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Why did they follow him? Why did they follow that poor Nazarene all those centuries ago? When the multitudes came to hear the words of the preacher, they didn't get stirred up. There was no shouting, chanting, marching, or flag marching, or flag waving. Instead, there was peace. There was calm. And there was power.
Jesus preached all that was good about God. He gave hope to the downtrodden. He told them God was on their side, and that yes, one day there will be judgment. But for now, the Word of God had become flesh and was standing there among them. The Holy Spirit was working in their hearts, minds, and souls.
Later, when they cheered the Nazarene upon entering Jerusalem in triumph, some may have hoped for a political victory. But instead, Jesus went to the cross. He opened his arms to forgive those who persecuted him. He spilled his own blood for the oppressive political and religious actors of the day. And his victory was much greater than we can imagine. In the end, some came to believe in the Son of God.
What does this say to us today when we protest and march for or against gun control? Or abortion? Workers rights? Political corruption? Civil rights? What does this say to the part of us that only wants to complain and criticize? What does this say to the part of us that wants to seize power foolishly thinking this is how to serve God's kingdom? As we cry out for justice, does a thirst for vengeance contaminate our hearts?
Examine the scriptures. Jesus spent nearly all his time praying, healing, and teaching. He answered criticism with authority. He once cleansed the temple. But the majority of his action was spent among the people, with the poor in spirit.
When he finally faced horrific political and religious oppression face-to-face, what did he do? Jesus voluntarily gave himself up and died. This was the will of his father.
Jesus was killed since he was considered a threat to the system. Many others during this time also paid this price, and none of them were the Messiah. Crucifixion was used to punish enemies of the state, agitators, and those with no civil rights. So in the news of his day, Jesus' death was not remarkable. What made his death unique occurred on an entirely different level.
Jesus did not cry out for political change. He knew the overthrow of one system would only lead to another and then another. All governments and systems are Babylon, and if we place all our faith and trust there, then we commit idolatry. Certainly there are some truly interested in serving their fellow citizens, but no government or nation is God.
In the Old Testament, the people of Israel cried out to have a king so they could be like other nations. Legislation does not save souls. So much energy and activity get wasted in politics. We believe we are striving for a greater good, but many times we are misled. Meanwhile a chosen few line their pockets with money and give their cronies a place of privilege.
Jesus' message was simple. Believe in me. Receive God's mercy. Stop sinning. Stop the hypocrisy. Go right now and help your neighbor. Make disciples and share the Good News. Love one another.
Go back and read the Sermon on the Mount (Matthew 5-7).
Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. Blessed are they who mourn, for they will be comforted. Blessed are the meek, for they will inherit the land. Blessed are they who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they will be satisfied. Blessed are the merciful, for they will be shown mercy. Blessed are the clean of heart, for they will see God. Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called children of God. Blessed are they who are persecuted for the sake of righteousness, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. Blessed are you when they insult you and persecute you and utter every kind of evil against you because of me.
Where is the political manifesto? It's not there--at least not in an obvious way. Instead, Jesus demands that all political systems justify their behavior. Even more, he asks all humankind to do the same. And he knows we fail many times. This is why he went to the cross.
What would happen if we placed all our efforts into directly helping someone in need? What if we stopped pouring money into political causes and used it to help someone we know personally? What if we marched into places of poverty to find out exactly how to help with our feet on the ground? What if our campaigns focused on finding a lonely person who needs company? What might the result look like? It might look like the Kingdom of Heaven.
Maybe this would unmask the corruption of the rulers. Maybe it would reveal our own selfish tendencies as well. Jesus was stripped naked to fully expose the deep injustice of this world. He died poor, oppressed, and humiliated. This is his political statement.
It's as if Jesus came to say, "Look at what the sins and selfishness of the world do to the weak and vulnerable. Look at how God chooses to show you this--not by power or control--but through love and forgiveness, even forgiving those who commit atrocity. The Son of God died for it all. He absorbs it all into his wounded side. And if this does not wake you up, even if someone rises from the dead, your hearts will remain hardened."
So let us go preach all that is good about God. Let us give hope and help to someone in need. Get your hands dirty and have skin in the game. God is on your side.
One day we will all be judged. But for now, the Word of God nourishes us. Let the Holy Spirit work in our hearts, minds, and souls. And may our political manifesto be the crucified and risen Christ.
You can use my content if you acknowledge me as the author and provide a back link to my site. God bless you, Vincent Chough
Thank you Vincent Chough for permission to share your words here... My readers know that I have been deeply troubled about how, it seems, even our faith is now being used within political propaganda, often with lies...
Please read Matthew and Jesus' Sermon on the Mount again, as above, as you consider where we are in America today...
I Read The Kingdom, The Power, and the Glory
Look for it and other books via the search column to the right...
Note: This is not the planned post for today...
This just might be a God Incident for YOU...
God loves all, though we may be different in race or religion.
He merely asks us to Tell people about Jesus and what He preached...
Both men leaned in, only to back away in shock after reading about the Monsigny performance and their special guest of honor. Smith took his glasses off. “Date and time of Hitler’s whereabouts.” “My God, sir. This is proof we can’t stop now!” Guy smiled broadly. “We have to call the Air Ministry, get a flight in the diary.” Smith shook his head. “Afraid not.”
