

Gabby

*a political leader who seeks support by appealing to the desires and prejudices of ordinary people rather than by using rational argument.

"a gifted demagogue with particular skill in manipulating the press"

I Never Do This - by Anesa Miller - A Monologue - And Playlist!

 I love campfire songs. Of course, when I joined the youth choir, they teased me no end. I remember Jo Beth saying, “Watch out, Britney. Here comes our little pop star.” That type of thing.

Really liking this show...

I really thought I'd seen all styles of books...but there's always another writer who presents a story that is so compelling that you keep on reading, no matter what the pages look like... Let me explain... Or better, show you... Starting with the Playlist... And I have to admit upfront, LOL, that every time I read Per Say rather than Per Se, I cringed... literally...

I keep my radio tuned to the station that rotates between country and oldies. It felt like a good sign when the Grateful Dead came on mid-chorus. Sugar Magnolia. Bobby set to drumming his knees.

“Mason was a good ’un. The kind that die young.” I give Bobby a sharp look, but he has dropped his head, playing with a grass blade, and I think he’s being serious. Not smart-alecky. 

Of course, he wouldn’t notice the likes of me. For one, he was two years ahead of me. Not to mention he’s from a rich family, the kind of boy that’s going to college. We were not in that class. But in spite of everything, the two of us did come together. We never dated, per say. He never took me to a dance or movie or nothing. We didn’t have friends in common that we might of run with as a group. After all, I was not the outgoing kind and had never really dated at the middle school. But against the odds, we crossed paths that fall of my sophomore year. It started at a sock hop after a football game the week after my fifteenth birthday. The dance was winding down. I was hanging around till the group of girls I palled with decided we were ready to split. Kids in couples, or the ones who had hopes of getting next to someone, were waiting for the last romantic slow song. It started at last—“Baby Hold On” by the Dixie Chicks, one of my favorites back then. Bernard happened to be standing with his friends in my field of vision, and when I heard that song, nothing could of been more natural than to raise my eyes on him—the angel-haired boy I’d dreamed about since last spring. That’s when a miracle happened because, somehow-some-way, Bernard glanced at me, right in the same moment. Our eyes hooked, and he didn’t hesitate more than a second—he walked right over to me. The gap between us was, maybe, twelve feet, but it felt like he was flying across the whole Ohio River to a separate world where I was living my little-small life. He put out a hand. His face had a sweet, kind of lopsided, grin. His voice said, “Shall we dance?” I had never heard anybody, let alone a kid around my age, say a thing like “Shall we dance?” Now, I know—and more or less knew at the time—he might of been looking to make some other girl jealous. I saw one or two of them, back where he’d been standing, drop their jaws when he put the move on li’l LaDene Howell. But why would I care? It did not cross my mind that this was anything less that a gift from God. When I took his hand, I stepped into my Cinderella story. His touch shot a bolt through me that felt stronger than the hardest drink I’ve had in my life—if he hadn’t taken me into his arms, I doubt I could’ve kept upright. My knees were that weak. But he kept the hand I put in his, pulled it to his heart, so my breasts fit on either side of our wrists. My temple came to rest on the front of his shoulder. His other hand and all his fingers traced the bones across my back and settled on my shoulder blade. I thought I might grow wings and really be like him. I know he must of felt me tingling all over. His slightest touch had done that to me. When the song stopped, at first I couldn’t raise my eyes. After a moment, I followed his hand lifting mine to his face, and he planted a kiss between the knuckles of my first two fingers. He said, “Aren’t you from Devola? One of the Howell girls?” In that euphoric state, it didn’t cross my mind that Effie and Jo Beth’s reputations might of preceded me. I nodded, or maybe I said yes, although it felt like I couldn’t possibly use my voice right then. He kept holding my hand and kept talking. “You like to hang out at Devola Lock and Dam? Me and my friends go there a lot. Come out this Sunday, if you can.” He gave my hand a final squeeze, turned away, headed back to his friends. The world could of ended right then and left me happy. But he glanced over his shoulder and said out loud, “Thanks for the dance!” To me he looked like the happiest, most carefree boy that had ever lived. I wanted to eat that like a last meal. It took a little while for us to wind up together. That first Sunday I rode my bike to the park to meet him, it was like he said—a bunch of kids hanging out in a group. Boys from the various sports teams that were known as arrogant jerks. A couple of girls on the benches—the fashion-plate type that belong to clubs, daughters of lawyers and judges. Some brandished cigarettes and blew puffs in a showy manner. I stopped while there were still shrubs