Good bye's....Hello's

Hello!
I made it to Redding CA!
We got in last night at 8:45,
My roommate, Molly wasn't at the house so we went over to the church!!
It huge!
And thanks to my wonderful family, I have a cherry red camera!
So I have taken tons of photos!


So I have said good bye to my family, my friends, my job, my university
and I have packed my bags and I am now saying hello
to a new roommate (who is wonderful) to a new church and a new life!
It kind-of never racking! and I have lost it a few times, crying...
like when I said 'good-bye' to my mom and dad!
but this is the life God has put my in and I feel like I have
lost my mind moving countries to be here but...
I know God will put good people in my life, and that it will
be one of the best things i have ever done!
but I don't pretend to have nerves of steel, I'm sure many
more tears are to come as i will continue to say good-bye
to my old life and old self.

Anyways I can't write more at the moment or I will cry!
so God bless you all and please comment so I know
someone out their in cyber space cares!
your prayers would be much appreciated at the moment!
God bless you all
talk to you real soon!
Love Sarah-Lynn

Photo taken in the car driving here

The Sun Child: Chapter One

He was everything a tortured artist should be, from his neglected black hair and beard to the sleep deprived eyes, pale skin from being inside and strong calluses on his hands which comes from hours of practice on the piano. Christopher Gadsby was trying to write a symphony he had been working on it his whole life, it was called ‘Le Soleil Enfant’ (which in English simply means, ‘The Sun Child’). It was his life’s work.
There comes a time in every artist life were they write their life’s work, everything leading up to it is just a prequel and everything after is just a epilogue. And it doesn’t matter who likes it or not, because you know inside that it is the epitome of your life, the reason you were born. It is the most daunting task and yet life would be incomplete without it; because it sums up who you are and what you’re wroth and this is where we find Christopher today.
Now before we go on let me evoke a menial image of our dear artist. Christopher is a medium height with a medium build. And besides playing the piano, Christopher can play violin, and cello expertly; the trombone, clarinet and harp reasonable well, and the tuba and oboe poorly. Of course if he practiced more he could pick it up easily. There are of course, instruments he refuses to even touch, the guitar and other such ‘rock’ instruments were beneath him (as he would consider). Now please let us join Christopher as he tries to write his masterpiece.
“I hate you, I hate you!” Screamed Christopher as he swiped the sheets off his piano stand; his room was filled with papers and ink was thrown all about, the piano was covered in old coffee mugs and wine glasses; and bowls of half eaten cereal littered the ground. Christopher had not left his apartment for weeks, and had stayed up night and day writing his symphony. He had not noticed the days that passed only of the moments he had waste with worthless notes that did not add-up to the climax he was looking for.
The artist step on to the patio, (if you had told him that he was an ‘artist’ he would have spit in your face and laughed. But for the sake of all things creative we shall call him ‘artist’). He pulled out his lighter and looked for a cigarette, he cursed at the empty box. He walked back inside his bachelor suite and looked for his wallet. Christopher moved the magazines off his coffee table but did not find it. Then as if seeing the mess of his apartment for that first time he gave a yelp of frustration. The small kitchen was trashed, with dirty dishes everywhere; his bed had not been used in weeks and was covered in magazines and newspapers. And the floor was where he kept all his rejected papers of crumpled music sheets.
Christopher kept looked and eventually found his jacket which had been under a pile of candy bar rappers and in the pocket he found his wallet. He stepped outside his apartment and closed the door and looked down the hall in both directions and for a moment could not remember in what direction lead him out. He picked the way going to the right and soon found stairs the brought him outside.
Christopher walked a small distance to the corner store and told the clerk ‘a tin of cigarettes’ then handed him his interact card. He was about to walk away with the cigarette when the clerk called after him,
“Sir your debit was declined,”
“I’m sorry?”
“It didn’t go through,” said the clerk a little frustrated.
“Here,” he handed him his credit card.
After a moment the clerk said “Nope, it didn’t go through.” Christopher face was beginning to pinken at the thought of not having a smoke. See it did not occur to him that there was a line out the door and people where angrily waiting for him to hurry-up. Nor did the thought enter his head that the clerk wanted to get thought the line-up so he could go on a brake. No, all Christopher though of was his smokes, and perhaps being denied them.
He looked through his wallet and found a twenty which to everyone’s relief he left the store. He lid-up his smoke as soon as he was outside and breathed in deeply. He hurried back to his apartment and remembered he had not brought his keys outside with him. To say that lest someone did finally led him in and without so much as a ‘thanks’ he was running up the stairs and back to his small place that he called home.