Prologue - Somewhere over France
The pilot had been trained to fly his RAF Whitley over enemy territory at night, memorizing the bends of the French coastline, the railways, and the location of the villages, while trying to avoid German emplacements. He was prepared for almost everything that night except for a change in the weather. Thick clouds blanketed the moon, dangerously concealing the cliffs along the shore and threatening not only the crew’s lives but the fifty special agents he was ordered to drop over Belgium. It didn’t take long before the pilot had flown off course, lost above enemy territory with only a vague idea of where they were when anti-aircraft fire popped against the fuselage. Tink, tink, tink, tink… As the pilot struggled to keep his crew alive and the aircraft steady in the air, he got annoyed with himself for even flying at all. Why was he taking such risks for pigeons? Pigeons indeed. He’d had quite the discussion with his supervisor about the birds before he’d taken off from the airfield at Newmarket. Nobody at the Air Ministry thought messenger pigeons would win the war. Nobody. He’d heard the few pigeons that survived previous missions had flown back with hand-drawn cartoons and personal messages to family, but no hard, usable intelligence. Definitely not information that was worth his life or his crew’s, he’d decided. He shouted to one of the crewmen in the back. “Dump the cargo!” “But we don’t know where we are, sir!” he answered. “We’re turning around,” the pilot said, hands white as chalk gripping the yoke, “and I’m not taking those birds back up again! Dump the bloody things!” A barrage of enemy bullets punched holes in the wing. “Now!” he barked. The crewman pushed the pigeons out of the plane as the enemy fired—all fifty of them, individually packaged in tiny bird boxes with parachutes like agents of war. “Rest in peace, you poor little buggers,” he said as they spiraled toward their doom.
~~~
The story begins in 1944 and the German soldiers have invaded France. As is known, war brings nothing but misery for the citizens in a country--no matter which country it is... We meet the main characters--three sisters who have lost much and have been forced to become seamstresses in a little shop which barely provides for their needs... But it is now night and Gaby has heard noises in the house and hurried downstairs to discover what is happening. It was known widely that the German soldiers would often visit homes, taking anything and everything they wanted. But why had they picked this house? Perhaps they knew there were no men? She shivered at the possible ramifications...
When she discovered that it was only Martine, her sister, she felt both relief and disgust. Martine was just coming from the basement, she was dirty and was hesitant to explain what she was doing. She had to ask, "are you hiding a boy." which could really cause problems. But, no, that was not the case. Even as they stood there looking at each other, an outside noise made them stand rigidly, counting steps, trying to determine how many there were... Two were talking to their neighbor, who was a bossy, nosy French woman, and two were heading to their home...
Both of the sisters now worried, would they search the basement which, of course, had something to hide, even though Gaby didn't know what... And, of course, a search soon began, moving about, one plunking on the piano which Gaby greatly resented. But it was she who thought fast enough, telling them don't forget to check the closet, maybe they needed a coat? Interested in buying one? Explaining that they were seamstresses who used the old coats for patching others which were damaged and could not be replaced due to the rations...
But it was that late visit that was to begin confusion and turmoil for the women who now was seen as being able to provide something that, indeed, a German leader needed... He wanted her to teach his step-daughter how to play the piano!
It was wartime, and while everybody hated the invaders, there were those who were French who either willingly or not were forced to connect in some way with the invading troops. Good French refused. But if somebody was forced into it, they were seen as Bad French... Which could lead to problems in getting the rations that were due them. That was already a problem for the sisters who had, as a firm agreement by the three, chose to share rations with a mother who needed help given her son's health.
Gaby had tried to refuse to teach the little girl, but the Commandant knew of this arrangement and threatened to take it away if Gaby refused his request.
And what was in the basement? Why, it was a pigeon, a carrier pigeon in fact; and it had been thrown out of the plane, but saved by Martine... Of course, Simone's, a sister who was now home from sneaking out to meet her beau, plan was to eat him! But Martine knew that the pigeon was used to spy and was thinking about how to help that happen! And soon that pigeon was flying back to its home...
Bombing had occurred and Martine realized that it had hit where the map that had been attached to the pigeon had designated! The sisters pledged together, they would work with the pigeons whenever they came across one--or went out and captured those locked in by their neighbors--they would become spies!
A loss by Gaby had earlier forced her to reject her schooling, her future in music...But now Gaby was also forced to go to the home of the Commandant where she would teach... If she was seen going into his house, she would forever after be called a bad French...But even there, Gaby was caught in secrets when she realized that the little girl had already been taught in her former life, but is afraid to reveal that...
And as Gaby taught, they would in secret allow the little girl to play what she wanted--hiding when the Commandant was in the house, bound by running scales or picking out the notes one by one...
But now, Gaby was also seeking possible secrets that could be sent out via the pigeons...The sisters had been able to hide a small radio and waited for a message. Beethoven's 5th was the signal!
And among all that, a man fell in love--in love with a woman who had created such a beautiful piece of music that he could not help but fall deeply in love... For Gaby had once created the masterpiece and the music was now being used to prove her identity... and before the book ended, they were to meet! What a beautiful additional plot to the book! And, how I wished that there was really a creation on piano that was later named and published... Sadly, only the love it produced was to remain...
People's lives change during wartime. Not because they want to have them changed, but because, sometimes, those who seek power or those who are greedy or violent... bring it about...
It is impossible to read The Secret Pianist without thinking about what is happening across the world today. Hitler's leadership of the country was quite familiar to what we are watching each day... Putin for instance, a president of Russia who seeks power over more territory and decides to invade Ukraine...
Iran's Hamas attacks a music festival in Israel, but, is really unprepared for fighting against the power of Israel. However, the Prime Minister of Israel, who was already being pressured to vacate his position due to his desire for power, a willingness and seemingly desire for violence, no matter who may be killed... is going beyond what is necessary...
In the United States, under a former president who chose to use violence to stay in office also reflects how war can affect an entire country... when his followers attacked the nation's Capitol to try to stop finalization of the election!
Andie Newton, however, succeeds in centering in on just those who wish to stop the violence and are willing to work behind the scenes to make it happen. Many are doing that today. But Newton's novel, while difficult to read, knowing that people are being killed, starved, and more too horrible to mention, and there are so many mere citizens of a country affected, is a wonderful way to enter into history to see just how, exactly, ideas such as carrier pigeons, can be conceived which are able to stop and, hopefully, prevent a longer war than necessary. Her story is wonderfully developed within a devastating framework. The characters are wonderfully drawn, especially those who are participating as Spies (very hard to determine who is good and bad French) or as Traitors... And, of course, for me, using music as a central role throughout the book deserves Kudos for excellence by the author!
