On the day after Naomi’s birth, I wrote her a letter for when she is older and ready to understand the battles fought for her. I wrote her the story of what had transpired since she’d been conceived. I told her of the war which had waged over her before she’d taken her first breath. The things I wrote to her shine light on the darkness of my Family’s past, the reasons she is so important, and the power of free will. It is a letter I pray many fathers, mothers, brothers, and sisters would someday write to their Family members.
These are letters, which speak The Secrets – those hidden horrors – that are forbidden to say. 
For those who surrender their lives to our true Father Yahweh, His Name is a strong tower that the righteous can run to and be saved. I was not an upright man the day I ran to His tower and called upon His Name. I was a man whose hands had shed so much blood; blackmail and brutality were the currency of my past. I was a man who had lied, stolen, manipulated, coerced, cursed and coveted.
The murderers hammer was in my hand, and the bodies had piled so high. If ever there was a man who deserved the executioner’s chair, it was I. I felt the weight of survivor’s guilt for the killings committed in front of me that I could not stop, and I felt the torment of seeing children abused with no one to bring the perpetrators to justice. I was a man on fire looking for someone who would quench my flames.
The Family woman who saw me kill her husband before I’d gone to middle school can attest to this. The one who screamed out after me “Murderer!” haunted my dreams for nearly twenty years. The names, the faces, the places of pain, misery, and death clung to the fabric of my being and I could not bear to stand amidst the hurt. The others who saw me fight to the death in “the pit” know the monster I was. They saw what I would become when they would put the dagger in my hand. They saw the rage come boil over and unleash its fury on men and whatever else they put in my path. They had seen my two faces; the brilliant birthmark I bear when I brought forth death. I could not quench the fires of hatred. The cauldrons of chaos would fire bricks of bitterness that built my tower of rebellion.
I was broken beyond belief. I had no sense of normal; morality and free choice were a luxury for the masses, not children who witnessed ritualistic torture before they went to first grade. I could not know peace and I could not understand and receive love. I was the salted, scorched earth left behind by conquering armies on their way to pillage a distant land. I was ruined.
When I was 19, I wrote the Hebrew equivalent of Ruined on my left wrist with a permanent marker every single day for more than a year. There was no mystery about it, I knew I was a ravaged ruinous heap of a shattered soul. I looked in the mirror and saw a monster staring back at me. I saw the blood running down my face and caked on my cheeks. I scrubbed my hands till they cracked, trying to wash it all away. There weren’t enough people for me to destroy to satisfy the need to avenge the children my Family pillaged. How could I quench the bitterness, the hatred, and the rage?
I screamed in the quiet of the night questions no man can hope to answer.
“God, would you still save me? Would You choose to love me? Would You choose to forgive me? Would you let me choose another way?”
I wondered if I was even worth saving. Who would want to rebuild my ruins? My soul was a desolate wasteland full of the broken pieces of my desecrated heart. Who could bear the torment of my sorrows? Who could hold the horrors of my past?
I had to look no further than the perverse version of a baby book my mother had given me before I left to college to know the abusive pictures in my past were waiting to destroy my peace. Remembering was a death of its own; to remember was to bear the burdens of hundreds of lives snuffed out of existence.
How I wept. I wept for months. I sobbed tears of grief, of misery and of sorrow that only orphans, widows, or soldiers who’ve felt the beating pulse of their best friend quiet down to nothing as their soul breathes its last can know. Those who have witnessed the violent taking of life by death know of the horrors I have seen.
I could not bear to remember; it was too much for someone to handle and live. And yet I couldn’t manage to forget. I decided instead to make them matter; I chose not to let them go to waste. I would not allow the fear of remembering, the fear of telling, and the repercussions to hold me back. Though it once brought me their beatings, the shackles, and soul-wrenching betrayal, I chose to put my pen to the paper still and I wrote their names, both the ones I knew and some who I’d forgotten.