along the roadside to hide me, listened to the boys’ loud laughs, the girls giggles, and didn’t go up to them at all. I turned right-round and rode home. But all that week, I reviewed how Bernard had looked at the park in khaki shorts, his powerful legs in sockless boat shoes, wide forearms emerging from an oversize blue T-shirt. So clean, so relaxed—shooting the breeze with wide shrugs and grins. Not smoking. Clearly a nicer boy than the company he kept. So the next Sunday, back I went, down the narrow asphalt road. River water pouring over the dam filled my ears. Sitting on top and around the lone picnic table, it was more or less the same group from the week before. It was a gorgeous day of early fall, no longer hot but still sunny, still warm, trees barely touched with yellow and rust. I told myself I had as much right to hang out at the lock as anybody. Sure, I did. My family used to stroll over here, evenings. My dad took his boat out on the river all the time. My sister Effie claims he took us fishing almost every weekend when she was little. Too bad none of that made it into my memories. But while I hung back debating myself, Bernard caught sight of me from where he was standing by the picnic table. I still remember how his arm shot up above his head, and he waved real wide like he was signaling somebody off in West Virginia. And he called to me. He had found out my first name. He called me by my name: “Hey, LaDene Howell—!” And he smiled real big. I was pretty near a total fool at that point, but it made a nice impression that he wasn’t ashamed for his friends to meet me and see that he had some kind of fondness for me. I knew it meant he was a nice person deep down. Honest to God, I still think so, no matter all the shit that was soon to meet the fan. It turned out, the boys in Bernard’s crew were actually quite interested to hear about my family. The notorious Twist-line men, that is. Everyone has heard tales about some of my relatives: Jake Blaine Howell who used to pimp out his own wife and sisters, back in the day. Old Eustis Howell who did a murder for hire in 1987. It never occurred to me that those connections could spark people’s interest in my own self. I was happy to confirm that, yes—my uncle was Big Bobby Howell who’d come home from Belmont just a couple years prior. And, of course, renowned bar-fighter Bobby Frank was my cousin. I omitted the fact that my own family had cut ties with most of them years ago. It only struck me as a little scandalous that those boys on the picnic table were swigging from cans of beer. Bernard soon pulled a bottle of pink wine out of a backpack. He twisted the cap off and handed the bottle to a girl sitting across from him. There were no glasses, so she drank from the neck and passed the bottle to her friend. That one drank and passed to me. I tasted it—my first alcohol. A couple of turns had me knocked pretty near on my ass. Everything about hanging with this group was so new to me, I really didn’t notice right off when the party starting breaking up. Or rather, it started breaking down into couples who scattered here and there, down to the cove to make out under the willows and on the little sand beach by the river. The odd boys out shuffled off to a black and chrome Silverado pickup parked on the asphalt. The driver revved his engine and drove away down the road. That’s when my wish came true—Bernard was alone at the table with me. We talked a little more, I’ve no idea what about. In years to come, I would review every touch and sensation at least ten-thousand times, but I can’t recall a single specific word we exchanged. I just knew that he was being sweet, not mocking me, or treating me like a lowlife hick, regardless who my family was. I talked a lot more country than him and his friends, but he showed no sign of caring a snap about such things as pronunciation or community standing. Of course, sex was not a secret to me. Momma had explained many times which body parts were involved and that it was the number-one thing girls must deny boys as a sacred duty. Jo Beth and Effie teased me in the privacy of our bedroom, telling all the details of their exploits. One time, I remember Effie asking me, “How many times you been fingered, LD?” The answer was zero, but I was so horrified she might think it had happened even once, I pressed a pillow over my head. Naturally, she only said it for the fun of freaking me out. So I had learned a lot of racy things, but the upshot was I viewed sex as something dire and disgusting. When I fell in love with Bernard, it truly didn’t cross my mind that what I was craving with him was sex. I utterly believed this was something higher, some fine and beautiful destiny. I could no more have turned him down than I could of stopped the sun in the sky. All told, I went out to meet him by the river six weeks in a row. I looked back later and counted up every meeting on the calendar. He took time to kiss me and hold me. He pressed me up against the wall of the pump station, and he brought along a soft plaid blanket for me to lie on. I thought I had discovered a lovely new world that held a special place for me where I would live in grace from then on, lonely no more. Indeed, a new life did open for me. Just not the one I imagined in those mad romantic days.