This historical novel has no actual scenes of violence. I can recommend it highly for those who, especially these days, want to learn more about how things can occur behind the scenes. The three sisters are delightful in their different personalities, yet who, through a difficult period, chose to maintain a sisters' promise to not act unless they all agreed. A difficult thing that rarely occurs, but which had to be accepted during such a time of devastation. Again, conceptually, this writer presented us with a novel that has much to share and much to think about! It is highly recommended!
Chapter 1 - ANOTHER BOYFRIEND PISSED off at me over a dead body. Or in this case, two dead bodies. The silence on the other end of the line confirms it. Snapping my cell phone shut, I swipe my keycard and hurry in the back door at the newspaper office. The smell of fresh pizza makes my stomach grumble as I pass the cafeteria, but there’s no time to eat. Deadline is looming. I forget about my limping love life—the clock is ticking. The paper goes to bed in three hours, so I’ve got to hustle. Entering the newsroom, a jolt of excitement surges through me. It’s that special friction, that palpable energy in the air that is always present close to deadline. Giant windows, black with night, reflect the bustling activity around me. A big-screen TV with its volume muted dominates one wall, and smaller TVs hang from the ceiling throughout the room, blaring local and national news. The room smells like burned broccoli and musty books but still manages to always feel like home. It’s where I’m meant to be. “Giovanni, you got seventeen inches,” my editor, Matt Kellogg, hollers. Nobody at the Bay Herald ever calls me Gabriella. In the news business, you are your last name. Luckily, I like mine. I want more space, but there’s no use arguing. He’s right. It’s sad, but it’s the same old story we’ve all seen before—big-living San Francisco businessman up to his Gucci eyeglasses in debt kills his wife, then turns the gun on himself. The momentum of the newsroom engulfs me, sending adrenaline soaring through my limbs. The space hums like a beehive. Deadline is the one time you can find nearly every metro reporter at a desk. Most are pounding the keyboard, flipping through notebooks, or talking on the phone, getting last-minute quotes for their stories. Our desks are in gray cubbies with low walls so we can see each other and the rest of the newsroom. I catch snippets of different conversations floating in the air. Our political reporter is losing patience with someone on the other end of the phone line. “Now come on. You know that’s a bunch of bullshit,” she says. “We’ve known each other for ten years, Jeff. You never once said it was off the record. You know the game. You know the rules. This isn’t amateur night here.” Across the room, the sports department erupts in cheers as an Oakland A’s batter hits a home run on the big screen. One of the investigative reporters slams down his phone, stands up, pumps his fists into the air, and yells to no one in particular, “Fuck yeah. Fuck yeah, you motherfucker. I knew I’d catch you in a lie. Now it’s going in the paper, you douche bag.” Nobody except the reporter right beside him even looks up. He only does so to scratch his chin. I keep walking. A veteran reporter lifts his head. “Thought you had a hot date.” We both like to cook, and I had tantalized him earlier with descriptions of the birthday dinner I was going to make for my boyfriend. “Murder-suicide,” I say. He nods and turns back to his computer. My teeth clench when I see May DuPont, the night police reporter, at the cop reporter’s station, two desks with a stack of police scanners between them. I try to straighten my skirt and smooth my hair before I get to my desk. It’s useless. It’s been a long day. I’ve already filed two stories for tomorrow’s paper—a car crash and a brush fire—and the traces of hiking after firefighters cling to me. My hair smells like smoke, and small bits of grass have adhered to my sandals. Each morning, I dress nice in an effort to create la bella figura, like my Italian mother taught me. But by the end of the day, this is what I’ve become—smelly, rumpled, and bedraggled. May, a waiflike twenty-four-year-old is—as usual—dressed in a Brooks Brothers shirt and crisp slacks. A getup she was probably born wearing. She’s an upper-crust heroin-chic girl—pretty much the opposite of me. My boyfriend, Brad, says Sophia Loren’s got nothing on my curves. It sounds great in theory, but the truth is even at my fighting weight, all that extra padding makes me feel like an elephant next to girls like May. I give her a cursory hello before I log onto my computer. “I’m writing a story you missed about a bank robbery,” she says without looking away from her computer screen. “The editors might put it on the front page. It was a take-on style.” “It’s called take-over,” I say. May’s fresh from her master’s program in journalism at Berkeley. The gossip in the newsroom is that her dad is sleeping with the executive editor, Susan Evans. I stare at the huge pearl studs in her ears. Every night, May manages to dig up some crime that slipped by me during my day shift, and she makes damn sure the editors know I missed it. She’s only been at the paper seven weeks, but I already get the feeling she thinks my job is the next rung on her ladder to success. Her job—the night cop reporter—is the lowest beat at any paper. I’ve been there. But I also put in the time to get where I am today—the day cops reporter. And it involved working long hours for near-poverty wages at several rinky-dink newspapers. I didn’t have the luxury of attending grad school, then being snatched up by a big daily paper because my dad’s screwing the editor. May’s mother is dead, and I’m sorry for that, but it doesn’t mean I’m going to hand over my job. She’s not the only one who’s had to deal with tragedy around here. “You have black stuff on your forehead,” she says, getting up and heading to the copy desk. Must be soot from the fire. I’m about to grab my compact mirror when something on the police scanner makes me pause. The crackle of the scanners switching from channel to channel is a comforting sound, like white noise, that usually fades into the background if it’s just routine radio traffic. This time, the officer’s high-pitched and out-of-breath voice calling in a felony traffic stop alerts me. The scanner frequency shows it’s Berkeley PD. Within a moment, the officer is calling Code 4—all clear—so I turn back to my computer. But then I hear something that makes my fingers freeze on the keyboard. “Rosarito PD says the girl’s eight years old. Mom says she never came home—” More routine traffic about the felony stop interrupts the dispatcher’s voice. My stomach is doing loop-de-loops as I lean over and try to