

After Meeting God in Heaven, Will Skelter's Troubled Past Still Hold Him Back From His Master's Plans?

A novella by

Scott McKernan

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First published in Australia in 2018 by Fling Forth Publishing

Copyright © Scott McKernan 2018

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher/author, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

ISBN 978-0-6483268-4-7

Cover artwork by Scott Mckernan. Cover design by Marmarko, Fiverr.com.

Thanks to Amy Van Horn and Close-Up Editing for their editorial work.

Fling Forth Publishing. PO Box 735, Traralgon, Victoria, Australia.

www.scottmckernan.com

Written with fire, trepidation, and pleasure for those with ears to hear.

# Chapter 1: A Bleak Haze

Some say money makes the world go round. I've heard that love performs that function, but then again, others say it's mere gravity. The constant tug for more–more what? If love is what makes this world spin, to whom do we turn for such a thing? Others? Or are they, too, looking for the same as the rest of us? Me? Hardly—I hold out no hope. I'll pass through this life, and one day, there shall be no trace or memory left of my sorry existence.

The torrent of talk in this rip-torn watering hole rises over the blaring sirens of the three police vehicles that whiz past on Sydney Road out the front of the venue. I take the drinks from the bar and turn back toward the table. I try to block out all of the noise in my head as the memories come back of the repeated beatings I received at school for being poor and for having a burn scar on one side of my face.

If life is the teacher, I passed her exams.

Now, at the age of thirty-three, I reflect on every unkind word spoken to me. They went down into my soul and changed who I was, making me the man I am today. Nobody goes through that unaltered. The beatings taught me who I was. No argument that love and justice are for all stands in the face of a tortured youth. They are lies only for the feeble who have yet to be corrected. Life, the great teacher, catches up with us all in the end. We are not immune from her whip and cane.

In the aching crevice of my heart, fire and blood seethe, as I, Skelter Valentine, make my way through the crowd to the bar and bury my wounds below where no light penetrates. On this rotten hole called Earth—we are lost, and we carry on sleepwalking through our days as though we live. And at night, we drown ourselves in drink to balance the effects of all that we call the human experience.

But there is hope—the news report on the broken TV that sits up behind the bar informs me we have discovered four Earth-like planets that we could potentially inhabit. Only thirty million lightyears away. Perhaps by the time we have invented the technology to get there, we will have reached enlightenment, because God sure knows, after thousands of years of human evolution, the world's in great shape today.

Sharky watches me to ensure I don't spill the two glasses of beer as I take them back outside from the bar to the smoking area where he waits for my return. The chill of the frosted glasses stings the tips of my fingers, which I wipe on my jeans to dry them as I get to our table. The tattoo on his bare arm of the crucifix with the snake entwined around its upright post mirrors the yin-yang symbol on his opposing upper arm. His shaved head reveals two small scars where his dark hair no longer grows, matching, what he told me years ago, the scar under his chin from a bicycle accident when he was a boy that now also bears no whiskers. His glazed, red eyes shift to the ass of the woman with low-cut jeans who passes me on the way to my table.

"What would Amy think?" I ask through my slurred speech as I sit down on the timber bench.

"Amy's in Sydney; I'm in Melbourne. Five hundred miles between us means a free pass for me. While mother hen's away the chicks do stray. Cock-a-doodle-do," Sharky whispers below earshot of the other patrons nearby.

Why do we do this? Why am I friends with him? Because I'm as much a fuck up as he is. The night air passes over my dark hair as the roar of live music penetrates my ears. As I rest my elbow on the table, I feel the bristles on the side of my face before being reminded of the scarring from the burns on my cheek. I feel the uneven texture of my skin. The gold rings on my fingers act as a decoy to attract a mate with the scent of wealth in the hopes that they will offset my facial flaw.

Sharky's eyes scan the crowd inside near the bar, searching for what I know is a woman to meet his carnal desires. "Let's go," he grunts as he finishes his beer. "I'm too far gone to do anything anyway. It's after 2:00. This joint will close soon. Are you ready to crawl back home?"

"Let's do it."

Sharky butts out his smoke in the dirty ashtray, and we get up and stagger out through the crowd and into the sting of the cold air on Sydney Road. The roar of the music wanes as we make our pilgrimage toward my place. I feel his cold forearm nestle in between the stiff collar of my black leather jacket and my neck as he displays his comradery, pulling me closer to keep ourselves entertained with late-night drunken singalongs.

My stomach jolts as saliva runs thin in my mouth, as I feel the woozy effects of the acohol that flows through my viens. The musty aroma of the streets is magnified as I lose awareness of Sharky and our surroundings. I tear myself away from his arm and hurl vomit, in an instant, on the sidewalk beside me, dropping down on my hands and knees. The churning rumble inside me rushes up and erupts in a cascade of beer and froth on the gritty cement below us. I bow down and make my offering to the gods who have lavished their gifts of beer and merriment upon me to quench my soul of the void that consumes me.

A disjointed montage of past memories, thoughts, and feelings that remain unresolved and unexposed runs through my mind as I enact my coping mechanisms to block it all out. Just get all this shit out, and get home and sleep. I'll feel better in a minute. At least I'm too drunk to give a shit about anything right now. Another hurl of golden vomit splashes out onto the ground as the smell of yeast and hops rises up in the air.

As my face nears the concrete, the dry scent of it hurls me back in time as a fourteen-year-old. "Devil's child!" they yelled. The older teens in my church punished me for having the burn scar on the side of my face by grating my head along the church parking lot behind the cars when our parents weren't around. That earthy smell that can only be detected after it's rained on a warm day is forever etched in my memory. My response still echoes in the depths of my inward parts. Devil's child... I'll give you reason for saying that! My need to have some form of control remains twisted up and buried down below.

"Are you all right?" asks Sharky, bending down over me.

I say nothing. I wipe the drool from my mouth and shake the slime onto the sidewalk before drying my hand on my jeans. The welcome experience of feeling purged of my demons comes as my stomach settles, and all sickly sensations leave me. I stand back up and feel the rush of energy as Sharky and I continue on to my place. The sour tingle of acidity from my vomit lingers in my mouth.

"I needed that," I say locking my blurry gaze in the direction of home.

"Do you feel better? Nothing like a hurl after a good night out. You can sleep it off now."

He locks his arm around my neck again, in part, this time, to support me as he continues to lead in song. The endorphins that run through my bloodstream awaken me. After Sharky bellows his chorus of Queen's "We Will Rock You" into the still, cold night, I take the lead and finish the anthem.

"Butter your young man hard on, shower in your seat, gonna break up the world someday." I holler. "What on earth does that mean anyway? They're fucked up lyrics. Was that some cryptic homoerotic message somehow? I dunno."

"You fucked up the words, Skelter. Let's see if you can fuck up another one. Try this... let's do one of Britney Spears'." Our mismatched voices collide and compete, and soon peter out as we stagger and inch our way closer to my street.

Ten minutes later, as we approach our destination, Sharky props me up with both arms, and I dig my hand into my jacket pocket to retrieve my keys while we stand under the front light I left on before our night began. A satisfying feeling gives me some form of comfort, knowing the door is about to open, and I can soon fall asleep. As I turn the handle and see the arctic blue door swing open, Sharky lets go of me, and I collapse and become one with the paved concrete entrance.

"Are you all right?" he asks as he takes a drunken step back.

"Yeah. Go and make sure our beds are ready, and I'll come in in a minute."

"Don't worry, mate; I'll be back to fix you up. Wait there," he assures me.

He marches inside as I garner myself and lift my head up to see if anyone's around, but no one is. Like a freshly picked plum, the tight, youthful abdomen of a lonely ant catches my eyes as it meanders up the painted doorjamb near my face. I blink my eyes to get rid of the blurred vision and notice it has a limp as it soldiers on. I raise my finger up underneath it in a drunken attempt to support him.

"Where are you from, little guy?" I ask as I marvel at him. "And on the fourth day, God created all the creatures that crawl and creep upon the Earth—"

"So, you believe in God now?" interrupts Sharky as he comes back and bends down to lift me up. "You're talking to ants now, too? You are trashed!" He squashes the insect with his hand and dusts it off on his jeans.

The sting of my words cuts through my drunken stupor. "Hell, no! They made me memorize bible verses at church until my ears bled when I was younger. I can't remember if that's how it goes, but I don't really give a shit either."

