The words “The End” tortuously tease my mind as I sit here contemplating the conclusion. I have written conclusions of this book more than once. Each time the ending only started another chapter on this journey through life. How do I leave you, dear readers? In what nest of words will I leave you to abide? I don’t think I’ll ever be able to conclude this story and I am sure the other volumes I’ve written beyond this book will come out soon. The future will not wait for the endings of our lives; it will surely press forward into the misty mountains of tomorrow.
May we look to those stormy days, those hulking behemoths of the unknown tomorrows, and remember one thing. May we all remember that hiding in the mist are treasures waiting to be found, waiting to be seen, held, protected, cherished, and understood. Peppered through your paths of life are overlooked sapphires, rubies, and garnet passed over by millions who have needed your eyes to find them.
Each of you is a treasure. Some are polished stones, refined by The Good Potter’s hands, while others are still sitting in the discard pile of tragedy, monotony, and failure. If you have awaited the one who would stumble upon you and see you for what you are, know this: He, who formed your marvelous facets before the foundations of the earth were fixed, has never lost sight of you. No matter where you are on the day you read or hear this, I pray you remember you have a purpose this world could never hope to possess.
We all have rough edges waiting to be buffed down and cleaned. I hope you all become willing to step into the tumbling of refinement of our Creator’s redeeming ways. His truth has buffeted me; His conviction has knocked me, and I have been washed by His living waters. It does not mean I am yet shining with brilliance or glowing with opulent facets, but I am on my way. I hope you will hear this last story and know the flint of my heart is being turned into His precious living stone.
Chelsea stared at me in disbelief. The look on her face was full of frustration and annoyance; unable to understand why I was like this. I was standing over the sink, scooping piles of moldy food she’d thrown away into a bowl to eat. She was so tired of telling me that I didn’t have to do this but how could I not? We hotly discussed it for nearly an hour. She was so exhausted, so tired of all this. We’d been on this chapter of our healing journey for almost two years. Though we had been married six years prior, only now had she been given some of the many missing puzzle pieces to understand my “quirks.”
As long as she’d known me, I would have these oddities, these weird behaviors or fears. She had no frame of reference to understand them. Some bordered on compulsions, while others were anger-laced twitches of my body away from her touch. At the beginning of our marriage when it was only Nate, they were less noticeable. I hated having my neck, back, or butt touched. I would get beet red in the face when someone tussled my hair and had to breathe out the emotions flooding through me.
I am very rarely angry; normally it takes a mountain of madness to move me towards anger. But when someone grabbed the back of my neck or slapped my butt – even Chelsea in a playful way – I would freak out screaming at them, “Never touch me like that!”
Even when I was dating a girl long before Chelsea, I’d been laying on my stomach, and she’d tried to massage my shoulders. I reflexively kicked my heels up and nearly hit her in the back. She’d not understood why I was edgy at times and neither had Chelsea until I’d told her about the abuse, the sufferings, and the unwanted touch.
After I would go through a memory or a healing session, so many times these fears or phobias would disappear. I used to get sick and dry heave uncontrollably when someone used lotion even just in the same room, let alone tried to put it on me. Chelsea had patiently worked with me over the first few years of our marriage, helping me to get to a place where I could allow it to be near me and then carefully applied to my dry, cracked hands.
After I finally understood that the fear and pain came from my abusers using lotion to facilitate the abuse, I was able to allow The Messiah’s new understanding and peace to wash these painful wounds clean. He gave me His perspective on as odd as it may seem to you, lotion. Literally, in a moment when I got healing from the memory, it gave me the ability to use it without any fear or gagging. The trauma pocket was alleviated of its burden and with it came peace.
On and on this would go: Chelsea would notice that I was suddenly sad beyond belief. A dark cloud would come over me in a moment, and I would sulk around the house, sometimes for hours and at other times for days. She learned to point this out in a compassionate way and encourage me to do some healing or address the Little that was in need of restoration. Many times, I responded to this feedback and got healing for a Little who had been triggered by someone who looked like one of our abusers at the grocery store, which flooded our mind. After the healing, I would be restored, but sometimes the grief of the new memory integrated into my mind would weigh upon me. Though my Little had found freedom from his torment, the rest of my soul had to come to an understanding about this painful chapter in our past.