see which department was talking about the girl. I punch in the frequency for Rosarito PD on the other scanner, but the channel is quiet. I dial the Rosarito Police Department watch commander—the sergeant on duty overnight while the main office is closed. No answer. He must be out on the streets patrolling, so I leave a message, saying I heard something about a girl who didn’t come home today. In my years as a reporter, every instance of a possible missing child has ended up being a misunder- standing. Most times the kid lost track of time or didn’t tell someone he wasn’t coming straight home. In the silver-framed photo hidden in my desk drawer, Caterina’s pink lips and dark eyes are surrounded by a halo of black hair. My sister looks solemn, wise, and beautiful, even though she’s only seven. I remember thinking she looked like a bride when I pulled myself up to look into her casket and saw her lying there in the lacy white first-communion dress and veil she never had a chance to wear. What I heard on the scanner made my face flush and my insides somersault, but I know it’s rare that a child is kidnapped and killed by a stranger. Every once in a while, I hear something like this on the scanner, and it ends up being nothing. I hope this little girl just forgot to call home. I make the sign of the cross, and May, sitting back down, gives me a snarky look. The clock shows it’s 9 P.M. I’m running out of time. I got the basic details about the murder-suicide at the press conference earlier except for the identities of the dead. A source at the morgue slipped me the names, but I’m going to have to get one more off-the-record confirmation before Kellogg will let me run with them. I dial homicide detective Lt. Michael Moretti and speak fast before he can protest, reeling off the two names I have. “If I print them, will I be wrong?” “You were at the press conference. You heard me. We’re not releasing the names. Sorry, kiddo.” At twenty-eight, I’m too old to be his daughter, but he always calls me that. Moretti and I bonded a long time ago on the Italian-American thing, but his blood pumps blue. He’s been a cop longer than he hasn’t. It took years for him to believe me when I said I’d go to jail rather than give him up as a source. “I don’t need you to tell me the names.” I try to sound as logical as possible. “I just need to verify them. Besides, you know the Trib is going to run the names.” I cringed earlier when I saw a reporter from the San Francisco Tribune at the crime scene. When the bigger paper swoops into our territory and scoops us, my editors don’t like it. I hate it. Moretti makes a guttural sound. “Did you see those gray hairs on my head tonight? About ten are from you. Don’t you have anyone else you can pester?” I do. I have some crack sources—cops who call me, and say, “Hey, there’s a dead body in Civic Park, try not to beat the homicide detectives there.” But this is Moretti’s case. “Another cop already gave it up,” I say to convince him. “I just need confirmation. How about this? If I have the names right, don’t say anything.” Silence. I wait a few beats, twirling the phone cord around my fingers. “Okay, I’m going with it,” I say, bright and cheery. “Thanks. Anything else going on tonight? Heard something about Rosarito.” He takes a minute to answer. “You didn’t hear this from me.” “I know, I know.” I roll my eyes even though he can’t see me. “An eight-year-old Rosarito girl didn’t make it to school today —” “What?” My stomach gurgles and churns. Sweet Jesus, if Moretti knows about it, this might be the real thing. “She hasn’t even been gone twenty-four hours. Too early to say if it’s legit or not. Rosarito PD hasn’t issued an AMBER Alert. They’re waiting to find out if she turns up at grandma’s or a classmate’s house.” He’s right. It’s probably nothing. But dark memories overwhelm me. I do some deep breathing to try to relax, but my heart is racing. I’ve avoided a story like this so far. I don’t know if I’m ready. I don’t know if I will ever be ready. “Listen, gotta go,” Moretti says. “Remember, you and I didn’t talk tonight. Omerta.” “Very funny,” I say, but he’s already disconnected. Omerta, an Italian word, refers to the Mafia’s code of silence. I hang up and dial Kellogg. “Rosarito cops might have a missing kid.” “Yeah?” He sounds interested. “You got this confirmed?” “Not yet. Working on it.” “Get it nailed down.” I have no sources in the Rosarito Police Department. Because the city lies on the periphery of our paper’s coverage area, we only report unusual or high-profile crimes that occur there. The watch commander hasn’t called me back, so I punch in the number of the department’s public-information officer. She works banker’s hours, but if a child is missing, she might be there. No answer. I dig up an old file of Rosarito cop numbers and find a main number for investigations. Nothing. Only voice mail. Then I try an old reporter’s trick and start dialing numbers, each time changing the last digit of the main number. It works. Although no one picks up, I leave messages for six detectives. I try the watch commander’s line one more time, then call 911 dispatchers in Rosarito to ask if they can track him down. The dispatcher is in a good mood. “Sure, I’ll send the sergeant a message for you,” he says. With an eye on the clock, which is nearing ten, I dial Kellogg. “I can’t get anyone from Rosarito to confirm a missing kid. Can’t we go with it anyway, citing an anonymous source? My source is solid.” “No can do. Evans would kick up a shitstorm.” Kellogg used to be ballsy. He never cared what senior editors would think or say. That is, until Susan Evans was hired as executive editor two years ago. I heard he was up for the job, but they hired her instead. Ever since, he’s been walking around mopey and fearful like a puppy that was kicked. I miss the old Kellogg. “It’s late,” he says. “I needed your story half an hour ago. Get cracking, Giovanni. You can track down the missing kid—if there is one—tomorrow.” He’s right about one thing—it’s past deadline. I stare at the blank screen and try to figure out a lead. If you don’t draw a reader in with that first sentence, you’ve lost him. Editors have drummed this into my head for years. I’ve trained myself to come up with a lead driving back to the office on deadline, but tonight my mind kept wandering to Brad eating his birthday dinner alone. And now, in the back of my mind, much further back than I’m willing to go right now, a little girl’s familiar face peers out at me. I shake the image off and try to concentrate. May’s voice beside me makes it even harder. “Oh, stop it,” she says. She laughs and fiddles with her silky scarf. “I do not. I’m usually in bed by then. Let me know if you make an arrest tonight. I would love to put it in the paper with your name as the arresting officer. Talk to