It was now half past six and the only reason I mention the time is because at this very moment his nephew James was getting on stage to play his violin and was anxiously searching the crowed for his role model, Christopher, who had with all good intentions promised to be there. James found his mother in the front row and happily looked to the male sitting beside her, surly it was...no, not him. It was time to start and poor James, with a sad heart, began.
All the while Christopher sat at home thinking about his ‘Sun-Child’ her perfect hair, and sky blue eyes as she dance around and around laughing. How was he to end it? He had everything but the ending. Act one, had come as a rush of a river but it was act two he was ever so stuck on; and had these past weeks been working on.
His concentration was broken by that loud noise of his neighbour who was playing one of the popular tunes on her radio, “Ferme-la!” (which in English is ‘shut your mouth’) Christopher yelled to the next apartment over as he sat on the balcony of his. The over sixed woman came outside and began defending her chose in music and attacking him for his.
“Moi? Moi, shut-up! How about you? You’re always playing your stupid piano at all hours of the night! And you cannot even play a note! You’re terrible!” secretly though she loved his music.
“Your stupid ungrateful woman, I am writing a masterpiece and you, you’re listening to complete garbage! You wouldn’t know real music from that stuff you call music, it’s nothing more than a bunch of random noise with people who can’t sing!” by now they were both red in the face and about ready to chock one another when Christopher own sister come walks into the mess of it all. She pulls him inside, where a very devastated James sat on a small space in the couch which he had cleared. “What are you doing here?” Christopher yell infuriate at his sister, who’s name by the way is Bernadette.
“Christopher what's a matter with you? I come here to find out why you didn’t come tonight, only to find you yelling at some woman! You promised that you would be there!”
“Promised what? What on earth are you talking about? Speck clearly woman!” He nearly yelled at her, by now his face was dark red and he was pacing the room, he had not even notice his poor nephew James sitting on the couch furlong.
“You promised you would come to James’s violin recital.” She continued on with her case.
“Yes, I umm,” he looked at the calendar with was open to February, “You said that would be in umm, well May, did you say May?” he smiled at his apparent remedy to the situation, “And it only February, so I will indeed be there!” he looked to James who was nearly in tears, “Keep practicing my boy! I will be there,” both James and his mother gave a yelp of frustration which Christopher miss interpreted as them not believing him. “I will be there!”
“Christopher! Stop please,” she walked over to the calendar and flipped the pages until she came to May, and there circled on the calendar was May 26th, “Christopher its May 26th today! How long have you been in this apartment? When was the last time you left it? Or had a decent meal or slept in your bed? You have gone so crazy with that symphony you are writing that you have neglected everything else! Even your family! We are your family Christopher and you have forgotten about us.”
“May? I thought it was, I mean I was quite sure it was February,” he ran his hand through his hair again and pulled out a smoke and was about to light it when Bernadette snacked it from his hand.
“That’s it! You need to get out of this apartment. You’re coming with me! and you’re going to eat a homemade meal!” she grab his hand and pulled him along, taking his keys which are hung by the door, “Les distraction sont nécessaires pour détendre l’esprit,” which is to say, ‘All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy’.
Now please let me make something clear before we go on. Bernadette is the kindest person you will ever come across, she is always sweet and polite; but is the deep love for her brother that is the reason for the way she is acting. (Some may consider it rude). I will also take this small moment to describe to you how James and her look, let me start first with Bernadette, she had the same black her as Christopher and it is cut quite short, but just long enough to keep in a pony-tail which it always is. Although she does sleep it is never a full peaceful sleep and so she as the same dark rings around her eyes as Christopher. She is a short woman and very petit her skin in dark from spending hours and hours out in her garden and but though it doesn’t look it she is as strong as an ox.
James is quite the same as his uncle and mother in sprite but he was by alright much more like his father in looks. James has sandy brown hair and fine light blue eyes; he was a pale child from being mostly inside practicing his violin and was at the point in his life where he was growing tall and not quite fit in his skin yet with weight. And because of height he stooped over to try to hide it. But now I am quite finished and we may continue,
Christopher was most unwillingly (unwillingly on his part) taken to the small place Bernadette calls home. She and James live on the outskirts of Pairs; down a little lane that can only be walked to. The taxi let then off as close as it could and speed off; by now the alleyway was dark and strange noises filled the air. The noise of a woman singing, dog barking, baby crying and loud romantic music could be heard from one of the apartments that lined the wall above the small house. If you did not look carefully you could pass by the house and never have know it was there, it was simply a bared door and window in a wall, that was squished between the apartment buildings around.