The haunting memory of my youth spent being told about a perfect God who could never accept me in my imperfection catches up with my drunken conscience. What a youth pastor he was. He sure filled my soul with good news. Prick! I ignore the ache and troubling shadows that loom over me as the burdens of life seem too much to comprehend, but the feelings of being deficient in and of myself linger.

Sharky lifts me up with his arm around my waist and guides me up through the living area and into the hovel that is my bedroom. Clothes cover the carpet in piles, ready to be washed tomorrow in order for my cleaning lady to iron them for the next week of work. I pull out my wallet from my jeans pocket and throw it on the floor. Off comes my jacket, and with Sharky's help, I climb under my blanket and undress further, out of his sight.

"I wish I had a clue," come the words out of my mouth.

"What are you talking about? You're a fucking marketing exec. Most people are dumb. Not you. Night," he says as he flips off the light switch and leaves to go crawl into the sofa bed in the spare room. Once he's gone, I jerk my blanket halfway over my body to keep warm. Can I really be bothered tucking my sweet self in for a good night's sleep... the trash that I am?

††††††† ††††††† †††††††

After warm, salty bacon and eggs for breakfast on Monday morning, I prepare for another day of madness at work. Shit! I'll end up jobless like Sharky if I keep up last night's efforts. No one would hire me if they saw the state I was in. What can I do? I pull myself together and conceal all troubles from exposure. As I ready myself, I succumb to the demands of my job that offer me my choice of luxuries, knowing I will need to sell chunks of my soul, little by little. I know the lifeless machinery of the marketing industry in which I work.

Experiences thrust upon me throughout my life, including growing up with burn scars, have taught me the secrets to my marketing mastery. I know what people really want. I unpack all the jargon and hype and get to where the truth is at. My expertise cuts through to the core, resulting in bigger profits for my employers. In my line of work, niceness is overrated—people want truth—they want connection. I simply exploit those facts and make them think they're in for a good deal—make them think they need the shit I sell.

After a steaming hot shower to wake me up, I check for wrinkles in my clothes as I put on a fine cotton shirt and my blue pinstripe suit. At least the money's good. Some poor bastards are worse off than me, like the homeless guys I see around. It's all one big fucking waste, really. Why don't they have what I do? I get to buy whatever I want, but it does me no good. Nothing does. It was only luck and chance that I got into marketing. Otherwise, I'd be as poor as everyone else. A few mere coincidences—that's how fickle life is. Nothing can be relied upon. I button up the cuffs and finish my attire with a salmon tie held close to my chest with a sterling silver tie clip. The coffee machine beeps, signaling my latte is ready which I sip to revive myself for the day ahead.

I slide into my new silver Mustang GT and drive over to the other side of the city where I work. The gleam of the paint on the hood reflects the passing clouds above as I drive along while I revel in the luxurious scent of fine leather from my car's interior. The corridor of oak trees along the street stands bare as they usher me into the steel and glass complex that sits gleaming between two dated concrete apartment buildings. I grip the leather-bound handbrake and pull it up as I leave my wheels underground and head inside to the air-conditioned foyer and get ready for business.

As I push through the swinging door into the meeting room, I march in, and the sterile scent of new carpet fills my nostrils. The pristine interiors of this white room settle me as I walk past the oversized abstract painting that hangs to my right. The two fake, plastic palms that sit either side of the north-facing window give the appearance of life. Ironically, they represent the company's values—attractive to the eye, but deceptive by nature.

The team of marketers under my command sit ready and waiting at the solid oak conference table, preparing to work on the company's new launch for its latest product. Tyler, Woodford & Beckingham LLC, where I work as head marketer, manufactures natural-remedy style products designed to rip off unwitting affluent consumers with their 'miracle cure' claims for their tree bark products. Their cut-throat legal department scan the therapeutic goods legislation, looking for loopholes and ways around the very laws that are designed to stop them from selling their snake oil remedies.

"Gentlemen," I say to greet my colleagues as I swivel my leather chair around and take a seat at the table.

The team of three lawyers, five marketers, and I all look up to the head of the table where Miles Franchetti, the unscrupulous company director, draws their attention with the waving of his pen. To most, he is a feared man. Some question whether his connections to the Sicilian Mafia are merely blood-ties, or if they are indeed 'business' associates.

"Today, people, we introduce the world to the wonders of Calcii striviatis—the botanical name we have coined for the common jungle weed known locally in Peru as Murunahua's spinach... or some shit like that. It grows in abundance throughout parts of the Amazon, which is why we like it. It's cheap," states Franchetti as he leans forward over the table with his fingers pressing down. "Doesn't do much—it's a weed, but that's where you guys come in," he says as he looks at us. "Make it do something! Get creative. We want this to be a daily supplement. The more pills per day, the better—as long as we're not creating liabilities for ourselves. You legals, get the toxicity reports done. The native Indians eat this shit, so it can't be that bad. Make up a story about the Wahoochie-Toochie-Whatever Indians that get super strength from eating it. I don't know. That's what you get paid for. Run it past our labs, and we'll find ways to verify the claims. We want this to hit the shelves within four months. Action it today!" Franchetti turns and walks out the door, leaving the team to sort it out.

"Okay, we've got problems to solve," says Dan, the lawyer with the slicked back haircut and thick-rimmed glasses.

"We do," I say as I lean on the table with my elbows.

"We could make daily shake powders that lose belly fat," says Mitchel, one of my marketers.

Jacob, another marketer, replies, "The big guys have that market cornered. We'd only get a thin slice of that pie. Think outside the box—did the Indians use it as an anti-anxiety medication, perhaps? We could corner that market for natural remedies. We could get placebo tests done and use the positive results to verify our claims. It's a lucrative segment."

Mitchel butts in. "We could go the route nobody wants to go and make a shake powder to ward off hemorrhoids. They're a big problem. Most of us get them at some stage in our lives."

"Have you considered the hurdles in selling that to the public? They don't want to have that discussion, and they certainly don't want a container of your hemorrhoid shake powder sitting in their kitchen pantries," I say. "The anxiety option could work."

By the end of the meeting, we have concocted and crafted a flawless idea to churn large profit margins from no more than dried green grass. The pace of my heart picked up while, one need at a time, I delivered my marketing expertise and devised a seamless strategy to deliver this powdered weed into countless homes across the country. The crowning glory of this venture? By the time our claims are proved scientifically unsubstantial, we'll be well on the way to calculating our next big move. Perhaps we can grind hay and promote the hell out of its ancient healing properties after we have worked our magic and created a little spin. By then, our bank accounts will be fatter, and we'll close down the company, only to open up another offshoot under another name. Divinely glorious. At least Sharky thinks so. But the internal gnawing... if this is divine, God ultimately enslaves.

# Chapter 2: The End is Nigh

I slam my empty glass down on the bar at the end of another night after a week of futile business dealings. Some part of me knows. Even now in my inebriated condition, I know. But am I able to care? Close the doors and shut up the windows. Drown out every last trace of consciousness, and ignore the vacancy inside me that fucks with my mind. On the outside, I pretend I matter, just like the next guy, and never let my true colors reach the light of day. Why should I reveal my sorry self to some other wretch? We're all fucked, really. Keep it all in, and never let them see.

Without Sharky or other companions to part ways with, tonight I creep out the front entrance of the bar into the darkness of the night and meander up the road once more. As I head for home, I reflect on that solitary ant I saw only a week ago at my house. Where were you going, little guy? What the fuck were you doing? You looked like you knew what you were doing... and you're only a speck of an ant. How come you won that favor, and I got screwed over? How the fuck does a tiny little thing like you know what to do and where to go? Maybe you guys are the higher life forms after all. Maybe we just think we matter. Do we impress ourselves for... for what?

I'm fucked. And I'm fucked because I'm fucked. The musty scent of the gravel I smelled when my face got stomped into the ground at church as a teenager comes back to my memory. It's all hopeless. The roots of worthlessness go down deeper into my soul. No one's gonna want me with my face. A successful marketing executive—it's all a big needless act. If life is the great teacher, truth sucks. All I have learned is that I need to sell my soul to succeed, and in return, I get paid with an emptiness I can't fill.

I crave the warmth and soft comfort of the bed I know I will climb into in a matter of minutes. The rowdy sounds of the bar echo behind me and fall away into the distance. In this lonely world, on this empty street, I am tempted to kick the half full bottle of beer I come across that sits upright on the sidewalk. As drunk as I am, I am in control and resist the urge to shatter the glass. Like a scrap of wasted, windswept paper, I drift on up the road and stop as I wait for the late-night tram to pass before I cross over the tracks embedded into the road on the northern edge of Brunswick.