~~~~

Now I'm a country girl, so I began to recognize many of the words that were used... And we soon realize that a young girl is being interviewed by an officer who starts out asking questions... Then she took over saying that if they wanted to hear the whole story, she'd be happy to start... And she did...

The entire book proceeds from page 1 through to the final page with no stops, other than a short breath (and a bold phrase) to indicate a different scene. I was fascinated by the ease by which I was reading--without the distraction of chapter heading, pagination, etc., that readers (actually publishers) have become accustomed to--indeed, actually demand for the most part...

Then I was thinking about what law officer would actually have the patience to allow such a takeover of the questioning activity. My mind turned to Sheriff Country, and the one woman who just might have the patience as long as she knew the story would continue. Which it did for 207 pages with No White Space to be seen! LOL... Just the facts Ma'am--Just the facts... Well, not exactly, I learned today!

Now the thing is that she and a cousin was brought in for something that actually takes place almost at the end of the book... Yep, but this young lady, felt it was necessary to establish the background which had led to the situation where she was holding a knife and cutting a few places on his body... No, this is not satire, a comedy, or any other genre you might think of... It is a crime drama that happens to start many, many years ago...

I, LaDene Faye Howell, will recount the events of August 12, 2019, including all relevant background leading up to the encounter that I understand you are investigating. I will tell all in full truth and will hold nothing back to protect myself from the eyes of the law. Other persons involved do not know the full history of how and why things took place as they did. I’m the only one who can tell it all. I am the person who cut Mr. Jonathan Rutherford with a ten-inch folding knife, approximately. I made two cuts to his face, or rather the forehead—just about one inch long each, with the sharp edge of the blade tip. Also one cut on his chest. Very shallow cuts. In doing this, I acted alone. In fact, I meant to keep the exact nature of my actions secret. I told Mr. Rutherford to play dead. He may have been screaming when I said it. He did scream at one point, as I recollect. But I feel certain he heard me. I bent right to his ear. “Act like you’re dyin’,” I told him. He had been talking too much in general over the whole evening. I tried many times to quiet him down for his own good. I tried to do this in a nice way. A calm way. But once I took the knife, I finally got his attention. He will surely testify to that. I said it would all be for show. No. I never stabbed, struck, nor slapped or kicked Mr. Rutherford in any way. I did not strike him with my hand, knee, or any object. It is possible he was struck by another person. He may have been shoved or otherwise roughed up in a minor sort of way. I don’t know all details of that to a certainty, but I did not witness any physical beating being done to him. For most of the evening, Mr. Rutherford appeared to cooperate willingly with all that was happening. He was offered food and drink over a period of three to four hours. Yes, I myself gave him snacks and cold tea. No, I never heard him say flat-out, “You folks just let me go, now.” He did not say that. He was free to talk and dispute, which he did. Like I say, he talked more than was probably wise on his part. Yes, from his viewpoint, he probably felt he was subjected to harassment. Maybe even intimidation. I expect he did feel that way. Let’s just get it down on your recording right now that this man you keep calling my “confederate” is Robert Franklin Howell. He is known to most as Bobby Frank. The knife belongs to him, that’s correct. He “produced” the knife at an earlier point in the evening. From his pants pocket, I guess, but I didn’t see for sure at the time. Absolutely not—Bobby Frank did not cut anyone. Not in my presence. Not last night, nor at any time in our past history that I have ever observed. Bobby Frank is a relation to me. I’ve known him all my life. He’s a second cousin by a different mother—what some people call middling kin. We’ve always been friendly. No, we are not “intimate partners” and never have been. I’m aware that you are empowered to lie to me, but don’t bother saying that Bobby Frank pinned something on me. Like it was my revenge, snatching the old man, or I had a dire