The lady who was singing loudly (and badly, may I mention) was now on the porch airing out some clothes. Christopher was about to say something when Bernadette gave a stern look, “Don’t even!” she said quietly as they stepped up to the door and unlocked it.
You may found it surprising how spacious it was inside the small house, but every available space was filled with clutter. There was the small entrance and a small sitting room or ‘tea room’ just off to the left of the front door. A closet to the right, filled with things. And then a little rise and you would step into the kitchen, with a small stove and tiny fringe, and if you so pleased to stay in the kitchen there was a small table with two chairs to sit at. But on second though you may not want to sit there since the table was covered in half done tasks, old papers, a half-made dress, knitting, balls of yarn and other things of the like which is not worth the mentioning.
But if you walked past the small kitchen with its one sink and three over head cupboards in an ‘L’ shape and the three cupboards beneath with two little drawers; you would come to a little hallway with two doors. One you would find on the left as soon as you stepped into the hall and on one the right but a little way down. The latter is Bernadette’s room, she has a small bed cover in half read books and magazines and clothes cover most the floor. Besides the bed there is a night-stand which barely has room for the small lamp and clock it was meant to keep. (Bernadette had long since give-up on trying to close the night-stand drawer). And instead of a vanity table or dresser, she has a small wardrobe which stands in the middle of the wall, behind the door and beside the small window.
You may be surprised to find that Bernadette’s and Christopher’s mother was quite a wonderful house-keeper, a better one you could never find. In her house there wasn’t a speck of dust to be found nor an item out of its place. And perhaps this is the reason why both her children are such poor house-keepers. Now if you move on to James’ room you will find a nicely made bed, books in a shelf, alphabetically arranged, a dresser with all his clothes neatly folded and his violin sitting proudly on a shelf made just for that propose. And perhaps James inherited the ‘clean’ gean from his grandmother, whom he has never made by the by.
If you should leave James’s room and walk but three steps you will come to a back door and through that door a most beautiful site will meet your eyes. Although Bernadette could not be bothered to clean her house she most definitely kept her flowers beds and garden in tip top shape. In her flower bed she kept white lilies, red and yellow roses, carnations, baby’s breath, lavender, poppies of all colors, and iris. A weed you could not find growing in one of those beds, so well did Bernadette and James keep them. The garden held all sorts of vegetables and furits. The yard was a little longer than one might think and this is where Christopher and James sat as they waited for Bernadette to whip something together for a late supper.
“Christopher there’s wine here if you want some!” she called to him from the kitchen, he walked down to receive the promised wine, “Help yourself, I think I have a clean glass in the cupboard,” he stepped to the small kitchen which was crowded with one person in it already. He opened the three cupboard but found no wine glasses, he grabbed a dirty one off the counter and was about to pour the wine when she stopped him, “Christopher finie la chasse aux souris!” meaning stop playing around!
“But-” he began to protest.
“No buts, give it to me!” she swiped the glass from him cleaned it and handed it back. “Now out of my kitchen,” he grabbed the wine and walked out to the small patio in the back and sat down. He was hungry just think of the food he was soon going to eat.
He contently poured himself a glass and was smelling it and was about to take a sip when James gave out a groan even louder then I think he excepted. “Is something wrong James?”
“You said you would be there Uncle Chris,” may I stop here for just one moment in order to relieve more about our ever unobservant artist? No one calls him ‘Chris’ and gets away with it, not even his own mother, no one that is except for James. Now back to our story, “Why weren’t you there?” he pleaded.
“James, I’m so...umm I didn’t realize that time that passed...so much since I had last seen you. You see I’m very busy writing a sym-” he stopped as the look on James’s faces had told him he had said the wrong thing. James was getting up to leave “James wait,” Christopher pleaded, “I’m sorry,” but James was already in his room with the door closed. Christopher stood, unsure of what to do.
“Well go in there!” Bernadette said from the kitchen.
“James?” Christopher said as he knocked softly,
“Go away!” James yelled. And Christopher who was not used to rejection, of any sort was aghast.
“But...I’m sorry.” He said to the door. “I’m said sorry, James, please open the door,” there was silence and Christopher was about to walk away when the door opened and James burst through it and threw his arms around him and hugged him tightly.
“Mean it?” he said pleadingly.
“Of course!” Christopher hugged him back after a moment of shock. “I promise I will come around more and I’ll be there next time,” he padded his head, “Now, why don’t you give me a private concert?” James looked to his mom with earnest eyes.
“I don’t know sweetie it’s getting late,”
“Please,” said James and Christopher at the same time.
“Well I guess I can’t say no to the both of you, how about after the foods ready we go on the patio and you give us a private concert.”
And here we shall leave then to their poutine, wine, and fun. Oh but if you think the story’s over, your wrong. Come back again and I will tell you the rest.