you soon.” I close my eyes and tune out her girlish giggle, thinking about the man who killed himself and his wife tonight. And even though it would kick my story to the front page, I leave out the most salient detail about the slaying—the man was wearing nothing but lipstick and high heels when he offed his wife. My morgue source slipped me this sensational little morsel. Although I know I’ll get in trouble with the editors if I leave it out, and the Trib has it, I can’t do it. As soon as I found out the couple had small children, I knew I wouldn’t print it. Those kids are going to have enough to deal with as it is. I try to imagine the wife’s last moments of terror. The details of her frantic 911 call revealed she was hiding from her husband in a closet. I’m sure she prayed the police would show up and save her, like in the movies. One thing I’ve learned is that the world is rarely like what you see on the silver screen. The most outlandish and nightmarish stories are the ones that happen in real life. I file the story in the editing queue and hope I’ve scooped the Tribune on the murder-suicide story, especially by getting the names confirmed. Tomorrow, I’ll try to find out more about the couple for a follow-up story. When I became a police reporter, I decided that every single person I wrote about deserved more than just their name in the paper when they died. Every time I sit down with a family who has lost a loved one, I give a shit. And they can tell. The shitty part is that I feel like a fraud. Maybe because I’m forging a relationship that is not real. Maybe it’s something else. Even though I really do care—it still boils down to my trying to get a scoop and a front-page story. Sometimes I wonder why anyone grieving would ever talk to someone like me. Maybe they sense the darkness I keep hidden deep inside. Maybe there is something in my eyes that shows I’ve already been to hell and back. I sit on their couches and take notes as they cry into tissues and flip through photo albums of the loved one they lost, sharing intimate memories with me—a stranger. Before packing up, I make one last call to the Rosarito watch commander. He doesn’t answer. I grab my sweater and bag. Before I leave, I force myself to turn to May, who looks at me with a little smirk. Seeing her smarmy look makes me hesitate. Although the thought of writing about a missing child sends waves of panic through me, I also don’t want May to get a scoop based on a tip from my sources. Unfortunately, I know I need to cover my ass with the editors by giving her a heads-up. “Keep an ear out for a missing kid in Rosarito.” “Another story you missed?” I stop and narrow my eyes at her. “It’s a tip. From a source. Do you know what those are? They’re what you get when you prove yourself. They take years to develop, so maybe someday you’ll get your own source. Or maybe not. Cops don’t trust just anybody.” And I don’t trust May as far as I can toss her little waiflike body. The first week she was here, she “forgot” to give me a press release I’d been waiting for all day about a big drug bust by the DEA. It was the final piece I needed to top a story I’d been working on all week. After I left, she wrote up the information from the press release and put her byline on the story instead of mine. When I confronted her, she lied about when the press release had come over the fax. My source later told me he’d sent it earlier in the day, and the time stamp on the release backed him up. When I complained to Kellogg, he simply shrugged and changed the subject. Tonight, I stare at May for a few seconds and walk away before I completely lose it. I hover nearby as Kellogg reads my story. Kellogg’s six-foot-tall body is scrunched into his cubicle, like a giant brown teddy bear among the dolls at a child’s tea party. I stand beside his desk staring at the pictures taped to the fabric wall of his cubicle: school photos of his two sons, who live with their mother. They go to some fancy private school in Marin County. His ex manages to squeeze every penny she can out of Kellogg, claiming she needs it for the kids. He sleeps on the couch in his one-bedroom apartment to make sure his boys feel like they have their own bedroom at his place. I wait, shifting from foot to foot. Finally, he’s done. “Looks fine. No questions.” I turn to leave, but he stops me. “You couldn’t get the missing kid confirmed?” I shake my head no. When I see the concerned look in his eyes, I wait, wondering if he has something else to say. But he immediately turns to his black-and-green screen. He’s onto editing another story. An odd mixture of frustration and relief flutters through me as I walk to my car. Although I want to avoid writing about a missing kid, my failure tonight amounts to my missing a scoop on what could potentially be a huge story on my beat. And underneath all those emotions, there is also a tiny flicker of worry gnawing at me when I remember the look in Kellogg’s eyes.
~~~
BLESSED ARE THE DEAD
By Kristi Belcamino
ISBN: 9780062338914
Released, June 2014 by
William Morrow
Gabriella Giovanni is a young reporter on the West Coast. She’s assigned to the Crime Beat at her workplace, a medium-sized daily newspaper in the California Bay area. Her time is mostly spent chasing law enforcement calls and trying to get background and context from distraught citizens who have just experienced a major calamity. What her editor and others around her don’t know is that she is driven by a calamitous similar event earlier in her own life. Part of her job, while fending off at least one other reporter who wants her position at the newspaper, is to do careful background on the perpetrators of some heinous crimes. Her fragmented career is also playing havoc with relations with her boyfriend. It's apparent that author Belcamino knows the landscape in which her protagonist operates. As the novel progresses and Giovanni begins a deeper dive into the background of a man who is probably a serial killer, we begin to see tendrils of the reporter’s back story and possible connections with some of her reporting targets, The story plays on family and other relationships with skill and logic. The writing is excellent and moves the reader forward through events with precision and heightening tension. The character are well-defined and nicely developed. Giovanni’s growing intimacy with a jailed felon, core of the story, is carefully handled so as to gradually entrap the reader. The Bay Area descriptions are well-placed and serve to enhance the power of the emotional story. Ultimately, family elements, the pressures of the job, and the power of the incarcerated killer, come together in an overlong but powerful and satisfying climax. The careful talents of this author are on prominent display and I look forward to reading the next book in her series.