The tram whooshes past me and sends out the chatter from its underside as it careens along the rails. I watch it head up this corridor away from the Melbourne Central Business District and step onto the road with my careless gaze fixed on the street up ahead. The headlights of a speeding car come out from behind the tram, and before the danger registers in my mind, my body goes into shock as I am knocked into the curb like trash to be swept away. I hear the revs of the car accelerating as it drives off, leaving me still and unsure if I am able to move. Something's not right. A warm, heavy sensation pounds in my right upper thigh. I feel my body's immediate responses to the situation—fluctuating temperatures, sensory hyperawareness, the short, sharps breaths, and the rush of blood to my damaged leg.

Adrenaline pumps and radiates throughout my every atom. Shock. Do I care? I wait for something to register in my brain that tells me what to do. Something must matter. I must matter. I manage to sit up and stretch out my arm to ensure it works and reach inside the lower left pocket of my jacket to find my phone. The sobering effects of the situation straighten me up. I feel the cold glass surface of my Android and lift it out to call an ambulance. I hold it up to my eyes and focus but notice the screen and part of the casing is shattered and damaged. Help me. I press my thumb onto the button to switch it on but see only a blackened screen. I feel the fine cracks and missing shards of glass on the screen as my thumb passes over its surface. It's broken. What the hell am I supposed to do?

"Hey, mate. It's all right. I saw what happened. You came close to being killed by that maniac. God must be watching over you, that's for sure. Don't worry, I'll take care of you." I can't turn to see who it is that speaks as the pain from my leg begins to emerge.

"Who's there?" I ask.

A kind, dirty face appears as a guy who seems to be in his thirties hovers above me. The moonlight creates a glint in his eyes that pierces through to the core of who I am. What's happening? His scraggly hair appears unwashed and tangled. I notice the sweet smell of his body odor as he crouches down to my level. The cuffs on the sleeves of his denim jacket have a layer of grime that appears to have built up over a long period of time, and as I look down, I notice his torn shoe reveals a patch of his thick, black sock that covers his big toe on his left foot.

"It's okay. I'll take care of you. My name's Jack. My place is around the corner. I'll get you in there and fix you up. Can you walk?"

I manage to pull myself together and sit upright. I pull the corner of my jacket away to look at my leg. "It's sore. I think I'm all right."

"We'd better get you inside and get you a coffee and some food before you go to where you're going. We can call an ambulance if you need it. My mate's got a phone inside the squat."

Squat? I'm in no condition to resist, so I take hold of his arm as he guides me up onto my feet. A dull pain beats inside my upper thigh. "I think it's all right. I don't know if it's broken, but I can walk."

"I can smell the beer on you. That'll help ease things, aye?" he says with a cheery smile.

We hobble along, side by side, with his arm around my waist for support as we cross the road. Soon, we walk around the corner to a house that has boarded up windows and an overgrown garden. He carefully guides me up the side path and around to the back door. The bare kitchen window near the back door reveals the shabby interior of this scarcely furnished house. I see another man that looks older than Jack inside eating dry cereal straight out of the box.

The sight of their poverty hits me. I've never been this up close before. Not even milk with his cereal. I'm not sure it should be Jack helping me, and I think I've spent all my cash at the bar. Some form of gravitational pull swallows me up from the inside. As Jack guides me in through the broken back door, we enter into the light face-to-face, and I see myself in him. Another human. How did he get like this? Why isn't he asking me for help? That glint in his eyes comes back as his warm smile shines through his grubby exterior. Somehow, I feel bathed by him in ways I've never known—perhaps by the waters of kindness? Some pleasing sensation begins to emerge in me, and I'm not sure what it is or whether I'm comfortable with it.

"Let's get you onto the mattress and make sure you're not bleeding. You may need proper help with this," says Jack as he lays me down on the dirty, frayed mattress on the kitchen floor. "That's Beano over there. He's all right. A bit nuts like me, but most of us are who are on the streets."

I hesitate to look, but amid the uncertainty I feel in this unfamiliar place, I offer a smile in Beano's direction. His bloodshot eyes bulge a little, and their glassy appearance contrasts with his unwashed face. Loud crunches are heard as he chews mouthfuls of the chocolate flavored cereal pieces while he sits hunched on the steel-framed chair. His leather boots have tagged graffiti scrawled over them in black ink. They clash with his faded tracksuit pants and the striped shirt he has tucked inside them.

"Did they beat you?" asks Beano.

"Nah, Beano. A car hit him, but I think he's all right," replies Jack. "Just want to check on him in case. There's no blood, and you can walk and talk. You're probably fine. You might want to get it checked out at the hospital, but I'd say at least rest up for a few days. You're going to have a hell of a bruise, I'll bet," remarks Jack as he sits back down on the floor.

In my heightened state of awareness from the alcohol and adrenaline, I look around the room and say nothing as I take in the sights of their living conditions. Empty brown beer bottles lay scattered on the floor under the kitchen counter. An old electrical power strip stretches from the socket in the wall near the window to where it sits on the counter with too many appliances plugged into its deteriorated plastic carcass. I inspect the room for used syringes as stories come back to my mind of the drug addicted homeless that I've seen on the news. I find none. A fuzzy, small brown teddy bear lays on its back with its dark beady eyes looking straight out as though it waits to be held by someone in need of its warmth.

"I'll make you a coffee if you like. There's some stew left if you want it, too. It'll revive you to get you where you're going," says Jack with a smile.

"Just the coffee will do." Is this place clean?

"No problems," he remarks.

"Thanks for your help. I don't live far away, so I'll head off after the coffee." He has nothing but has given me more than most others have. I search for words, but nothing comes. I reach my hand down in my pocket and pull out my wallet while Jack and Beano tend to the kettle and cups.

"It'll have to be black. We don't have milk, mate. Is that all right?" asks Jack.

"Sure."

I open up the crevice in the center of my leather wallet and find a ten-dollar bill I was sure I had spent on the last glass of beer at the bar. I pull out the bill along with the loose coins that sit inside. "Look," I say to Jack as he plugs the electric kettle cord into the crowded power strip. "I don't have much on me..., and I don't want you to feel offended, but take this at least." He looks over and sees me hold out the cash in my hand.

I test my leg and ease myself up off of the mattress to see if I'm able to stand up. The dull thud in my thigh lessens as I take soft steps in the direction of the kitchen counter. I hobble over and place the cash on the counter next to the three empty cups amid the grime and dirty plates.

"God bless you, mate," he says as the glint in his eyes twinkles.

Those words hit me. How can I tell him that's all bullshit? He's not blessed himself, but somehow, he seems to have something I don't. "I don't believe in a God," I say. "Not when.... It doesn't matter. I just don't." I couldn't tell him that his life circumstances are one of the many things in this world that offer up, in my eyes, proof that fairy tales, magic spells, or a loving God are all dead-end streets. "How do you guys pay the bills for this place?" I ask. "I'm surprised the power is turned on."

"We've only been here a couple of months. We'll stay until we get kicked out. Whoever the owner is, they'll eventually get contacted when the bills aren't paid. We'll get moved on to somewhere else as usual. I need a piss," says Jack. "I'll just go to the bathroom."

He scrambles out of the kitchen and up the hall toward the right side of the house as I wait for the kettle to boil so I can drink up and get back home. Beano says nothing as he sits back down on his chair after following Jack around in the kitchen. He strikes me as a lost soul. Aren't we all? I hear the flush of the toilet and the floorboards squeak as Jack walks across the floor of the bathroom to wash his hands.

The rumble of the water inside the belly of the kettle as it boils causes the switch to flip itself off. Some form of comfort surrounds me as I hear the floorboards squeak again, knowing I will share this simple drink with Jack. I'll never forget this—him. There are actually crumbs of kindness in this world. And not where I expected to find them. I know where he lives—I might come back and find him and offer him a meal at least. I think I prefer his company in many ways over Sharky's. I actually feel grateful toward him, and until now, I'm not sure I've ever felt that.

I lift the kettle from its base to pour our black coffee, but the tangled cord catches the bottom as I pull it toward me. The cord snares the switch near the base, and as a piercing pain from the bruising runs up my leg, I drop the kettle onto the counter and rush to grab it as it spills water everywhere. My hand touches the wet surface of the kettle that is connected to the pool of water on the counter that is attached to the overcrowded live power strip. I hear Jack yell as I am shocked with a motherlode of electrical current.