I wrote their faces, their places of perishing where bodies were dumped into inky waters, and others burned in Family owned or Brotherhood controlled crematoriums. I wrote the most dangerous of words, willing to prove to the man in the mirror that my weakest pen strokes would be mightier than my bloodstained blades.
To write the words was to step into hell. I have tasted the ash of death for breakfast; it clung under my fingernails and scorched my brows. I was born in the black fires of fury, which heat the Kingdom of The Wicked One. I chose to no longer live in the inner circles of murder and instead I became a traitor to The Dark Prince. I left darkness and ran to The Light of Hope.
I did not come before The King empty handed: I brought Him My Lists – those places and faces of horrors to The Redeemer’s feet. I brought my grief as an offering; I brought my guilt and the hurt and the hatred. I brought the anger and betrayal. To The Sinless One, I brought a hundred lifetimes of sin. I brought Him the molestations, sorrow, and despair. I brought Him the worst this world had to offer and I offered Him myself. I brought The God of Light the detestable things done in darkness. I brought Him Who is Worthy my lack, my fears, my hatred, and death.
I brought Him all I had. He asked me to, and I obeyed. I chose to surrender all of myself to Him. I trusted He alone could redeem this death for life. There is only One who can take a monster and make him a man again. I no longer fear Death whose harbinger and slave I had been. Now I choose to fear The Only One who can throw my body and soul into eternal flame or free me forever. Because of that, I will lay down my life for Him and for all who are willing to chase freedom and forsake their fears.
Hear me now. Pay close attention to what I am going to say to you. I am willing to suffer the scourge of this world, the shackles, the mocking, the character assassinations, the accusations, all of it. I will take their bullets, beatings, and blades. I will endure their poisons, curses, and hate. I have suffered these time and again; the blood of my body has been spilled to the point of death more than once. I do not fear but I do respect the retribution of men, demons, or the masters they serve. I will gladly bear this all if only one child, one precious soul, is spared a life like mine.
If one man reads these words and chooses not to make his son pass through the inky flames, all the horrors of my life and even the retributions to come are worth it. I would go through every bit of the starvation, the poverty, the dirty glares, and the fleeing of my friends and family to know that a daughter slept in peace, knowing her abusers would not come for her ever again. Each burning stick snatched from the flames is worth a lifetime of chaos. I would gladly suffer it all because I know I will never have to endure it alone.
No matter what is done to me no one, no power on this earth, no power beneath or above its surface can take the hope of salvation burning in my chest. I am an adopted son of The Living and Holy God. He chose even me. He loves even me, the man of fire, of fury, of hatred, and of death. He loved me even as I was, not what I would be but as I was. On the darkest of days when I was strapped to their chairs as they defiled me, desecrated my soul with devils, guilt, shame, and misery. At the moment when I was downing a handful of pills desperate to bury the nightmares and loss, He still chose to deliver me. He loved even the boy who ran from a Familial estate with the blood of a man staining his dagger filled hands and his widow screaming “Murderer!”
No amount of pain and suffering I have endured can compare to the hope that is set before me. I do not have to wonder if He will strengthen me as I pick up the mutilated stake of persecution that so many others have borne. I know the pains of crucifixion; I have held the purpose forged hammer and heard their agonizing screams. I have faced down despair whose icy hands grab your ankles and pull you into the depths of hell. I have screamed till my throat tore with the pain of memories unspeakable. And yet none of it, none of it could compare to the joy and hope now beating in my chest.
It is because He would not leave me helpless but sent me The Comforter who strengthened me and brought to mind The Truth of Yeshua The Messiah. He willingly suffered the painful punishment and death we all deserved so that we might have His life instead. It is the most significant exchange ever written, spoken, or dreamed of. It is the One who is perfect becoming our devilish defects – our bloodshed, hatred, and death – that we might know the abundance of riches in store for the children of Yahweh.