Good morning
Thank you.
It's raining and will all day. Cleansing the earth. It's cold again. I'll be 69 in a few months.
"Age is matter over mind,
but I don't mind because it don't matter."
A lifetime of experiences mirror in my mind. All the heartaches, all the good times, all the people I've met and known.
When I wrote The Elder, it was to bring attention to how they get ignored when they can't get around or out. How they have to swallow their pride and dignity to ask for help. How no one calls or visits to check in on them. When I hear people say, 'We honor our elders, it's just a crock of bull. The young don't realize elders, not so much older people, but elders, have libraries of knowledge with them.*
They have much they want to share and pass down. Ask them if they need any help.
Let this day begin. Let's unwrap this gift. Have a blessed day and with much healing. Jeewi Jeewi Jeewi Yes! Yes! Yes!
~~~
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Monolin “Manny” Moreno is of Yaqui-Tarascan descent and an Enrolled Member, of the State Recognized Tribal Group of Texas Band of Yaqui Indians. His Yaqui Ancestry records date back to the late 1600’s. He has four books published: The Bridge is Gone, poetry, and The Elder: A Tribute, remembrance of elders Harry Jack and Barry Beaver Turner--both published by Back40 Publishing, and his book of poems, Longview Road, Sam Aros and son published. His fourth book is Scared – Coming Full Circle published by Eaglespeaker Publishing. It is under revision to be published under new title Scared – The Healing. • Manny’s poems are about the beauty and heartache of growing up in rural Livingston, where his grandparents settled in the early 1900s, and about his rough and crazy decades in Stockton. Readers have admired the plain language, emotional power, and honesty of Moreno’s verse. His poems have appeared in Song of the San Joaquin, Hincha Poesia and Whispering Thunder. He was nominated for the Pushcart Award in 2011 and was Poet of the Month for Moon Tide Press in June 2012. • Moreno is a Sundancer and member of the Black Wolf Honor Society Gourd Clan and Native American Church. He has appeared on Native Voice TV in Santa Clara, KKUP Indian Time Radio in Cupertino and on Channel Ten for Native American Month. Manny has lectured and read his poems in many venues, most recently at Modesto Junior College (Modesto), and the Haggin Museum and Mexican Cultural Center (Stockton).
Manny's newest book, Santa Nella Blues is Created with support and funding from: The Heartland Creative Corps, California Arts Council, Merced United Way, and the Merced County Art Council.
*I was looking for a little bit of music to include with this post. Instead I found this:
I don't need to know more about the situation other than to reread Manny's words above... Here is supposedly a learned group of speakers, who, when done, had a responder. You can tell he is an elder and is well versed in what he is saying... Yet a speaker interrupts. When the elder said he had the floor, he was ignored...well, you can form your own opinions... It is quite clear to all who the childish words were coming from. When we are not allowed to speak as those in older years, we stop sharing our wisdom. When we are told our words are not valid, we stop arguing and know that this individual has closed ears. Manny is my adopted brother. We have bonded over many years, during which I have listened to his words. And I've heard his wisdom, his truth. I agree. Especially now, Citizens of America are no longer being heard... It is, indeed, a crock of bull. And we must use our words to let our anger be known!
Jesus said that What you do unto the least of these, you do to Me... Have you ever done one thing to help an elder who is NOT related to you? Tell us about it in comments!
Manny is loved and respected across the Nation...
But That Doesn't Buy Bread...
So How Many Have Read His Words of Wisdom...
His earlier books are always available for sale.
Consider Listening to His Wisdom...
Manny Writes to Live. He is Tired... But Keeps on Writing to Live...
How Much Are You Willing to Do Unto Others in Need? He is Embarrassed to Ask for Help
I Ask For HIM!
I've Adopted Manny and Help Him as Much As I Can
In fact, instead of helping all these politicians begging for money, I chose to give it to Manny Instead...
Books, His Art, or Money for Essentials...
Please remember those who, if He were Here,
Jesus Would Produce a Miracle and Feed Manny!
Provide that Miracle for an Elder Today!
"I have to sell books. My Art. Everything is so expensive now. our gas over 5 a gallon. food is outrageous. It is harder at my age to make it with just my social security. forced to find ways to live without all this stress and anxiety. God be with us..."
Always be a first-rate version of yourself, instead of a second-rate version of somebody else
--Judy Garland
Henrietta Hedgehog rolled into a tight ball under her quilt. She didn't want to go to school today. Mama Hedgehog stood in the doorway. "Henrietta, stop trying to hide! You are late."
Mrs. Shrew will be mad if I am late," she said with a sniff. "I don't want to go to school." A big fat tear slid down her cheek. "What happened? I thought you loved school!" Mama said.
"I do love school, Mama. It's just...just... I hate being a hedgehog." "You hate being a hedgehog! That's... that's..." Mama sat on the edge of the bed. "Why?" The other kids make fun of me. They say my spines are scary!" Mama Hedgehog wiped Henrietta's tears away. "They're not scary. You have beautiful quills."
Henrietta looked at herself in the mirror. "I don't know about that, Mama. The kids won't sit close to me because they say they're very sharp. I wish I had a busy tail like a squirrel or soft fur like a ferret. Anything but these pesky things," she sighed. Mama frowned.
Henrietta waited for Mama to leave and then took a paper bag from under her pillow. She shoved it into her backpack...
~~~
I've been reading the children's books written by Carole P. Roman for over a decade... and I enjoy each one! In this time when we are even more involved with children and what affects them in school, church, or even at home, it is important to gently but specifically talk about things that bother all of us, from grade school to adult!
Using animal characters often helps to take the child out of this world into a make-believe world where things that make us different in America, can be explored without pinpointing the real differences. In the case of bullying, this may be especially important. I don't think this book is about bullying per se, rather it is a book about getting to know and liking--and loving--ourselves, no matter what we look like...