# Chapter 3: Seized by the Light

Where am I? There's no one around. I can't tell if it's day or night. There's no sun or moon, but the streets are lit up with a light that fills the air. And it's neither hot nor cold. Time seems inexistent, as though somehow everything stays. Everything here belongs, but I wonder if I do. Am I dead?

The street is lined with stores on both sides, and no cobweb or speck of dust is found on any shiny glass storefront. Even the dirt that the trees grow in on the side of the road looks brand new and clean. The air smells heavenly and pure without any trace of stench or odor. Suddenly, up ahead, a tall, blond man turns onto my street and keeps walking away up the road.

"Hey!" I shout.

He turns his head back and notices me waving my arms. He nods his head in a gesture for me to follow him but then swiftly pushes his way through a glass door into a pizzeria. Sensing no need to run, I take my time as I soak in the views of this sublime city. As I approach the door, I see the hand-painted logo on it that says 'The Lonely Olive.' I peer through the glass seeing the blond guy standing inside as I walk in.

His fashion sense strikes me. Long white feathers stem out from his cuffs and cover his hands. Is this New York or Paris? No. I was in Brunswick just before. But who wears that? Where the hell am I? Who the hell is he? His soft, masculine face brims with beauty like I have never seen. Maybe he is a runway model. Still dressed in my black jacket and jeans, I stand side by side with this guy, a complete stranger. The Middle Eastern store owner piles up boxes of pizzas ready to go on the counter, waiting for the delivery guy to come in and pick them up. The scent of the olives and oregano beckons me to place an order.

"It's nice to meet you, Skelter," comes the soft, strong greeting from the lips of the guy with the peculiar dress sense.

"Do you know me?" I ask.

"I'm Gabe. I have a message for you, if you're willing to hear it?"

The store owner whacks another stack of pizzas on the counter as the doorbell rings, and his delivery guy comes in and takes them away.

"Reach out and take it," says the blond guy as I turn my head toward him.

"They're not mine," I say as I stand and wait to be served.

"Not the pizzas—God's treasures from Heaven," he insists.

I feel my eyebrows draw closer together with an uncertain scowl upon my face as I look at him. "Dude, now back off. What the hell are you talking about? And how the fuck do I reach out to someone or something I can't see and take what isn't there?"

Instantly, he responds, "The same way you don't receive what you don't have. Don't you feel the night calls for a little risk and a little twist?"

"Huh?"

The cold chill of uncertainty spreads throughout my bones as the guys behind the counter and the few customers waiting all stop and listen. They seem unsurprised.

"You're not receiving it because you don't believe it's there. This is why you don't have it. If you want it, you take it by believing you have it." He appears to check and see that I'm listening and notices the glint of intrigue in my eyes as I stand and face him.

"If you believe you are nothing, that is all you will be. If, however, you believe you've got it, you will have it. It's not trickery. You can look to your circumstances, which are mostly the results of yesterday's beliefs, and use them to keep reinforcing those same old beliefs..., or you can choose a new road. Your heart hungers for something so real, but you deny yourself this very thing because you choose to believe you can't have it. It's what you were destined for. All things will come to you in their time if you believe. Who you believe you are, when the lights are out and you're all alone, makes you."

The light of the pizza oven turns red, signaling that the next greasy pizza is cooked and ready to be cut and boxed. The Middle Eastern guy turns and tends to his pizzas as I look back to speak with Gabe, but no one's there.

"He does that," remarks the store owner. "Here one minute, gone the next." He points across the road and tells me that my next appointment is in the diner with the flashing neon lights. I guess I'm not having pizza for dinner. I leave the pizzeria to cross the street and duck into Murphey's Diner, hoping to find a tasty meal and see what awaits inside.

I enter in through the glass door with a welcome sign that hangs inside and rattles against the glass pane. I follow the scent of good, hearty food up to the glass guard that surrounds the stainless-steel dishes of curries and homestyle food.

"Can I help you?" asks the petit waitress with poorly applied lipstick and blush as she adjusts her skirt.

"I'll have spaghetti and meatballs, thanks. And a side of fries." I peer at her, wondering who she is and where this place is, but say nothing more.

The door rattles as it opens, and in comes another tall guy with dark hair. What's with the feathers in this place? A few pristine white feathers fall to the floor behind him that came from inside his pale gray jacket. He walks up and stands beside me, inquiring with his eyes at what this place has to eat. The waitress offers me my plate of spaghetti and meatballs, and I go to take out my wallet to pay but find it's not in my pocket.

"I left my wallet at.... It doesn't matter. I don't know what I'm doing here anyway," I say to her as my stomach rumbles.

"You don't need money here, Skelter," says the tall guy in the jacket next to me.

"You know me, too?"

"I'm Mike. I eat here, too."

I look up at the waitress and see she is waiting for me to take my meal. I go and sit in one of the green leather booths alongside the far wall of this narrow diner.

"Devilled sausages and mash, please," says Mike as he watches the woman take handwritten orders. "With extra devil!" He gazes into her eyes and gives a wink and a smile.

"Coming up," she says as she grabs the bottle of hot sauce from the bench behind her and serves up a man-sized meal.

He takes his food from the counter and sits in the booth under the only light fitting that doesn't work. The glow from the lights above the bain-marie, where the ready-made food keeps hot, gives this small diner its heart and soul. The booths along the left-hand side where we sit host the odd customer eating their fill of food.

"Extra devil... naughty but nice!" I say to Mike as he glances over at me from the nearby booth.

"I like spice," he replies with his eyes fixed on me.

I notice the lavish gold rings that adorn his hands as he uses his fork to eat his sausages. They sparkle in the warm light. I can't take my eyes off of him. He seems flawless somehow, like a fairy tale prince.

"I'm really more of an angel food cake type of guy if you read me," he says. "I usually eat chili on nights like this. Do you prefer to dine with angels or devils? What floats your boat?"

A whirlpool of dark emotions from a life of bitter sadness roars up inside me. I cannot hide the scowl that shows on my face before I continue. "You can't have the yin without the yang, right? How would you know Heaven if you haven't been to Hell? What about you? Don't you dabble a little on the edge... or occasionally cross over?"

"Mister, your time will end. Aren't you sick of the emptiness?"

"That's all life is—the big empty," I say.

Mike sprinkles a fine shower of salt on his sausages before he replies. "Don't you hear your destiny calling?" His eyes pierce beyond my protective layers, into the core of who I am. "It's that little knowing on your inside. That prick of consciousness that invites you to dance and asks you to take the next step... and then the next. It's that still, small voice you've been ignoring for a long time. It's inviting, but you've never been sure whether to trust it, and you'd much rather stay with the crowd where it's safe. All that you know—those streets, your thought patterns, your concept of reality—it's all safe. It's what you know, and you're not willing to step out of the boat and walk on water."

"But we're only animals, mister. Destined to eat, shit, sleep, and...." I give a sleazy smile he doesn't care to see. "Create offspring... to eat, shit, and sleep."

"Then why is it your conscience troubles you? You see, your kind are the only inhabitants on Earth with the capacity to believe. What you believe, well, they're the big questions now for everyone, aren't they?

My kind? I lean back on the dark green leather seat. "I've heard it all before, and I'm not interested in what you're sellin'."

Without a pause, he responds, "There are so many options in what to believe, aren't there? So many opposing world views. So many religions. And within each of these, there are multiple, hundreds, of variations. Confusing isn't it? Don't you just want to click 'close' and shut the site down and go to bed? Or do you want to climb the mountain? The views are stunning!"

"Mister, and I suppose you've got the right religion... or the only true religion... are you the new Messiah?" I say as I give him a filthy look. "Buddy, tell me this, if you've got all the answers, then why are you here... with me... dressed like you are, and not healing the sick and feeding the poor?"

He finishes his meal and pushes his plate to one side, relaxed, ready to answer. "You don't know how sick and hungry you are, and the food I'm trying to give you comes from Heaven's finest restaurant, seasoned with plenty of salt the way you like it."

He leans forward in his seat and replies, "Suppose there is no right religion or world view. That prick of consciousness still hungers for answers. Your soul will not rest until it is satisfied with truth. Perhaps there is no true religion—only an ever-increasing process and journey of knowing God—Someone no one knows in His fullness."

"Oh, but mister, my guess is as good as yours."