The grief was the most debilitating, along with the body pain of wounds born during the abuse and missions. The physical pain would accompany many of the memories. Heartache and heartbreak are very real things, which do leave the strongest of people down on their knees. I would be in agony, curled up on the floor, sobbing and wailing to the point of death, clutching Ruger’s furry neck, praying for peace. Chelsea would help me the best she could by making me Challah, my favorite sweet bread, or allowing me time to go up into the mountains to find some quiet space to be.
She gave me what I needed, which could vary moment by moment. At times I would need to go and tinker in my little workshop for hours, tumbling rocks from Nate’s Beach, making holsters, knives or gear for our Kit, or melting down metals to make jewelry or improvised tools. Each portion of my personality
had their passions and things they’d wanted to do for so long, things The Family never allowed me to pursue or express. Now finally, I could find the freedom to do it. We honored them the best we could. We let those that wanted to see the cold fresh water springs we’d found in the mountains go and drink their fill while we wept with relief. Other personalities got to take Naomi for a walk around the lake and see Ruger run along the shore, kicking up mud with glee.
Some Littles would want to sit with Chelsea or other trusted people and talk. They would tell her what happened or ask her questions about what “normal” is. She was gracious with them, weeping with them at times, being angry at others, empathizing when she could and hurting for us when she couldn’t.
A roller coaster could not compare to the ups and downs; a balloon in a hurricane might better capture it. In the center of the storm was our refuge and hiding place, The Most High God, His Son, and The Great Comforter. Some days we would be flung through a category five fury, which left me collapsed in the store and Chelsea having to carry me out. Once the memory was understood, the pain would lift, and we would be restored until the next winds blew. The most noticeable for Chelsea was my irritability or my lack of patience with small problems and issues. I could be full of faith and confident in The Father’s provision for us one moment and then terrified that we would starve the next.
My irritability would often build to the point that I was unbearable for her to be around. She was patient with me more times then I deserved, but sometimes the emotional irregularities with new personalities drove her beyond her compassion and patience. We would argue, and I wouldn’t always be the kindest but nor would she. It was not anything beyond marital challenges, but these small pebbles tossed into my waters could be a tsunami flooding over the banks and filling our home with pain. It was exhausting day in and day out wondering when I would be “better.” We did not get a timeline for healing, and neither of us had thought there would be so much there waiting beneath the surface.
It was like living with ten different husbands – Chelsea’s own 50 Shades of Huz – some of whom were mature and had tremendous amounts of life experience, while others were still just trying to have a new experience since they last saw this cruel world. Having discussions about finances or even planning a trip to the store could be overwhelming and would lead me to near panic.
It was a brutal process, but over time Chelsea and I had to learn how to communicate more clearly. When I was not capable of engaging in regular talk because I had Littles up who just wanted to be able to experience a world of safety, laughter, and peace, agreements would be made about when these discussions could continue when Nate or Nathan could come and hold up the normal duties of the home. During those interims, while we were still figuring it out, a great strain was placed on Chelsea, and praise be to God, she stayed with me, honoring her covenantal vows and sticking with me in my greatest sickness and horrible health.
Some days I was better at it than others. Some of my quirks would be present and linger beyond a healing session. The most persistent of them all was The Hunger. The Families use food and hunger as a weapon all its own. It’s a point of leverage in their fulcrum of control. It forces you to compromise your ethics, learning to steal, lie, or manipulate to satisfy your needs. It forces you to think critically even when your body is deprived and in need of nourishment. It is a powerful tool used for deplorable ends.
One of the ways I survived the pains of hunger in my belly was to sneak into the kitchen and eat moldy or rotting food out of the fridge or what had been thrown in the trash. It allowed me to escape their notice or accusations of disobedience. Other times, I was stealing other kids’ food like I did in 1st grade when I took a bag of Lay’s plain potato chips from a boy named John in my class. I was caught and dragged to the principal’s office and sent home with a pink slip of punishment. The real punishment at home occurred for the negative attention it drew on a boy who was supposed to be a ghost.