Picture found at:
http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/3/38/Piano.gif

A Dreamer's Season: Part Four

PART IV
This is it, this is the end. I now stand before the Judge and I know this is real, where I go in my sleep is real. He has read off my list of sins and many great misdeeds and I am now being condemned to death. The court room is silent as the last words of the Judge echo’s, he says to me, in load booming voice, “Zoey Barishtakov, how do you plead?” we have come full circle and I have changed, I have realized I am responsible for my actions and I have to answer for them, I cannot balm anyone else now.
Suddenly the full force of what is happening hits me. If I answer ‘guilty’ I will be condemned to death and if I answer ‘innocent’ I would be laying and add yet another sin to my every growing list. I weight the concrescence and I feel very sick to my stomach, I immediately do not want to die, I want to live. I want to be free; I wish it was like I had never done any of it. I feel the sorrow deep inside as it wells-up inside me. Then I hear screaming, ear-shattering screaming, that came for the very depths of one’s soul. I realized it was me! I was chocking on my tears, painting and gasping for air, the screams kept coming but by now they were soundless and I was pouring myself forth. There was no way out; no way to forget and go on. This was the end.
I continue to scream and I feel the bile rise at the back of my throat; I vomited on the ground and continued wailing in a pool of my tears and vomit. There is no hope.
The voice came again, “Zoey? How do you plead?”
“GUILTY!!” I yelled, “Guilty, guilty,” I cry out.
“We the court, and the law of God, have laid these charges before you, we the court, find the defendant guilty as charged. We, sentence the defendant to eternal damnation in Hell; before the defendant in taken to Hell, does anyone chose to stand in her stead?” the only noise in the court room was my whimpering; my whole body aches from crying.
“Since no one has chosen to stand in your stead, You, Zoey Barishtakov, are sentence to Hell forever,” He lifted up his heavy golden gravel and was about to bang it down, when the doors at the back of the room opened.
In walks a short man with brown clothes, he is stumped over. The man has messy brown hair and there was nothing attractive about him, with dull brown eyes and unkempt bread. But the thing I noticed about him most is his unusually small, callused, yet strong, hands. I am mesmerized by those hands. I watch as they unlatch the small door in between the audience and the fount of the court room. I watch those hands as they reached up to the Judge and as two scrolls are placed in them. I watch as the hands tightened their grip and the man turns and begins walking out of the room. Unlikely before as he passed me, this time he looks in the eye.
I cannot begin to tell what I saw in those eyes, such love, love that you could see; the depths of the ocean, the heights of the mountains in those eyes. Such love, such devotion, I had never seen. I saw eternity in those eyes, the mysteries of the universe in those eyes. But just a glimpse as he turns and is gone; had I ever looked in those eyes before? I know from this moment on I will never be the same even though I am going Hell. I least I got to see those eyes before I die. I shall remember them always. I stand up from my filth with renewed courage and I say to the Judge.
“I am ready now, you can take me.” The Judge stops gathering papers and looks down at me a bit confused.
“Whatever do you mean?” he asks me.
“Please, just lets be done with it, I am ready.” The Judge looks bewildered and then I see as amusement played across his face.
“If you mean your judgment, it is no more.”
“What are you talking about?” I nearly yell.
“Do you not know? That man just took your punishment.” he says, “You’re free to go. The law is satisfied; you no longer have a punishment.”
“What? What?” I cry out, “But, no, no, no! Stop him don’t let him do it! It’s my punishment not his! Just give it to me instead!” I yell as I run up to the Judge’s box.
“No, he took it, your name is clear.” He shows be a big, massive book. I see my name: ‘Zoey Barishtakov: FORGIVEN.’
“No,” I cannot stop the tears, “It can’t be! No!” the Judge closes the book, and says
“The court will now see Case Number 532218, the crown against Marcus Lewd, in...” his voice fades as I am lead away and I wake up.
I cannot believe it! I simply cannot believe it; I really cannot! I look for the guilt and it’s gone, it all gone. I feel clean for the first time in my life. I stumble out of bed and begin weeping on the floor I just cannot believe that man took that for me. And I am not in Hell where I should be! I scream!
“No!” that was the only good and perfect man I had ever seen and now he was dead for me. But why? I had never seen him before! Why did do that for me?
Calvin comes to my side and holds me, sweet man, but I will not comforted when someone is in Hell right now because of me. I work myself into a hysteria for the next thing I remember is waking up in a hospital; with a very worried Calvin at the side.