plan from the git-go, or any other shit on that line. He’s not about to say that. And I won’t be pinning stuff on him that he didn’t do, neither. I will only speak what really happened. I pledged to that already. I am 27 years of age. Bobby Frank is about nine years older than me, so that would make him 35 or 36, I guess. I don’t know where he’s been residing lately. He may not have a proper address. It looked like he’d been more or less camping in the house on Duck Creek Road—that house where the incident with Mr. Rutherford took place. That house used to be in our family. It was our Gramma Dot’s place. I don’t know who owns it now. You are aware that I sent my sister to check on the old man, right? When we left him at that house, I stopped and called her. Told her to go over right away and see to his welfare. How he was holding up after what happened. Mr. Rutherford was the principal of Marietta High School for many years. He was in charge when Bobby Frank attended there, and he was still principal later on when I came up. That’s how we knew him, from back when. No, categorically not—we never stalked him, never surveilled him, nothing like that. It was a pure stroke of fate that he happened to exit the Speedway on State Route 60 precisely when he did. Me and Bobby were driving north at that moment. It was me who recognized him. Well, that only makes sense, don’t it? It’s been, like, 20 years since Bobby was in school. Only about ten years for me. Okay, twelve years, to be exact.

“Baby Hold On” by the Dixie Chicks, one of my favorites back then. Bernard happened to be standing with his friends in my field of vision, and when I heard that song, nothing could of been more natural than to raise my eyes on him—the angel-haired boy I’d dreamed about since last spring. That’s when a miracle happened because, somehow-some-way, Bernard glanced at me, right in the same moment. Our eyes hooked, and he didn’t hesitate more than a second—he walked right over to me. The gap between us was, maybe, twelve feet, but it felt like he was flying across the whole Ohio River to a separate world where I was living my little-small life. He put out a hand. His face had a sweet, kind of lopsided, grin. His voice said, “Shall we dance?” I had never heard anybody, let alone a kid around my age, say a thing like “Shall we dance?”

There are two family/community dynamics within this novel... One is that the town is divided by those who are rich and those who are poor...

Also, one family has divided as well because of two major events... LaDene's older brother was killed in the war and thereafter their father changed... And, the side of the family from which they split was involved with criminal activities. LeDene's father had turned to religion to try to understand the loss of his one and only son in battle...

Effie had long since quit King’s Way, after she got called to account in the middle of Contrition for her car being noticed with a bumper sticker that said “WTF,” in reference to George Bush (“W,” that is). Not only blasphemous language (implied), it disrespected our God-appointed President, so Effie had some ’splainin’ to do. I understood full well this was the same reason why I was headed two states away with my thick ankles and bread-dough belly. Yes, I accepted it. Bowing out quietly should be easier than living under the judgment of everyone I knew, and everyone my family deemed important. But would it actually turn out any easier? That kind of thing is tough to measure, isn’t it? 

“Don’t gawk,” Blake said. “Work.” She hit me a sharp blow with the 15-inch stick of PVC pipe. The one she carried was fitted with a three-way joint that left red half-moons on my wrist. I gasped from surprise almost more than from pain—she whipped that thing out and struck so fast, with no warning. Of course, I didn’t cry or complain. Just gave her a big-eyed stare for one second before looking down to the dustpile my sweeping had gathered. She bestowed a word of explanation. “You’re lucky to be in the house, here. It’s way better than scrubbing bathrooms, breathing that full-strength bleach.” 

LaDene fell in love, allowed herself to get pregnant, thinking she would be getting married and only later knowing that his family would be paying for her to be sent far away to birth the child, after which she would be returned home--she was just 16...

As time goes by she moves on, out of her family's life and when her favorite cousin got out of jail, he looked her up...which led to LaDene handling the knife that cut the local school's principal... 