It is because He now lives in me that I will rush the gates of Hell and face down people possessed by the legions of The Dark Prince standing between the souls crying out for salvation and me. I will not fear their death for I live to seek and save the lost, to snatch those burning sticks from the fires. I am not afraid of the familiar darkness for I was born in it. I was birthed into the Kingdom of Fear, but I have been born again into The Kingdom of Faith. I am not afraid of their rituals, their blackmail, their torture, or their threats. I fear El Shaddai, The Lord Our Righteousness, and The Judge of us all.
My love for Him burned away the fears of persecution, rejection, and abandonment. Now I will walk into the coliseum of public opinion and say, “These are the words of my testimony.” I will speak them no matter what they say or what they do; no matter The Order or The Family’s retribution may be.
These words are for those who fear the night, who were born of the Black Sun, who feel the dread of the solstices as they approach. They are for the ones who drank the “wine” of the skull and spit on the Word, who were made to bear witness to the oaths, the Summonings and sending’s, and for the ones who’ve never known they were loved.
I write to the precious sons and daughters who have never known safety, peace, and hope, and to the children of the fallen who believed they too are cursed and unable to be redeemed. I also have mingled with the ancient ones, gladly accepting the genetic enhancements so few can imagine as real. The shining one’s seed has burned my soul, and The Grigori’s blood has tainted my own. To you who know The Secrets, I speak these words for you. You who see The Serpent’s Seed in your blood, you children of Belial, you are not accursed, you are not anathema, you are loved, you are treasured. Listen to me: you are adored, and the purpose of your birth was not what they told you. Your purpose is to become part of the living, active Body of Messiah, which will stand tall amidst the greatest threats the world has ever faced.
But more than all these things, know this: you are needed. You were not born for death, for the johns who pay you in white powder, Adrenochrome, corporate contracts, king’s ransoms, or five-dollar bills. You were born with a greater purpose than you can imagine. The shackles on your wrists are not to keep you bound on their tables, beds, and chairs; they exist because you were made to set people free. The chains of your addictions and your lusts are to keep you from knowing you were made to breathe hope into the despairing lungs of vagabonds, outcasts, and misfits. The jewels of your crown of glory are waiting in the pebble-strewn asphalt of our overlooked and abandoned deviants, rebels, and wounded ones. You were not made to follow the trends of tomorrow; you were made to set fire to the beacons of redemption, to light a holy flame in the face of impenetrable darkness and sing a song of praise as the bowls of hell rage against your freedom, your hope, and your faith in The Great Redeemer.
Hear me, beloved one: The Father delights in you, longs for you, and loves every part of you beyond measure. No matter what they told you, you are beautiful, you are adored, and you matter more then you can ever know. I know your hurt, I felt the devastation of a defiling touch, and I’ve suffered the pains of poisons injected into my veins. I know the agony of abuse by those you trusted, loved, and adored. I know the feelings of betrayal, of mocking, and of ridicule. I know the feeling of their glares on your neck and the bullies’ laughter behind your back. You are not alone in your sorrow, your suffering, or your death. If there is yet breath in your lungs and blood in your veins, there is still hope. Even if you’ve just finalized your fourth divorce, or you can’t stop looking at porn, you are still important, and the purpose of your life can shake the mountains loose and cast them into the sea.
No matter the number of track marks on your arms, that needle does not define you, and neither does that pipe or pill. The mutilation scars on your wrists, thighs, and neck do not need to be hidden in shame, for when I look upon you, I know you are a Survivor. You, oh precious and created one, were made to light a candle of hope against the darkness of despair. No matter how many times you sought the hangman’s noose, the bottoms of bottles, or a manipulator to tell you that you’re pretty, you still have a life to be lived. Your life can be made new. Your song of death can be turned into a symphony of hope.
Come join the ones who were orphans, the reckless lovers of losers, liars, and thieves. Join the debt-laden dropout who has found out he can be free. Join the heroes of the homeless, the champions of hope, the brokenhearted, and the healers who don’t take what they need. Come and join the leftovers, The Remnant, those outcasts once passed over whose blood now beats with divine purpose.