They pocked and prated me for two days. And I had not slept, I sat mostly in a fixated state, Calvin said it scared him and I try to stop but all I saw was Hell and eternal damnation and how that man was there instead of me. Doctors came and went and asked question and wanted to know what was going on, and when I tried to tell them they cut me off, or would not listen. So I stop trying. I just sat and saw Hell, the place I should be.
On the third day I was sitting in my bed stating at the wall, seeing the flames of Hell, when a short man in a brown overcoat walked in. I thought he was another doctor and thought nothing of it when he sat down and looked at my charts.
“How are you feeling Zoey?” his voice was so soft I was startled and I turned and looked at him. No one had asked that question, even once. I was a bit shocked. I studied the doctor, he had brown hair, dull brown eyes, an unkempt bread (looking back I realise I have never meet a doctor with an unkempt bread), and very small hands. He seemed so gentile, I felt safe with him.
“Well, to be honest, I don’t really feel well at all.” I said looking down.
“How come?” he asks me softly.
“It's these dreams I have been having...” I answered hesitantly, I felt so alone, no one understands.
“What are they?” the man asks quietly. I open my heart and tell him every dream and everything I have done and well I exposed everything he did not judge, nor did he seem shocked and surprised when I told him all the wrong I had done; he was genital and he passed me tissues when I cried and held my hand when I needed strength to go on. And I felt like the first time in my life that I had a friend, who cared, who understood.
When I was done he wrote something down and put the clipboard back and looked up at me and what I saw there nearly stopped my heart. Such raw, over-whelming love, I was taken back, it was so pure, and it was the essence of love, such I had never encountered until that day.
He walked to the end of my bed and puts his hand on my foot and says, “I hope that you feel better real soon,” and he really meant it, “Have a good day Zoey,” then he turned and walked out.
And I did feel better, telling him everything, I felt a lot better. And I soon slept.

I knelt in the dirt and I heard the heavens overhead thunder and I saw flashed of lightening. I felt the earth beneath me shake. I looked around at the chaos, men and horses running, trying to get away, women screaming and I hear crying somewhere else. I look around to see what has cause the disturbance. Then I see it, the remains of a man, hanging on a cross, blood is everywhere, I say ‘remains’ because there could not possible be a person alive in there. The body was so torn. Flash dangling, organ exposed, and the blood everywhere. The ‘remains’ didn’t even look all it could have once been a person. I felt sick to me stomach just look at ‘it’.
Then I see a hung white being standing beside the cross. He, what looks like a ‘he’ must be a least 20 feet tall and he looks sternly at me as he holds a big book. His load voice booms and it is so load I am afraid I will go deft. He says to me, “LOOK UPON THE ONE YOU HAVE PIERCED!” I scream as I understand this is the man I have beaten, whipped, hammered the nail through his hands, mocked and I was the one who rail and demeaned him death, NO! I take it back! But I as I look at the blood around me see that I cannot.
“LOOK UPON THE ONE YOU HAVE PIERCED!” His voice reaching into the innermost part of me.
“No, I can’t.” I yell, guilty, I did this! I cannot look at what I have done! I did this!
“LOOK UPON THE ONE YOU HAVE PIERCED!” the voice is even louder than before, I feel my heart breaking inside me, but I must look. I look up upon his face and the small beady eyes look back at me. But hated I do not find; and at first it takes me a moment to place what the look means. Then it hits me like a ton of bricks, love, just love, unfathomable love. But how? How could after all that I did to him? How? Love stares me in the eye, and I watch as he takes his last breath. As I look down torn body and at the bottom I see two scrolls. Intrigued I go over to them I open the first one.
I am surprised as I find my name on the top, and under it is every sin that I have ever done. I scream this was the same man who took my punishment from me and then to find I was the one who punished him! I could not stand! How could I have done this? I scream and cry, I DID THIS! I should be the one up there; I should be the one who is died and on the cross. Why did he do this for me?
Then I watch as miracle happens, a drop of blood hits the parchment and my big ugly list of my sin begin to disappear as the blood washes it away. Then at the bottom I see the big black angry letters ‘MURDER’ and his blood even covers that. The scroll is empty, there is nothing left. At top it has my name and beside it says ‘FOREVEN’. I cry out again.
With shaking hands I open the other scroll and I see my punishment written out. “Zoey Barishtakov is hereby sentence by, the Royal order and Law of God, to eternal damnation in Hell, FOREVER!” and I watch as second miracle happens a drop of blood lands on the paper and the words are washed away. As if I had never done anything. I wept and lament, but how? Why did he do that that? Why? I look up at the one who is died on the cross and I am filled with mixed emotions of pain and confusion, and gratitude unexplainable gratitude! I scream again as I watch the men pierce his body and blood and water come out, he was innocent all along and I did this to him, but why?
I wake up screaming and coughing, choking on my tears. The nurse and doctor surround me, I am flailing and screaming. After some time of fighting they heavily sedate me. I dream nothing but blackness.