Even after the carefully controlled scarcity left, The Hunger was something I had to rely on to survive. The first profession I turned to in college was one The Family had taught me to believe was normal, so I undressed for “Artists” who paid me well. Unable to bear this continual emotional burden, I got a job at Old Chicago’s bussing tables. At work I would line my apron with Ziploc bags and aluminum foil, scraping customers’ scraps into them to be eaten later at my apartment. At the close of the shift, I would sneak into the walk-in freezer and take the expiring ingredients to assemble a meal.
I was working three jobs at the time while going to school full time, and paying my rent was hard enough for me to do let alone buying more than $50 of groceries each month. It made me resourceful as hunger and lack will do. While on campus, I would sneak into the back of lecture halls where speakers had advertised free pizza for those who attended. I would grab a whole box and walk out the door. I played it off with laughter and jokes, but the need to fill my stomach was deep and insatiable.
Many in our megachurch’s community group would get together after Sunday night service ended and go to Chili’s for dinner. I would walk around with a massive plate as people were eating and asked for donations to “The Nate Plate.” My church friends would laugh and drop a few fries or a chicken wing onto the plate, and by the end of the night, I had enough leftovers to eat for four meals. I would ration off these tiny treasures and do what I did best, survive.
I learned to live off the least amount possible; I hedged my bets against the hunger and rationed food into pockets and secret stashes in bags or pouches. As a child, I would take pieces of candy I got in class or ones I’d traded for shiny rocks I’d found at recess and hide them under the carpet in my room. In preparation for these treasures, I’d slit a hole big enough to protect a few jolly ranchers or gob stoppers at a time. Like a fiend looking for a fix, I would allow myself a single piece when the pain was the worst, and I needed relief. I would savor it and make it last for as long as possible, refusing to bite or break off a piece. I let the flavors flood over my every taste bud and savored them with the delicacies of a connoisseur. When there were no snacks or candy to be found, I would chew plastic, tree sap, old rubber, rocks, or whatever I could to satisfy the need to eat or feel food in my belly.
When Chelsea and I were married, we started out making enough to afford plenty of groceries. Even still, I could not bring myself to stop these habits. Chelsea nicknamed it “rat-holing” when she would catch me doing it. She never shamed me but laughed along like all the rest. She would give me two pieces of a sandwich, and I would immediately hide one of the halves back in its wrapper and stash it away. It was not until, while on a date, I took leftover food boxes abandoned on someone else’s table, that she confronted me. I had such a hard time articulating my need never to let food go to waste. I felt so much shame and the pain was too much to express. I would have to restrain myself from doing it again, knowing it was not accepted.
For years, though, I could not hold it back. We could have a fridge full of food, and I would still eat the oldest things first, ignoring the fresh and targeting the rotten instead. How could I let such precious things go to waste? When the food was beyond my ability to eat, I would need to leave it in the front yard for the birds, foxes, stray animals, or rabbits to eat. I just needed to let something or someone benefit even from the crumbs.
I did not know how to satisfy this hunger in my heart despite the healings and connecting with Littles who’d only ever known starvation and the pains of seeing other kids eat lunches filled with food they wanted while I had eaten the mystery plate at three in the morning the night before.
Friends would have Chelsea and me over to dinner, and I would eat enough to last me three days. I could not stop the fear of there not being enough tomorrow. Those who knew me best were so kind to make extra of my favorite delicacies when I came over, knowing how much joy and satisfaction it brought me to eat my fill. The joy would bubble out with abundance when I felt known and understood by someone noticing this and blessing me in such a kind way. They would send me home with an extra bag of fresh-baked snickerdoodle cookies or servings of Sesame Chicken. I was careful with my portions and able to ration them another week.
My rat-holing did not embarrass me, but some days it would drive Chelsea over the edge. She would catch me pulling food out of the trash she’d pitched the night before and often felt hurt, thinking it was unnecessary as we had plenty of food in the house. She felt as though it was personal and reflected on our living situation, but it never was. I think this was the one quirk she struggled with the most. It was so prevalent and did not go away like the others. Even as I write this, I am more puzzled to imagine how people could leave their dwellings without snacks stuffed into secret compartments in their clothing or emergency food in laptop bags and glove boxes.