He leans forward in his seat. "Truth isn't a religion. What you decide to call truth—is it? Can you create it by deciding what it is or believing it? Or is it a greater force than mere mortals that speaks to you and hopes you take hold? My question for you is, will you decide to believe the Truth... for whatever you discover it to be? Maybe then it will come looking for you."

I sit dumbfounded as he gets up to leave. No smile is offered as he looks at me when he passes by. Only a respectful nod of his head is given.

I jerk his jacket as he draws level with my seat. "What is truth to you?"

The couple sitting in the booth at the front of the diner, along with the waitress that served us, gaze in our direction to check things don't get out of hand. He softly replies, "Uppercase G, lowercase o and d. He desires a relationship and to be known."

I withdraw my hand from his jacket and settle back down. "He desires a relationship, aye? I'll give him a relationship—I'll talk to him." I tilt my head back down low toward the table. "I once had a dream. When I was a child, I wanted to grow up to be big and important. Didn't matter how. I just didn't want to be pushed around anymore." He gazes at me as I feel comforted by his presence.

I continue. "So, God, thank you for allowing me to hope when I was little. Thank you very much for the cold nights alone."

He stands ready to hear it all as my voice momentarily cheers a little.

"Thank you for the Cabernet Sauvignon, now there's a true friend. God wants a relationship with me? Tell me, how do you have a relationship with a bastard like that?"

He sees the sorry sight of who I am—broken and lost—but I continue. "My heart still has a small glow of beating warmth in it. I prefer to keep that going and not let his still, silent coldness slowly erode and wither its remains. Tell me, how do you justify preaching a loving God in this world? We live in the same world, don't we? Tell me this... when you bleed on the inside and no one's there...."

The waitress glances over at us while I look up at Mike as I feel pain tensing my facial muscles. "Your God is not real. He was eaten alive and consumed by my god of nothingness at the dawn of time. This is really all we have now. Nothingness. We are empty space, and God is a soulless vacuum. Nothing matters. We die—nothing meets nothing. Space in a vacuum."

He tilts his head to one side and closes his eyes as he speaks. "Where do you think you are at this very moment?"

I look around at the detailed interior of the diner, inspecting the craftsmanship down to the stainless-steel rivets on the sides of the counters. This place is real. I touch the tabletop with my fingers and press down, checking for solidity.

Despite my unease, he continues. "You may be space, but you're still here. The fact that I hear your pain and silenced cries, the fact that the small glow of beating warmth in you wants to be heard, tells me you're alive. If you're alive and want to be heard... tell me this... is this universe sound? If this world were not sound, it would have ended soon after it began, like a poorly constructed and insufficiently thought through house of straw. So, for every need, there are solutions. Wouldn't you agree? The question remains though. Who has your answers? Prayer is not talking to the wind."

"The wind is real!" I seethe under my breath.

"If you say you don't believe in God, then why do you have those painfully difficult questions that require answers? Who will answer your questions? Who will meet your need? Don't you think that a God who is everything worth being would be enough of a gentleman to hear you out? In such a marvelous and rich universe as this, how is it that you think even a hair on your head could fall to the ground without the knowing of its Creator? God wants to hear your anger. He wants to hear it because this will lead to real conversation if you persist, and that's what He's after—connection. Why have you gone through all you have only to hear this now? Well, that is a question you have. Ask Him... if that's what you want." He gets up and leaves the diner as I sit and contemplate his words.

As soon as Mike walks out the door, another stranger enters. The two glare at each other closely as they pass by. They speak not. His finely crafted garments draw my eyes. The front of his matt black coat opens as he puts his right hand into his pants pocket, revealing a fitted purple shirt with a stunning bright orange tie. This new, tall figure glides up to the bain-marie with his back toward me as I hear him speak to the waitress.

"I'd order if only the food were to my liking. But be kind to yourself, sweetheart—not everyone has the gift. Though I'm sure you tried real hard. The failure must disappoint. It seems inevitable in this place. It's such a pity. If only you had listened to me... How glorious it all would have been."

The hem of his long black coat flits in the air as he turns and looks in my direction. For a second, I thought I saw flames in his eyes, but I now question if it was a reflection from the dangling orange lightshade. My senses are drawn to his mysterious demeanor, but somehow, I feel a descent in my inward parts, like a rush from the top floor down to ground level. His fine leather shoes tap the floor as he walks past me and whispers.

"Follow me."

I watch him go up to the end of the row of booths at the back of the diner and take a seat at the last table and wait. What have I got to lose? I leave the remains of my meal and head in his direction as my fingers caress the tabletops along the way. Why is my stomach unsettled? My eyes behold his handsome looks and fine, dark attire. The closer I get, the more my stomach sinks. "Who are you?" I ask as I stand in the aisle next to his table.

His stern smile is interrupted by his eloquent tone of voice. "Take a seat, Skelter. Call me Sam. They call me other things around here, but I prefer Sam."

"Who was that other guy you passed on the way in? The things he said.... I can't get them out of my head," I confide.

Sam sits up erect. "My good friend, I wouldn't let meaningless drivel from a hack like him bother you. Why don't we get our discussions onto a more pleasing note? I know the trickery and cunning of that guy. Just listen to me. I've come to ease your soul."

Again, I thought I saw a flash of fire in his left eye. I look upward but see no lightshade. He interrupts my train of thought with his speech as he waves his hand in front of my eyes. "Mike—he wants everyone to believe his fairy tales, but we both know they're mere lies we tell our children to give them hope. What a cruel world. If only he knew what you've lived with... that ache that won't go away.... No wonder you don't warm to his yarns. You know... you know you can't believe in a God like he suggests. If He exists, we both know He ain't interested in souls like us. Not in the world from where you came. You know where it's at, don't you? Trust those feelings that rise up in your soul. They're the only truth any of us can ever rely on. I sense the moment is coming when you will need to choose your path. Stick with what you know, Skelter. Emotions don't lie."

Without any sense of movement, I find myself in another place. The diner—gone. Sam—gone. I look around, and a dense black surrounds me. I turn in the other direction in what feels like sheer emptiness but see nothing. I rub my eyes to clear them, but still there are no shapes, colors, or forms. No sounds ring in the air. There is no sensation of the ground under me, nor air surrounding my skin. Am I floating? Still there is no sky, moon, or stars.

A light appears up above in the distance, but I cannot move toward it. There seems to be a form inside the light. Perhaps it is the figure that the light stems from. What's that? I reach and try to get closer, but nothing changes. A beauty appears within the light that I have never known or seen, but I cannot express a response. Like heavenly water, a voice comes from the light, "The Father of Lies has weaved his threads over your eyes since you were born. The blindfold you unknowingly wear keeps out the Light by the darkness of the lies you believe about yourself and Who I Am. Only believe, and your time will come."

"Who are You? How did I get here?"

"Think back, Skelter. You knew of Me when you were young. I Am."

I hold my tongue as both hope and horror compete for victory inside me.

The voice continues. "You have one choice to make while you are here."

His words I cannot escape. They fill my being.

"You can stay here, or if you prefer, you can return to Earth to seek that which was always yours—your destiny. It's up to you."

I remain wary after hearing Sam, but the tug to stay in this comfort is instantly overridden as the memory of my hollow past floods my soul, and I am burnt up with fury to know what awaits me and what might be. I sense there's something better than that which I have known. "Take me back!"

"As you wish," come the sudden words.

"He's back," I hear as I squint through sore eyes. Who said that? I make out that the person bending down next to me is wearing a uniform. I concentrate and strain my eyes in an attempt to identify him but cannot.

"Get him onto the stretcher," he orders.

In seconds, I feel myself being rolled onto my side and lifted onto a stretcher and carried away. I vaguely hear a familiar sound—squeaking floorboards. I'm at Jack's. Once again, I am thrust into darkness as I feel the chill of the late-night air on my face outside. Where am I now? I feel the thud of my weight drop as I realize I am being put into the back of an ambulance. I close my eyes and rest as they tend to my needs on the three-minute trip to the hospital.

"Hook him up to the ECG, and I want an IV in his arm pronto," I hear while the rush of lights pass over me as I am whizzed down the corridor and into the ER.

I come to a halt as I hear curtains being pulled shut around me and medical staff giving and taking orders as they poke and prod me. A large, round, bright white light dazzles me from above my head as my vision comes back. "Come back!" I holler. A woman in pale blue clothing assures me everything is fine as I look closer at the light.

I make out the thin metal rim of the round light fitting overhead and begin to calm down. "But I saw him," I insist to the staff. "I was somewhere. There was nothing except the light."