It has been a few day since then and they have slowly decreased the dosage as I have calm down. But I will never forget, or be the same.
I sit, alone and try to reason why he did that for me. I have not stopped crying from that moment on. My life will never be the same. I am so humbled by what he did for me. How could I even go on? When someone died for me...and I killed him. And even to the end he loved me. I am so humbled and I do not even have the words to describe how I feel inside. Sometimes I am so happy I do not have to die and sometimes I feel so guilty and the weight of it threatens to drown me in sorrow.
Calvin does know what to do with me and my tears but he stays close to me. And the nurses are kind and I am very grateful for them. The doctors came and check up on me once in a while but there is nothing to be done. It was several days letter and I muse about that nice doctor that came that one day so I asked a nurse about him.
“I don’t know who you talking about.” She says, “I know all the doctors and I have never heard of one dressed in brown.” She checks my temperature, writes down that I am crazy and then leaves. Of course I do not know what she really wrote but I’m sure it was along those lines by the looks she gave me. But I do not care anymore.
I wonder about that doctor and if I will ever see him again. That night when it was very late and I hear Calvin sleeping, a man walks into my room. He sits on the other side of the bed and has on a dark red shirt and black pants; he has brown hair and a nicely kept beard.
“Hello Zoey, how are you feeling?” he asks gently and I recognize that voice but I cannot place him.
“I don’t know anymore.” I answer softly, “I just, it’s just that...well everything...”
“Go on,” he gently persists.
“It’s different.” I cry. “And I don’t know up from down or well anything.”
“What happened to you, to make you feel this way?” he softly asks
“I had a dream, no, it wasn’t a dream. But I really there and everyone tells me it a dream. I just know I was there, and it was real.” I sob, “I did awful things and, and this man, he, he died for me! And I don’t understand why. I just can’t believe someone would do that for me!” the man look at me and smiles.
“I know why.” He say, “It because he love you” and those words hit me so hard, it takes my breath away.
“But why? I am horrible person and I put him on the cross. Why would he do that?” I nearly yell.
“Zoey do you not see,” and then I do see, it is him, the one who did this for me, sitting before me. “I love you Zoey. I died for you Zoey. But because of you, death could not hold me down. Nothing could stop from loving you. I died for you because I love you. I was rejected,” and I remember the dream where I was yelling ‘crucify him’. “So that you Zoey could be accepted. My strips,” and I remember beating him with the whip, “where for your healing, Zoey. I did all of that so that you see how much I love you. How much I want you to be free! The day you dad left you and the abandonment you felt, was my abandonment. Your pain is my pain. Your joy is my joy, Zoey you were the joy set before me to endure the cross. And this” he holds out his hand,
“These holes,” he holds his hands out to me and I see the holes in them. Holes that I put there, “are for you wholeness,” I cry and he holds me. I will never understand this love so whole, pure and undefiled. He pulls me away and. He kisses my forehead and looks me in the eye and say “Zoey, for you I would do it again!” I cry and shack and as my vision is blurred by tears when I blink them away. He is gone. But his presence remains. And from that day I was never the same I will never forget his love. After that time in my life, I never dreamt again. It was a dreamer’s season.
And miracles of miracles the doctors soon let me leave the hospital, Calvin gave me a job at his cafe and he lives with his brother until our wedding in June. And as for the mysterious man? Well that's another story!

















~Let us fix our eyes on Jesus, the author and perfecter of our faith, who for the joy set before him endured the cross, scorning its shame, and sat down at the right hand of the throne of God.~ Hebrews 12:2





Picture can be found at:
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