I know many of you who are reading this can laugh as it strikes cords in your soul. In some ways, it is comical until it’s not. When it’s not about someone doing something odd and no one ever noticing, it suddenly becomes about someone finally being seen. I tell you this so that maybe you would not laugh the next time you notice a quirk in someone around you. Perhaps some of those church friends of mine should have bought me dinner instead of loading me with their scraps week after week or bought me groceries instead. Maybe one of my teachers should have looked closer and noticed the kid who eats many times the usual amount when free food is offered but otherwise hardly eats at all. Maybe they shouldn’t have. I no longer hold it against them in any way.
Maybe it’s better now they didn’t so I could help you see this truth. It is not always going to be food, hunger, or leftovers pulled out of trash. It’s all about looking closer than a cursory or dismissive glance. Before you blow someone off who is having a panicky reaction to something mundane, maybe ask a question. Ask why they might be that way. Maybe they’ve never felt safe enough to tell someone they’d been hurt by someone who had the same shirt on, or maybe they’d nearly been drowned by family members during a teenage prank. Perhaps we could all learn to be a little more intentional with our friends and family, and not so quick to dismiss a cry for help hidden by a laugh or self-deprecating joke. Hundreds of people throughout my life saw me digging through trashcans and the backs of fridges and pulling foil lined snacks out of pockets, and hardly ever did they look closer or ask a heartfelt question.
Maybe instead of your next tithe check getting dropped into an offering plate or donation box, it needs to go to your neighbor, your co-worker, or a family friend. It is time we looked closer instead of looking away. Maybe some of those preparations you’ve stockpiled for the end of the world could help feed a family this week. Or perhaps the hours you spend watching Netflix could be spent talking to someone who needs your attention and time.
Intentional ignorance will be accounted unto you in the days to come. Hunger is eating so many people alive. Some are starved for attention, never knowing the feel of lustless eyes upon their flesh. Some are hungry for friendship that is not tainted by manipulation and control. Others are drowning in debt because no one taught them how to manage money while they were making them work “The Trade” instead.
We need to be the answers, not the problems. We need to look closely enough to feel the breath of their sobs on our cheeks. We need to hold the hurting and tell them, “It’s ok. You are safe now.” We need to wrap our arms around the Survivors and weep with those who weep. We need to linger and not run away from the horrible stories they need to tell. We need to build a hedge of protection around them as they leave their Families, masters, pastors, or pimps. We need to be the empowering arms of grace enfolding them in provision, protection, and love.
I did not need more food to fix the hunger in my heart. What I needed was someone who cared about me more than the food on my plate or the lack thereof. What Survivors need does not come in prepackaged cases located on aisle seven of our grocery stores. There is not enough food in the world to satisfy the need I see in a wounded one’s eyes. When I look into the eyes of these Survivors, I hear their hearts moaning with a hunger that transcends our flesh and blood bodies. It lingers in the depths of our souls.
Who can satisfy the need to be held and comforted? Who can screen our calls when our former handlers call and try to manipulate us back into their hands? Who is willing to pay our mortgage so we can get counseling and restoration from the brutality of a lifetime lived in pain? Who will pay attention when they see a little kid flinch at the pastor’s movement? Child Protective Services and other corrupt corporations are not the answer and never will be. The Followers of The Way need to be.
We need to be the answer to this. We need to have safe houses and underground railroads where Survivors can be shuttled out of their physical or spiritual cages and into a new life of peace. We need to open up our once-a-week church buildings to be living quarters for the homeless, the addicts, and the deranged. The hospitals for the weary should never close their doors. We need to let the fears of the ex-cons and felons fade away. Those cultural taboos of different races, beliefs, and traditions need to be covered by our truth and love. It is time we raise up the decaying stones from the miry clay. Now is the time we leave this world without accusations of our ambivalence and powerless claims of greasy godless grace.
Those who are coming out of these Families are going to be able to make a difference so few ever could. Once restored, these individuals are capable of things fewer still can fathom. The wounded ones were wounded for a reason. The Enemy knows how to harm its deadliest foes, and he does it early. The Enemy spends too much time teaching its slaves his subtle and crafty ways. Without knowing it, many of these Survivors have been trained to destroy their captors’ dungeons, palaces, and watery graves.