"It's okay. We'll keep you in for observation overnight to check on you," says the woman who I can now make out is the nurse in charge. I see her name, Janet, is written on a nametag that is pinned to her chest. "You came close. You had a major electrical shock back there. You're lucky there was someone there to save you."

After grasping the information of what has just happened, knowing I only need to rest, my mind goes onto the commotion in the partition beside me on the other side of the curtain. The beat of my heart stills as I listen. The medical staff count as they perform what sounds like a CPR procedure. I imagine the heavy thumps on my chest as though it were my heart being resuscitated.

"We're losing him. Get the defibrillator... now!" barks the doctor with a husky voice.

Time both moves forward and is simultaneously sucked into an unknown vortex as the patient is declared deceased just behind the curtain. All I can hear is my quiet breathing as the sighs and other noises drift into the distant. That could have been me. After an hour of fussing by doctors and nurses, I fall asleep and rest my bones as I dream.

# Chapter 4: Suddenly Awake

The sharp scent of disinfectant wakes me as I hear the swoosh of the microfiber mop glide along the floor down on my right side. As light enters through the slits of my eyes, I recall the troubles of the night before. What happened? Where was I? Someone died.... That was real. I'm in the hospital. But those other people... and that voice—the light.... I run my hands down over the crisp linen and feel the cold steel of the bed frame that keeps me from falling out. They've put me in my own room. Urgency hits me as I try to get my bearings on where I'm at. It's Saturday. I don't have to be anywhere.

Several minutes later, a nurse pokes her head into my room to check on me and sees that I'm awake. Her tied-back hair and sharp uniform conveys she is a woman of duty. "Ah, Mr. Valentine, I thought you would wake soon. We've been waiting for you. Do you realize you had a close call last night?" she asks.

"Some of it is a blur," I reply as she takes a step into the room.

"You actually died. The EMTs had to revive you."

As though it were a faint and distant memory from a place I'm not sure I've been to, I recall being in a dark place with that strange light. "I feel okay. Am I?"

"We've given you fluids overnight, and your heart rate is good. Rest up for the weekend, but you're free to go unless you have any questions," she informs me as she stands next to my bed and adjusts my pillow.

I call a cab from reception, and in minutes I am on my way home with a new experience to reflect on. The rush of acceleration stirs me as we drive off while the chaotic sounds of the inner city fill my ears. I pass the bar on my left in which I drowned myself in beer last night. The memory of Jack flashes across my mind. I can stop here. I need to thank him. I tell the cab driver to stop on the corner up ahead, just near Jack's street. After swiping my card to pay, I step out, ready to visit Jack in his makeshift home.

The late morning breeze and scattered sunlight washes over me as I walk into his yard and up the side walkway. The derelict yard around the back is overgrown with grass and weeds. A pile of old timber lays buried under a sheet of rusted corrugated tin. I peer through the back kitchen window and see Beano still sitting in his lonely chair. I knock on the door and push it open after turning the cold aluminum handle. Beano barely acknowledges my presence. "Hey, Beano, is Jack here? I want to thank him for last night."

"He's gone," he states abruptly without looking up at me.

"Will he be around later today?"

"He's dead." He rocks himself slightly as he sits there facing the back window. "They took him to the hospital last night with you, but they came back and told me he's dead."

My mind sharpens as I recall the situation in the adjacent partition last night. That was Jack. "How did he die?" I inquire, needing to know.

"The stupid bugger pulled you away from the kettle, but he got shocked, too. It was me who pulled out the fuse and called the ambulance."

I withdraw. Yearning, sadness, and the image of Jack's sweet face all rumble around in my head and heart. I try to say something. Words don't come. I open my mouth in the hope that words might physically fall out, but my soul is clamped shut and my spirit dry. I try to offer up a smile but am unsure if I succeed as I close the door and leave. That should have been me. If it wasn't for me, he'd still be here. The remembrance of his words and warmth still touches me in ways I've never known, and I will never see him again.

On my own, I march the three blocks up to my place and go straight inside. What do I do? I nearly died. I did die! But what about Jack? He died saving me. What the hell's going on? Was this just luck that I survived? That voice.... I chose to come back.... There's a destiny for me. This thing is now bigger than me. I dive into the shower to wash away all that has been the past twenty-four hours, but afterward, the memory stays. The need for connection between me and I'm not sure what yet emerges. I throw my towel off and duck under the blanket in my warm bed, naked as the moon.

That voice. The light. Was it real? I bounce ideas back and forth in my mind to evaluate my experience of dying. I know now that I cannot prove what I saw nor forget that figure in the light. The message—only believe, and your time will come. Those words run through me and mesh with every part of who I am. Who was he? That was real. It wasn't a dream. Dreams don't stay with me like this. I've got to figure this out.

††††††† ††††††† †††††††

Sharky and a bunch of his friends crowd around on the sofas in my living area as we talk over the loud music concerning the events of the previous night. Two cartons of beer are wedged between my sofa chair and the three-seater that Sharky sits on. I'm not sure why, but I choose not to drink. Someone finds my only Van Halen album and cranks up the volume as it starts to play. I can barely hear them speak.

"Was it that dude we see that always asks us for a smoke? The one with matted hair?" asks Sharky.

I shake my head. "No, his name was Jack. That's all I know. He lived a few blocks away in a squat with his friend," I say as I stretch forward so he can hear me. "Turn that down a bit." No one hears me, so I grab the remote control from the coffee table and lower the volume of the stereo. My need to share and discuss my ordeal won't leave. "They saved my life. He died because of me."

"Mate, better him than you. He wasn't up to much, was he?" says Sharky's friend, Nick, as he toasts his beer can up in the air.

Jack's face haunts me along with the image of his kind soul. The glint and gleam of his eyes will stay with me forever. Perhaps he is part of me now? These guys don't get it. There's more to all of this than what they care to know. I died and came back, and all they want to do is get drunk. I think I saw God or something. Should I tell them that? I'm not sure I want to—it'll change everything. I'd have no friends. I can't help it. "I've changed. Something real happened to me last night. When I died, I saw a light in the darkness. It spoke to me."

"Come on, mate. You were doped out on pain killers in hospital all night. It was only an opiate dream. Don't go gettin' all goofy on us and lose your head. We're going down to Two Princes in the city soon to meet some women at the bar for me and the boys. They'll be there at 10:00. You're coming, aren't ya?" asks Sharky.

An unexpected sadness looms over my soul. I sense an impending change. "I can't, mate. Not anymore," I tell him.

"Don't let us down. You'll be missing all the action, sunshine," he replies as he wipes the remnant of beer from his mouth with his hand.

"I don't feel like drinking anymore."

"What? Ever?" he says as he makes a strange face in response to my words.

"I've got stuff to sort out now. I can't keep doing this."

"Are you for real?" asks Sharky's friend with the blond dreadlocks. Sharky waits for my reply.

"Yeah."

The energy in the room turns hostile. "Well, fuck this," says Sharky as he jolts himself up onto his feet. "So much for being mates. Come on. Let's get the fuck out of here," he says to his drinking buddies.

Without saying goodbye, Sharky and his friends leave with their beer and belongings, and I know I may never see them again. Like a severed limb, the swift loss hits me. I turn the stereo off and look around in the now quiet room. Peace, both internally and externally, are present. I have much to think about, and I know there are choices I must make. I curl up on my sofa chair and hold myself and wonder what's next.

# Chapter 5: An Unexpected Guide

After a night of haunted dreams, I wake in fright and wait for the shadows to pass as I press the red button on my coffee machine and wait for it to pour me an earthy, froth-topped latte. The scent of fine ground coffee awakens my senses. At nine o'clock, the stillness of this Sunday morning lingers in the air, but I know it's a mere mirage, tempting me to believe in its illusion that all is well, and my troubles have passed. I go back and curl up in bed with my latte and soak in the serene quiet, knowing change has come, and decisions need to be made.

How did I get here? A sharp, crisp ray of sunshine comes in through my window and bathes my face. I do not need to remember what I saw when I died; it stays with me. That voice—those words—they stay deep inside like a multidimensional image that has become one with my being. As I contemplate the message, my mind races with possibilities in an attempt to understand it, but nothing makes sense. Do I pray? Where do I start with that? The Father of Lies? That must have been God talking about the Devil. Was that Sam? And those others—Gabe and Mike—the feathers.... Were they angels? The message Gabe gave in the pizzeria... who you believe you are when the lights are out.... He spoke to me on such a deep level there.