The minor twist used by Carole in identifying the issue facing Henrietta Hedgehog's prickly problem, was perfect... You see, Henrietta was not liking who she was--a hedgehog that had quills on her body, which, at certain times, would help her against any enemy that might attack another. She knew that if somebody got too close to her, though, they could be hurt, even if she didn't mean to hurt anybody!
What to Do? Henrietta wanted to just not go to school. But her mother wouldn't allow that. So, thinking about those she knew in her class, she remembered that Bella Beaver was somebody she thought looked nice, so she made a mask to wear that made her look just like Bella...
But when she got to school, Bella took one look and thought that Henrietta was making fun of her front teeth, which were Bella's prickly problem for seeing herself as needing to change... Wow! Henrietta soon realized that everybody had something that they didn't like about themselves...and that the others still were willing to be...a prickly hedgehog, a beaver who didn't like her front teeth, a squirrel who doesn't like his "squeaking" voice...and many others who came to talk to Henrietta and tell her that they still liked her, even with her quills!
How about you? Is there anything that you don't like about yourself? Well, think about it and be open to talk about your problem with your mother, or even your teacher... Sometimes, you'll find that the problem you have really isn't prickly at all!
Now I know that some will ask the question; don’t the people need to know not to do wrong and that God doesn’t want them to do evil? Respectfully, I would say, if people don’t know by now the difference between doing right and doing wrong, then centuries of brow beating them has been to no avail; and if continued, will only drag them down deeper and deeper in the pit of despair and condemnation. If men and women have not learned by now to ask God for forgiveness when they have erred or sinned in some way, then we are beating a dead horse.
Before most people come to church, whatever has caused them personal wounds in conscience has already been addressed privately between themselves and God. They don’t need to be reminded again and again of their errors and mistakes. They usually come to church for comfort and encouragement and for ways of faith and hope for the many problems and concerns of their personal lives and the lives of their loved ones. Some people have beaten themselves up so badly and of course our prime enemy, (you know who that is) has joined in with his accusations as well; that they are so wounded in conscience that they can hardly hold their heads up. Then they go to church and hear negative sermon after negative sermon which only discourages them more. They have been to the whipping post again and again. This is why so many christian people are miserable and are just trying to keep a stiff upper lip to the world around them.
The better way seems to be the positive way. For example, lets use a current comparison: Which parents do the best job of raising their children; those who raise them in a negative environment or those who raise them in a positive environment? Which children are the happiest; those who are always being rebuked and criticized, or those who are being encouraged and guided with kindness? The facts indicate that the most insecure, unhappy and depressed children come from home environments where love is lowest in its expression, and anger and chastisement are at its highest.
This is also analogous to the two basic kinds of church environments.
One environment is always emphasizing the negative passages in the bible and
another one is emphasizing the positive passages in the bible.*
Am I saying that we should never emphasize any negative passages in the bible? Of course not, but if this is the steady diet being given to congregations of believers, it is certain that they will be downcast and discouraged most of the time.
They will barely be able to remember that they are not under the law, but under grace.
The wounds of the last sermon they heard will have barely begun to heal before the wounds are opened again by a new series of sermons that are just as condemnatory as the last sermon they heard.
It is a fact that the spirit of the new testament message is more kindly toward human failure than that of the Old Testament.
When the Pharisees brought the women caught in adultery before Jesus, they immediately referred him to an old testament command. It was commanded by Moses that such women should be stoned.
Jesus knew that was true, but he refused to apply it to the woman before him, he rather turned the issue back to those who caught the women in her personal transgression, and told them that whoever of them was without sin, let him throw the first stone. Silence fell upon the gathering and forgiveness was given to the woman.
If we linger on verses that are full of condemnation and rebuke, we will miss the wonder of the new covenant, and forget the fact that we are not under the law, but under grace.
Here is a poem that I wrote which highlights these thoughts. I wrote the poem because I feel there is too much doctrine, and not enough love.
Too Much Doctrine
We look for the worst,
Too quick to call one accursed,
The scripture says, we begin,
And immediately harp about one’s sin.
A verse here, a verse there,
And inevitably we create another scare,
We are so ready to pick up stones,
Feeling justified, blind to our wrongs,
We rebuke, we condemn, and flat out condescend,
We are righteous and not of their kin,
How strong we are in our creeds,
How weak we are in meeting another’s needs,
We forget how far from Him we once were,
So now compassion for others is not even a stir,
We show the hard side of God,
Ever unleashing the fierce lightening rod,
We quote it and say, He wrote it,
And we must be faithful and tell it,
Yet buried behind this wall of defense
Is what God has also said since,
If God is love and condemnation is past
Because of a sacrifice that will forever last,
Why can’t we lighten up on other men’s sin
If we would ever their trust to win
And show once again the God of all grace,
Who put everything on the line
to save the human race
--Thurman L Faison
*My Emphasis
Isn't it wonderful when you find somebody who thinks the same as you do? Surely there are many on earth that might, but you don't know it, or ever learn of their opinions. At this time in my life, it has become even more important for me... Many of you know that I've been upset regarding how religion, and in particular, christianity has become a part of the political scene, much more than ever before... I was unable to accept that all that was happening was in God's plan... Yet, when you do begin to doubt, in my opinion, you must also consider that you may not be speaking Truth. That you feel you need confirmation. Thurman Faison provided that for me in Be Spiritually Bold!
The book reads like a sermon in many ways. Of course, Faison is a pastor, so that is a natural way of speaking for him. But it is clear that he has done much thinking about what he says, before he says it. So that when Faison tells you to Be Spiritually Bold, he has learned exactly what that meant--before he tells others!