But, WHAT A STORY! In fact as I think about the method, this could actually be written in journal or diary form as a biography... If so, God Bless the young girl LaDene who, really, never had a chance to...be...herself... Because when you're reading it all from her POV, you just gotta listen...

My child was the only thing that existed in the world for that time. She looked around for about two minutes before she fell asleep, but I know she saw me, and I believe she had her own understanding of who I was and why we were together on that first day of her life.

...Some new person inside me wants to go forth and take on the world, right the wrongs and slay the dragons. A new inkling of possibility grips my insides, it wants to get personal, get rough. Before I think about it, I’m on my feet dancing. I swing around the pole, twirl, sashay, jump over oil patches, bound off a bumper. My toes write poems in scattered gravel. My hair sweeps, unloosed from its captured braid. Wind is rising in the cottonwood. At some point I notice I’m in the middle of the parking lot. I lean my head back and sing out loud. Not that I know the words—

This book must be experienced as opposed to read... The thing is as I sit here now, I'm not quite sure I even know how it ended... After her cousin found her, there was a lot of drinking and drugs, but that shouldn't affect the reader should it? Tell you what, I'm going to depend upon the Sheriff to actually close out this case... What I know is that LaDene made it out alive, singing about Freedom... and that's enough for me... Just do it! See what happens when a writer does her own thing! Cool! Right? 

GABixlerReviews

Note: I didn't get the entire Playlist done. The last words being sung, may or may not have been an actual real song. Also I wasn't sure about which Freedom song was correct...

Michael A. Smith, Ongoing Historical Contributor Provides Essay Every Religious Individual Must Read!

 

From Crusade to Jihad: 

How the Language of Holy War Still Shapes Us...

Michael A. Smith

Historian, Author, Public Theologian

December 2, 2025

When we hear terms like “holy war," "Jihad," or “crusade,” our minds often leap to modern conflicts involving Muslim fundamentalists. Yet these words were first forged in the crucible of medieval Christendom. The First Crusade (1096–1099) gave us a vocabulary of violence sanctified by faith—language that continues to echo across centuries, often detached from its original context.

The Origins of "Holy War"

The Crusades were launched under papal authority as wars of liberation and conquest, framed as divine missions.

• “Crusade” comes from crux, the Latin word for cross, symbolizing the soldiers’ vow to fight under Christ’s banner.
• “Holy War” was not a Muslim invention but a Christian one, used to justify campaigns against Muslims, Jews, and even fellow Christians.
• The idea of sacralized violence—that killing could be sanctified if done for God—was revolutionary and deeply troubling.

The Parallel of "Jihad"

In Islam, jihad originally meant “struggle” or “striving,” often spiritual rather than military. But during the Crusades, Muslim leaders adopted the term to describe resistance against invading Christian armies. Over time, jihad became associated with armed struggle, mirroring the Christian concept of holy war.

Thus, the Crusades did not just shape Europe—they reshaped Islamic thought, creating a linguistic and ideological symmetry between two faiths locked in conflict.

The Lingering Legacy

Today, these terms are weaponized in political and religious discourse:

• “Crusade” is invoked by Western leaders to describe campaigns against terrorism or drugs, often unintentionally, perhaps,  evoking medieval violence.
• “Jihad” is used by extremists to justify acts of terror, though its broader meaning in Islam remains spiritual.
• “Holy War” has become shorthand for any conflict framed in religious terms, regardless of tradition.

The irony is stark: language born in medieval Europe to sanctify Christian violence is now most often associated with Muslim fundamentalism.

Why This Matters for Us

For professionals, educators, and leaders, understanding this history is more than academic. It reminds us:

• Words carry centuries of baggage.
• Religious language can be co-opted to justify violence, even when it distorts the original teachings.
• The rhetoric of “holy war” continues to polarize communities, shaping perceptions of faith and conflict.

Where dialogue often centers on leadership and global awareness, reflecting on this history can sharpen our sensitivity to how language frames power, identity, and struggle.

Closing Thought

The Crusades remind us that faith can inspire compassion—or be twisted into conquest. The words we use—crusade, jihad, holy war—are not neutral. They are echoes of battles fought long ago, still reverberating in our headlines today. To lead responsibly in the modern world, we must recognize the weight of this vocabulary and resist its misuse.