Instantly, I'm bombarded with memories of my youth. That dry, dull sensation in the stomach when faced with sermons about God's love... when all I ever experienced was a deepening chasm down to my core that stemmed from the constant taunting I received over my face. Being likened to Freddy Krueger and having the older kids at church treat me as though they were scared of catching what I had fueled my self-loathing.

Believing in God when I was younger, at times, stirred some part of me. Perhaps it gave me hope and purpose. Maybe I thought there was some divine plan for my life, but the ugliness of the church eroded all traces of hope and faith until I was reduced to how they saw me. They won. I lost. But being the loser, I felt I gave them proof in their own eyes of their own righteousness. I couldn't win. I had to walk away and leave it all behind.

Rummaging for my broken phone, I take it apart to retrieve the SIM card and place it into my old Android, but find the battery is dead, so I plug it in to recharge. I jolt out to the living area and bring back my laptop into bed as I lay on my side and flip open the screen. I can't pray. That couldn't have been God I saw—He's... I'm not begging to a bastard like that! Images flash through my mind of famines, hunger, suffering of all kinds, and the perpetual misery many endure. Was it Christ? Yeah, right.... They say He saved the world—what a fine job He did! The world still turned after He died, and nothing much has changed. I Am... that's what the voice said.... That was a name for God in the Bible.... A peace transcends my thoughts unexpectedly, like a sudden stillness after a downpour of violent waters.

The message spoken in that dark place resounds inside me as though I had just heard it. "Show me," I say out loud. The need to know the meaning of the message is stronger than my desire to forget it. "Whoever You are, give me a sign." I wait and watch for something to move in my bedroom—some supernatural phenomenon. My eyes are fixed on the pile of clothes on the floor, but after time passes and nothing happens, I wonder if I was crazy for talking to a person that I can't see. Disappointment lingers inside me, but the memory of his voice brings back a warm glow. I've never felt that. Maybe there is something worth believing in. Jack... he was worth believing in. I've got to go back and find Beano. He'll know what's happening with the funeral. I've got to do something for Jack. It's my fault he died.

The blue light from my laptop screen radiates its hue on my bedding in front of me. I focus my eyes on the password field that blinks as though it eagerly waits for me to unlock it and open up a whole new world. Like a rabbit down a hole, I type my password and click enter to see where my searches lead. I type the word "God" into the search engine. This could take all day. I don't even know what I'm looking for. Knowing I don't know where to begin, I begin not knowing.

I see a Facebook listing come up in the search results. I didn't know He had his own profile. I click and wait for it to load, and then I see the countless friends he has on the site. In faith, it was Him who I saw in the light, I friend Him as the discomfort of entering new territory dawns inside me. Fuck it. It can't hurt. They're only words. Let's do this properly. My mind spins as I contemplate the myriad of choices on what I can search for and the potential futility of having unknown people push their unverified views onto me through their sites. I close the laptop down and pause.

The words of the message I was given appear in my mind as though they are written in the air. The lies I believe about myself and Who he is.... Only believe, and my time will come. The sudden realization hits me that there is no guarantee of this promise. This is followed with the revelation that I have a part to play in the equation. There are choices to be made. What is it I need to believe? Both excitement and a chill run over the surface of my skin. "Show Yourself," I say.

What lies do I believe about Him? My mind races back to my youth when my parents took me to church and insisted I follow their rules. No sex before marriage, no drinking beer, no swearing, don't be late for church. Always tell the truth, be a good Christian, obey the pastor, don't watch filth on TV—the list of dos and don'ts were endless. Christianity is a 'relationship with Christ,' and not a 'religion' they used to say. The shadow of past fear looms as I recall the tightrope on which I lived, that if I fell I would descend into a fiery Hell. Repent if you have impure thoughts.... Repent if you breathe.... Repent, repent, repent. Fun times they were! No wonder I ended up how I did. If that's all God had for me, and He's perfect, how the fuck was there hope elsewhere? All it ever did was make life miserable.

I head straight back into my bed with a new determination to take action. I sit up and cover myself with my plush blanket as its woven natural fibers give me a sense of warmth and comfort. Seek... and you shall find, they say. I search and read pages on the web for over two hours as I seek knowledge of God. I come across a Christian site that informs me Jesus referred to Himself as 'The Light of the World.' Those words strike my heart and cause questions to arise in my mind as the image I saw when I died comes back to my remembrance. I focus my searches on Christian content and articles about Christ. Could there be more to Him than what I realize?

I find a forum about Christianity and join in an attempt to directly ask people about the Man they say is God's Son. I read a few discussions that focus largely around people's struggles with their faith. I detect from them a heavy focus on their failures and 'sins.' I move onto the category of prayer and see how the language changes. Nice words and phrases fill every sentence. I need more than 'nice.' I need real!

Being the master marketer I am, I detect bullshit when I read it and go to close the site down. As the arrow on the screen hovers over the close button, my eyes catch the sight of a Jesus emoji. I click on the thread out of pure curiosity. I read every solitary word in this post with measured caution but also with the hope of finding something to give me direction and light the way, if even for only the next step. As I scan through the words and read every doting adjective aimed at Jesus, I continue to read until the end, until I have read every argument as to why all other religions are false and that we can only come to God through Christ.

How the hell am I supposed to make sense of any of this? Christians fight and argue with other faiths; jihadists want to start a holy war over their faith. How can war be holy? Why the hell am I bothering with any of this? My God versus theirs.... I was happier before all this shit happened. I don't need this. My mind races back to the comfort I've known in getting wasted with Sharky and forgetting life and all of its hassles. I don't care when I'm drunk—that's my paradise. Maybe I am better off going back to Sharky and forgetting all this bullshit. I never asked for any of it anyway.

I close the laptop, put it down onto the floor, and curl up under my blanket. Images flash through my mind of Jack's kind eyes and the memories of his generous hospitality. Why was I spared, and he died? God bless you... how could he say that? It didn't get him far. The knowing that to pursue my destiny will be no easy ride aches in every part of me. I don't have to. We don't say ignorance is bliss for no reason.

I fall asleep and later wake to the sound of my chiming door bell. What time is it? I switch on my phone and realize my housekeeper, Mrs. Delaney, is here for her one o'clock weekly appointment. I jump up and throw my thick flannel dressing gown around me and stride straight out to the door to let her in. I turn the deadlock and hear the soft, crisp click as it unlocks, and I open the door.

"Skelter," says Mrs. Delaney as she stands ready to come in and get to work. She closes her umbrella and wipes her feet on the mat before coming in and taking off her overcoat. Age has not wearied this woman. Her wrinkles do not weigh down her face; they reveal a decent life lived, and amidst them, an inner youthfulness shines through. The patterned print on her dress suits her winsome, curvy figure. She fills every atom of her body with her calm presence.

"I've had a difficult weekend, Mrs. Delaney. I completely forgot you were coming," I say as I turn and look around at the shabby view of my house.

"I can see you have," she says as she notices the half empty beer bottles laying around. "Somehow I get the impression your friends do you no favors." Her respectful, but stern, glare speaks volumes. "I'll make a start on your work clothes. Are they ready for ironing?"

"They're in the dryer."

"Leave me to it, and you just take care of whatever eggs you're hatching at the moment. I can tell something's up. You look different, Skelter. Good, but different."

She says no more, walks down to the laundry, comes back out, and sets up the ironing board in the kitchen to get started. I sit on my sofa and gather myself as I watch her iron the creases out of my shirts. All care is taken as she pulls the fabric tight and glides the steaming iron over the surface, leaving a wrinkle-free trail behind. The sparkle of the brass crucifix on a chain around her neck catches my attention. I pause and wonder if I should ask her about it. Is it new?

"That cross around your neck... does that mean anything to you?"

She doesn't lift her eyes from her work as she replies. "My grandson found it on the sidewalk. He gave it to me because he said it's bad luck to throw them out. I wear it for his sake. Personally, if it were only me, I'd put it in the trash where it belongs. The things we do for the ones we care about, aye?"

She looks up at me from the kitchen and nods her head toward the pile of crushed beer cans on the counter. "You've had a big weekend. Nothing new there," she says with a smile.

"Does your grandson believe in that stuff?"

"He learned that from me," she says as she reaches down and takes another shirt from the basket.

"But I thought you didn't believe in that?"

"I don't believe in cheap jewelry, but I've got a church service to attend once I'm done here, if that's what you mean." She gives me a gentle smile and goes back to her work.