There are many things The Family and Trade taught me, one of which is how to make someone disappear. What do you do with the knowledge of evading detection and blending into shadows and black-market trades of identities and places to live, when you grow weary from wickedness and choose to give and not take? What if those of you who know The Trade became double agents and served The Redeemer instead? What if the agents of The Underworld built a railroad of redemption for those still trapped in its chains? What if you made duplicate copies and stole away the incriminating evidence, which shows the world just what builds the empires above the streets?
What if those who once slipped children into hotel rooms for “paying guests” instead used those minds to plot out escapes for the little ones and their moms? What if instead of smuggling flash drives of kiddie porn and prescription drugs
What if those who had the financial resources and insulated Trusts or Foundations bought up hotel chains, houses, and apartments and used them to shuttle people to freedom instead of as a place of torment, blackmail, and pedophilia? What if we bought children, mothers, and fathers out of the tunnels and The Underworld and funded their complete restoration at private places of refuge? What if we hired holy ministers and deliverers out of their 9-5 jobs and offered them beneficiaries who met their financial needs? None of this can happen until we decide not to look away from these dark realities but choose to face them instead.
The complete exposure of these crimes needs to be played in an endless stream before the world so they can’t blink it away or minimize the screens of reality. We need to broadcast it on every station, every suggested video, and trending link. It is time we use our black hats of hacking for great good, instead of planting blackmail evidence on unruly Brothers, Sisters, Knights, or Family and State dissidents. Some of you architected agents of anarchy and chaos know of what I speak; hear me now so that The Secrets of The Underworld will stay hidden no longer.
Dig into the digital closets of our high-ranking officials, leaders, and magistrates, and you will see that there are more than just skeletons hiding in those closets. There is more than just the skeletons of affairs, drug habits, and corrupt contracts. Those skeletons had names like Jesse, Alex, Julie, Katrina, Samuel, Jared, and Penelope. I know their names, and I’ve not forgotten, and neither should you. They will be remembered, and they are the ones whom we should never forget: The Faceless Fallen who built the bloody pillars of the empire where our cities, capitals, and cathedrals abide.
The Hunger Games is not a work of fiction but a maddening reality to those birthed into The Families and made to pass through these Brotherhoods. When will days of luxury and comfortable living be enough? I know many of you are compromised – company-controlled private back rooms at The Family party saw to that – but speak The Secrets and show the truth before the child whose body you used to climb to power speaks it for you, and you burn for your crime.
There is time for redemption; there is a time for all kinds of immunity and justice. The hunger in our hearts demands it; it calls to us in the night. In the stillness, while the world sleeps, we Survivors see them: the faces of torment, pain, and betrayal. We see the Brutes, the politicians, priests, and the police who partook of our bodies or drank of our friends.
They will not leave us; they linger and cling to our soul. We bit down on our tongues to hold back the hurt, to prevent the dam from breaking loose and showering this world with our dark Underworld. The cracks are showing, and the inky waters of The Abyss are leaking to the surface, and soon they will come upon you in a torrent, an unstoppable force of exposure.
If only you would see us and hear us before it breaks loose.
Will you look closer? Will you pay attention next time you go out to the bars or restaurants late at night and see the young girls working the corner of your high-end downtown? Will you see the “eighteen-year-old” we all know is only thirteen but turning tricks for her well-dressed upper-class confidence man? Will you see the homeless man begging for a meal on the corner and know that his story could just as easily have been like mine? Will you wonder and find out why no one puts a stop to the madness, why they bust the outer rings of pedophiles but never the inner circle of presidents and popes? Will you dig into our Underworld and see what makes it pulse with perversion and pain? Will you forsake your fears and hold the hands of a former slave who faced down unimaginable horrors to break out of her controller’s grip?
We are not all going to be pretty or well dressed. Some of us woke up in a pool of vomit, trying to survive another night by escaping from the memories in glass bottles marked 120 proof. Some of us have sold our body to anyone who was willing to buy us a drink or take us out for a meal. Others are working full-time jobs and living well, but the nine prescription bottles in their bathroom tell you how they are really doing. They are surviving, but with the right kind of support and understanding, they could be thriving.