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I so appreciate Michael Smith's willingness to share his posts on a world-wide distribution as seen via Book Readers Heaven... While I agree with his latest Essay, I do want to share my own response as well...

The Historian Speaks Intellectually...

I Speak Organically

War - What is it Good For?!

Once I might have written a similar report as Smith has. But I have read almost steadily for about 20 years now... And I've read some terrible things... Like, for instance, when the crusades were happening, people in Spain were murdered because they didn't want to follow Christianity...

As pointed out by one of the videos at the top, it soon became clear that these soldiers were not being sent out "for God's sake" but for retaining power and property--or gaining more...

The very same that is happening here in the Year 2025, by various men who have captured the highest seat in their countries and immediately wanted more! Most people are like me, we try to live our lives as best we can...until these men of "war" choose to attempt to rise again... Just like they probably followed Barabbas to the local pub and there planned what their next crime would be. Let's face it, most men do not one day awake and decide to join an army fighting other people. They are either taught or forced to participate. We have seen what happened thereafter. They either get killed in action, or come back home so disoriented that they cannot easily move back into normal life--but by that time, leaders have normally forgotten them and they rejoin the rest of us who are just trying to figure out how to do the best we can...

Then there are those, like Barabbas, who went back to his earlier life and decided to continue on as he had been. After all, He didn't even know the man, Jesus... "It was the luck of the draw... and He was the people's choice..." Not even realizing what was happening, he soon forgot about the man, Jesus, who had died that day instead of him...

And there are many, many--just like those who were already prepared, and still are--who like to fight, like to kill and plan to kill, purely for the fun of it. They began to collect guns, carried them even into the churches where Jesus was being worshipped...claiming they were securing the building... And, still others, merely walked into a church, synagogue, or other meeting places used for worship of God, and started killing as many as he could... BTW, as far as I am aware, there has never been a female who acted as these men have... women are, instead, the mothers of all those who have been killed by wars, by serial killers, and by countries where leaders are more interested in power and greed, than...people...

Well, you knew I would be getting more specific. My war, however, has been with words. Have you noticed that many writers create fiction novels so that they can over and over have the good guy (law) when over the bad guys (criminals). 

Now, fiction writers are no longer the only writers fighting. More and more books or videos, or songs are out these days, working to show through their words, too, that these few individuals who desire power and greed more than anything else, can not be tolerated! Especially since they began to use religion as part of their plan of destruction...

Let's look at leaders such as Trump, Putin, and Netanyahu, in particular... and, perhaps, Iran though they have fought through terrorists rather than weapons of war...  Jews--the people who rejected the Son of God--have a man who willingly continues to kill people...knowing that if the war ends, he might be back into legal courts soon... Trump...the cult who chose to break up the Christian faith and create a christian nationalist group who want to fight for...their god... Putin? If he has a faith, it has never meant anything to him...his goals of domination have always been clear, haven't they?

The think that still boggles my mind is that a major religious group were the ones who elected and still, apparently, support his actions even now as people are being killed on our streets by federal staff!

But can it be solved? The Pope is taking a position against Trump's war actions in South America... Each of us must choose our own actions to take a stand... Do you speak of God's Truth and Love?

There are many pastors and individual Christian leaders speaking out... But, let's face it, there are still questions when the son of a major past religious Christian leader is now being questioned in the news... Myself, I depend upon the Words of Jesus, His Son...

Folks, of all that Trump/MAGA has done, the destruction of our religious lives has been the top priority for me. I was waiting for someone with proper credentials--Professor Michael A. Smith--to make a firm statement of our history and the abuse of God's Laws on Truth and Love. He has done so today and I thank him personally for setting the stage I needed to give my "second opinion" on the reality of the situation...

I believe in God, the Great I AM

Religion is a tool created by men who wanted to lead, for whatever reason. Some have been open, like the present and last Pope, but others have not. We all know that.

I supported Reverend Billy Graham; I do not support his son or any other evangelist that I know of these days.

Gabby