No, this book is not politically oriented. What it is is a book that tells it like it is...as he has found in his own life. Pointing out that many find it hard to approach God, yet Faison says that is exactly what God wants!
when we dare think of being bold in our approach to God a flood of emotions enters our mind; fear, uncertainty, and that startling voice from our deeper human consciousness which asks the question, “who do you think you are?” There’s the problem: Who do we think we are? I believe the answer to that question begins to unfold when we remember where we came from.
While that is an excerpt from the book, it meant to me a little different that how many people would read the question, "Who do you think you are?" In fact, I had said it to an individual within the past year... After she had accused me of back-stabbing her... I was so shocked, that, for me, I believe it was the first time ever that I had asked that question. Of Anybody? We wonder, especially now in America, how and why people are turning against others in anger, in distrust. I included. Trust has become a problem for me as I grow older.
But my Trust in God has never faltered. I think that is somewhat based upon my human father having been killed while my mother was carrying me. Not having a father for any type of male support, it was natural for me, when I heard about The Holy Trinity, to quickly understand my role with that concept. God was My Father, Jesus, His Son, was My Friend... and they supernaturally talked to me through His Spirit which resided within me.
I cannot say that I haven't turned away from God a few times during my life; i.e., I didn't want to hear His words, because I knew what they would be. But I always knew that He would not abandon me. I was made in His image and I was His child...
As mentioned in the preface, and supported by the scriptures, we are made in “the image of God.” We are like him. We are also identified in the scriptures as, “the offspring of God,” that is why when we pray, we often say, “Our Father.” We came from him, and we are ‘like him’. Although our lives have been marred by many personal failures and much wrong doing, the fact remains that our being and God’s being are eternally related. Therefore we have the right to approach God, to speak to him and even expect him to respond to our cry.
It is reassuring to know that we alone determine how we will approach God, and with what words we shall express our expectations. No one had ever approached God in exactly the same way with exactly the same words as Elisha. But God honored his request and his faith...
Jesus spotlighted this dimension of faith when he said: “verily I say unto you, that whosoever shall say unto this mountain, be thou removed and be thou cast into the sea; and shall not doubt in his heart, but shall believe that those things which he saith shall come to pass; he shall have whatsoever he saith.” Notice the words, whosoever and whatsoever. There are no restrictions on who may accomplish these things, nor what things can be made to happen. Now I know we are in deep water now, but since Jesus said it, we should not be afraid to repeat it. Not only should we repeat it, we should seek to prove for ourselves the truth of what he has said. That is really what Elisha was doing when, “he smote the waters.” He was seeking to prove for himself the divine possibilities of the use of faith and spiritual authority. Now I know someone reading these words will say; I am not Elisha! No, you are not Elisha, but you are as Jesus said – whosoever. Just to hopefully make this a little clearer, remember, we started this chapter with an emphasis on ‘spiritual succession.’ We talked about someone following another and expecting to have the same authority and power that his predecessor had while he occupied that position. The successor would expect to use his authority and expect no less recognition of that authority when he stepped into the same role. He would look for things to happen for him as had happened for the other. Before completing this chapter, I would like for us to remember that Jesus also said of his followers: “the works that I do shall he do also, and greater works than these shall he do.” Now he said that; and I am only repeating it to bring back to our minds that there is so much more for us to reach for in this thing called spiritual succession.
Faison is talking about the prophet Elisha as he writes (or speaks), but for me, most sermons I heard throughout my life were words from God, presented through another child of God. As a young Christian, I was reading many different books, including The Living Bible which was the Bible I used most at that time. So it was quite easy for me to consider attending a Full Gospel meeting when I was invited, and was anointed, speaking a few words in tongues. Later, as I've shared, it was through another book, Something More, that He poured His love over and through me, taking the step of being baptized in His Holy Spirit.
Later I was to learn that my bold step was being questioned by some. Comments like God doesn't give His gifts any more... or even, probably, Who Does She Think She Is--to claim such a thing happened to her? I share this in the context of this book, because, for whatever reasons, I've been spiritually bold since my early teens--I've been open to God in all ways, maybe not at all times, but deep inside I've always known that God would always take care of me... Many of my chosen songs reflect that willingness to open up to Him.
T he key point that needs to be made from reading this book... We are His Children! And because of that we must, yes, we must, recognize that role as His Child and turn to Him for All That He Has To Give Us! And, in being willing to look boldly toward Him, we can do all things through Him!
Faison goes into reasons why we may not look boldly... Yet... He meets each of us where we are. Just like Jesus does... He is our friend. We can talk to Him about anything and everything. Much more than with anybody else, I have found! Because we can always trust that He loves Us and Wants Us to Know that First...
And then, readers will be introduced into the supernatural aspect of God... What does that mean? Well, remember the story about moving mountains? Do we have the faith to move mountains?
I've shared that I've always had the boldness. but I've been limited, at times, in my faith... Right now, for instance, I've claimed that the 2024 Election for America will be what I think should happen... I've claimed it, I have faith... But is it enough? After all, millions of others have just as much right to be wanting a specific outcome. I know that, perhaps, is not a good example because the impact depends upon my being right--that God is NOT a God of Violence and those of us who seek the future of God in all of His Power and Glory, do not accept that going backwards in our religious lives can be the right way... Nevertheless, I'm claiming that in God's Name, Here in Public. In Faith I Boldly Seek God's Truth and God's Love to rein across the world. I claim that authoritarian leaders who have no empathy for people will not win, that guns will be controlled, that wars will cease. Will you join with me in Boldness and in Faith that God's Love and Truth Will Win in the 2024 Election?!
I wanted you all to know what happened... after I wrote this last paragraph. I was looking for the song Sweet Sweet Spirit, but nothing sounded right... Then I heard His Spirit speak one Word. Promises... I immediately placed it in search--I had not heard the two following songs before... Was this my second confirmation?
I just want to close out this post. This book spoke to me. I believe it will speak to you, if you allow it. I believe Thurman L. Faison speaks of the love of Jesus and this book will help you find his promises... For You...
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