Survivors once set free can become the most courageous, bold, and impactful people who have ever lived. They are not born with the fear of darkness as most are. They do not fear the death of their bodies, the pain of torture, imprisonment, or rape. They have known these horrors, and yet they still breathe. They do not fear the character assassinations or the mocking and betrayal. They are warriors; they are heroes who deserve our thanks. They will be the ones who run back into the fires and snatch those burning bodies from the flames. They will be the ones charging into the depths of Families’ Estates and setting the captives free. They will stand together in the face of impossible odds because they know, “One could put 100 to flight and two could put 10,000 to flight.” (Deut. 32:30) It is because they know whose they are that they will not run; they will press through the fear, the pain, and the hunger and never let go when the trembling hand reaches out for help.
The hunger in my chest is never satisfied, and it likely never will be. As long as I am given breath in these lungs, it will linger. In contrast to all the quirks of mine, which have been relieved, this one Yahweh has entrusted to me for good. It is the longing for justice, the need to save just one more. It is a burning need to go back out on those downtown streets and document The Rings operating in my cities and my state, praying and awaiting the day when those running the justice system don’t continue to hinder the revelation of their secret Trade. The Hunger drives me to prayerfully intercede in my city’s high places and examine the thousands of miles of tunnel systems where the covens operate and defile our lands. It is a thirst that drives me to pray for the conversion of corrupt officials and blinded oath keeping officers who enable these wicked practices and for their victims too.
The hunger in my heart is not most satiated when I’m eating a free meal at a friend’s house but when I hold the hands of a man who is dressed in a thousand-dollar suit as he weeps for the first time, confessing his need for redemption from his misery and self-hate. It comes when I hear the testimony of a Survivor like Mary Lou Lake and Donna Carrico whose burning hands were washed in the living waters of our King.
There is a hunger in every one of you. It is a missing piece of our make-up that The God of Mercy holds on to. It is to drive us towards the finish line, towards more jewels to build our crown of glory we can cast at The Messiah’s feet. Yahweh says that He holds a white stone for every single person with a name written on it that we alone will someday understand. (Rev. 2:17) Maybe once this name is read or spoken aloud, it finally satisfies The Hunger and gives us His eternity’s rest. Until then, The Hunger is there to drive us out of our comfort zones of complacency and into our purpose. The fears you once held do not need to linger; only surrender them to The Messiah. By His redemption, they can become your greatest strength. Take those talents and use them for great good and the saving of many lives.
Don’t be lulled into passivity but let The Hunger drive you towards deliverance, provision, and hope. Not all of you need to infiltrate luxurious cabins in the mountains where they hide incriminating hard drives in plain sight, but some of you do. Not all of you need to exploit the back doors of the Underground Trade market, but some of you do. Every one of you so-called pastors and shepherds out there needs to repent of ever allowing and endorsing deceived or willful oath keeping cowards into your flocks or into your own homes. It is time like the days of Charles Finney we utterly drive out the Brother and Sisterhoods of deception from our most precious families.
Find the way you can satisfy the hunger of the hurting. Find a way to be the answer to this insufferable problem. Clothe the naked, give water to the thirsty, and give shelter to the homeless. It is not hard, but that does not mean it’s going to be easy. Following The Way of Messiah is not going to come naturally – not at first – but as you yield to His Instructions, you will see that His yoke is infinitely easy and His burden is light. (Matt. 11:30) There is no greater joy in the world than seeing a captive boy go free or a formerly shackled woman laugh unhindered for the first time in her life. I pray you grow hungry and the food in your fridge or pocket will not satisfy you until the day you surrender to your true purpose and higher calling.
I will yield to the hunger and to the ache in my belly at night. I will lay my life down before this mad world and crawl back into the cupboards of chaos I was born into. I will seek the lost. I will set fires to the beacons of redemption and let the world burn my body for the sake of the perishing. May they know that there are those of courage and faith willing to stand in the gap so that just one more burning stick can be snatched from the blackened flames.
To you who are crying out for help, crying out for justice, He has heard you and sent The Rescuer. He is not afraid of your handlers, worshipful masters, Council of 13, generals, popes, or priests. He does not fear their teams of assassins, astral projecting spirits, or poisoned meals. He does not tremble at the summoning of dark principalities but, hear me, they do tremble before Him. I have seen The Ancient Ones flee at the sound of His Name. I have seen those who cut the palms and speak the oaths fall flat on their faces under the weight of His presence. I have witnessed salvation in the eyes of the perishing when they surrendered to His ways.
May you know that liars, murderers, and thieves pierced through the only Hand, which can ever heal you. The upper class conspirators of society crucified The King of Glory; do not doubt that they will try to do it to His followers too. They hate freed slaves; they hate men of courage, faith, and strength who do not run from the battle but steel themselves for combat. They fear men who gird up their loins and face down their fleshly fears and nail them to His execution stake. They fear women who know their identity and surrender to The Word of Yahweh Elohim. The guilty cowards can’t stand to be in the room with those who have The Kingdom of Truth burning in their chest. They will not be able to stand against you, and The Almighty Creator who is standing with you. Once more I call to you who are listening, reading along, or tuning in. I pray now you will answer this call.
My beloved friend from afar, I beg you come to Him. You matter more than you know. You are loved and treasured and adored. I am a man on a mission of redemption, and I ask you this day: will you join me? Will you link arms with a wounded warrior and let him lead you into enemy territory, where you can help rescue the souls crying in the night, begging someone to bring them The Light. Will you wash the feet of prostitutes and hold the shaking marked hands of felons? Will you forsake your mediocrity and wage war on resentment, fear, and regret? Come with me as I run into the arms of evil and snatch those burning sticks from the flames.
I know so many of you believe the lies and do not think you’re special or that you could be anything but ordinary. I assure you of this: Yahweh hardly ever sought out the worldly champions to wage His most important wars, but rather children who were the least important and quickest to be passed over. He chose prostitutes condemned to die; he called out death dwelling men possessed with legions of demons to go and bear His witness to the nations. He chose the overlooked elderly whose wombs were withered and for whom hopes of meaning had dried up. He chose the blue-collar workers who couldn’t read or write, throwing nets into the waters, and taught them to fish for the immortal souls of mankind. He took the outcasts, those running from debt collectors, and felons in hiding, and while in The Wilderness, turned them into the Mighty Gibborim men of David, the most exceptional warriors this world has ever known. (2 Sam. 22, 23 1 Chronicles 11:10-47) Our God makes the ordinary become extraordinary and befuddles the Enemy’s elite warriors and ordained ministers of deceit.
I invite you, dear warrior, to stand. I urge you to rise up from the failures, lies, and regret and stand upon The Truth. (Eph. 6:10-19) Stand now while the battle lines are drawn, while the last of the Survivors come crawling out of their cages, addictions, and withdrawals. Stand firm when they persecute you, mock you, and call you insane. Do not relent but know that the fires of persecution should be burning against us all. We are soldiers for The Great Redeemer, and the cares of this world need to grow dim in the Light of His Glorious Face. (2 Tim. 2:3-4, Deut. 3:22) Suit up and arm yourself with The Living Word of God; obedience to it will build a hedge of impenetrable protection no power can stand against. No matter the amount of persecution and attack, you too will see that The King of Glory reigns.
It is because of my great love for you that I poured this still bleeding heart upon these pages and ask you to do the same. I urge you to pick up the dangerous pen and speak The Secrets, write the words of forgiveness, and leave the darkness behind. Join us as we light candles of hope against the darkness of despair.
With these words written, I offer you, dear reader, the torches to set this former assassin, addict, and dark wolf ablaze.
If He wills it to come to that, may the words of my testimony burn forever because great is my love for those wounded ones still perishing, lost in the internal maze. Even if it saves only one, I gladly lie upon the trembling tracks of public perception, corrupt judicial systems, and political power plays.
May those trapped in the tunnels of torture or Bloodlines see that there will always be someone who is willing to lay down his life for theirs. May the wounded ones see that a Survivor is willing to bleed for justice, righteousness, and truth. May you all know there is still yet meaning for your misery, madness, and despair.
Come and see The Redeemer of murderers, harlots, and keepers of occult ways. Come and see The God of Mercy is waiting for you to come home and find rest for your weary soul. May The God of All Comfort strengthen you in the innermost portion of your being. May He set your heart on fire with His passion, truth, and hope.
My name is Nathan Lok Reynolds and I have been Snatched From The Flames. I am a living witness against the darkest of nights. The fire in my chest will never be quenched for it burns with The All-Consuming Fire of Yahweh Elohim. To Him alone be the praise, glory, and the offering of my life now and forever.