As minutes pass, she hands me the pile of freshly ironed shirts to hang up in my closet. She goes back and forth, putting cans and bottles into the recycling bin outside near my front door. She hums a soft tune as she goes about her work. As she comes into the living room where I sit, she bends down to pick up the cans.

"Have you got things on your mind?" she asks as she lifts her head up and glances at me. "You seem to have a weight on your shoulders I've never noticed before."

"Why do you believe in God like that? How do you know?"

"You mean church? I don't buy all they sell there. I just smile along when they speak. Mostly, I go to enjoy the coffee and cake."

"Do you believe in Jesus?"

"Skelter, I believe there may be countless paths to the divine. Perhaps there are some that lead nowhere—I can't say, but if you're on a path to find Him, I suggest you take your time to sort that one out. Be careful what you believe—those things go down into our parts and make us who we are. Perhaps you need time and space to work out what is right for you. From what I've gathered in the last two years, your spiritual path has not been high on your agenda."

"I read that Christians believe if we don't believe in Jesus when we die, we go to Hell," I say as I gaze at her while she closes the lid of an empty pizza box and picks it up off the coffee table.

"That's what they say, isn't it?" She walks out and puts the box into the bin and comes back humming a mellow tune.

"And you believe that?"

"Like I said, Skelter, I don't buy everything they sell. Some goods are faulty. I suspect you need to find your own answers. That way they're yours and no one can take them away because you know why you believe them. Personally, I just have simple faith that God is good and that He loves us all, and everything else flows on from there. I don't fuss with complex matters or get buried down with things that don't really matter. Looks to me like you're about to find your path now, Skelter."

I turn swiftly in my chair to face her. "I died two nights ago, but I was revived. I saw something then. A voice in the light told me my time will come. It affected me at first. I was curious, but I'm not sure I'm cut out for all of that. What would you do for an income if you didn't have to clean up my messes each week, right?"

She steps onto the carpet in the living area after wiping down my counter and sits on the sofa chair next to me. "Stepping out of the boat can be difficult if you've never walked on water. Some play it safe and gain nothing. Others risk everything and lose it all, but there are those who are wise and pay attention to the signs in the harbor and manage to get to their dream destination, even if it's one scary step at a time. Something tells me you're not done here, Skelter. You need to ask yourself what it is you want—your safety or your answers."

# Chapter 6: Crossing Over

In the middle of a meeting the next day at work, amid our fraudulent dealings and scheming, an urge rises up in my bladder that I need to attend to. The plastic potted plants remain the same. Franchetti has not changed, but the air feels different as I sit amongst my colleagues. Something stirs. A gentle pull tugs on me from within. "Excuse me, gents, nature calls. I'll be back shortly," I say as I make my way out of the conference room and down the stark, white corridor to the men's room.

With one hand, I shove the door open and march through the doorway into the vacant restroom. The sterile scent of the urinal cakes hits my nose. I walk past the four empty stalls to ensure no one is present and enter the last partition and take a seat. "Something isn't sitting right here. Things have changed, and I'm not sure who or what I can trust," I say under my breath to the illuminated figure who spoke to me when I died in faith he could hear. I recall the rush I felt when asked if I wanted to come back to Earth... that needing to know what could be. I have to press on. "Whoever You are, You're with me..., and I suspect You always have been. I don't know how or why this has happened, but let's do this!

"Only believe," I mutter as I sit and think.

I roll the message around in my mind, over and over, until, suddenly, truth comes. As my heartbeat lowers after the initial excitement, I keep my ears open in case I am interrupted in the men's room. This prayerful discussion requires full privacy and solitude. I let my mind roll over the deep mysteries I have until now ignored. "Who do I believe You are?" As those words leave my tongue, the inner chamber of my heart is awakened with deep revelations as Mrs. Delaney's words from last night sink in. Be careful what you believe.... Those things go down into our parts and make us who we are....

An image of two trees dawns inside me. A golden tree and a rotten tree stand side by side, and I realize their likeness to my soul. The rotten tree is the Tree of Lies; the golden tree is the Tree of Truth, with all of their corresponding fruits. Words are like seeds, that when swallowed, germinate inside us and grow up into a beautiful garden or an overgrown weed patch. And whatever germinates in our inner gardens grows up and bears more seed of its kind that scatters on the ground near it, waiting to germinate. The second I believe something, whether true or false, it begins to grow inside me. All things hang on our beliefs. And that's why we end up the way we do. I am transported beyond time into a new state of being, the whole time with full knowledge that I am locked inside a restroom stall as my colleagues await my return. No anxiety is present as I acknowledge I will soon need to leave.

I whisper, "Who are You? It's become clear You're God, but it's not merely Your name I want to know. I want to know Your nature and character—who You really are."

With these new revelations, I emerge from the stall, walk back out into the corridor, and march up to the conference room. Franchetti sits at the head of the table, tapping his fingers together in a rhythmic fashion just below his chest. "Welcome back, Mr. Valentine. Please join us once again. We are awaiting your services and expertise to implement a strategy to take our Peruvian grass to the health food sector, and from there, every supermarket across the nation for all the yummy mommies to use to bake cakes and cookies for their precious families. We need rapid promotion of the benefits for our products to gain ground before people start asking questions."

I take a chance. "Do you really believe in what we're doing here?" I ask as the room grows cold. Should I have said that? What if this is all bullshit? No... those trees... things are happening. I've got to follow this through. I've got a chance at something real now. From the core of my being, I feel compelled to seek and find truth for myself in ways I've never known. This is now part of me.... Jack died for this. I can't let him die in vain. I can't keep doing this for a living.

"Mr. Valentine, have you had an attack of conscience lately? This seems most unusual."

"I'm not sure I can do this anymore," I reply as I look around the room at the faces staring back at me.

Franchetti slowly stands erect, towering over us as we sit. "Mr. Valentine, do join me in my office for a brief discussion, I urge you. It seems we have an ideological difference we need to attend to."

He extends his arm out toward the door as he waits for me to walk ahead of him up to his office. Silently, we make a swift journey down the corridor and turn right into his luxurious office. Framed certificates hang on the wall and operate as decoys by giving the illusion he is a kind, generous man for helping local kids' sporting clubs out with cash donations. I bet he kept the receipts. No dust is present anywhere in this room. Not a scrap of paper is out of place, and every piece of well-crafted hardwood furniture shines in the sunlight that pours in through the spacious window. He stretches his hand out toward the chair in front of his desk, as he takes his seat on the other side.

"Mr. Valentine, we run a highly effective organization here, and every part and person within this organization needs to fulfil its function. If one part is out of sync, this can affect the whole of our team. Would you say your values are in alignment with our corporate objectives?"

I pause to think as I rub my chin. "We've had fun times here, but I sense my calling has caught up with me. I need to be honest from here on in. I've had an encounter of sorts with God lately."

"It seems this new direction is taking you further away from our company mission. Perhaps you might be more suited to join a monastery in, let's say, the foothills of the Italian Alps? I hear they make a nice drop of Chianti over there, and you could have endless opportunities to practice your newfound ethics by, I don't know, perhaps dicing vegetables in a soup kitchen to feed the unfortunate."

My head spins. I'm in unfamiliar territory, and I don't know the customs. In my mind's eye, I look back at the comfort of all I have known as temptation calls, but I know if I succumb I will never know what could have been. "Mr. Franchetti, I'm afraid I will miss the pleasure of meeting with such a superbly refined gentleman as yourself, but destiny calls. I resign immediately."

"Why, thank you, Mr. Valentine, for your fine words. How sad it is that you're leaving. Please take your things and go. Do send us a post card one day."

I collect my things from my office and drive home across the city. I can do without those soul suckers. I don't know where this is leading, but I will find out. With my Mustang parked in the garage, I enter through the side door and place my things on the kitchen counter. I'm in no rush. At least I have a fat bank balance for now. The squirming emotions in my belly and chest poke and pull me in different directions as both fear and excitement compete for victory. I remain still.

Your time will come.... "What am I meant to do?" I yell out to God. The deep ache to see the life I was promised yearns and grows and builds, but I am without a clue as to where to go or what to do. "Make it clear." The flames of anger and frustration flicker, but there is no one to blame. I let it all go as a fragment of hope remains, though I am without reason as to why.

The Tree of Truth.... I ooze into my microfiber chair to take in the vision I saw and reflect on its meaning. Nobody purposefully believes lies. How do we know what's true? Especially with God—does He prefer lemons or limes? Like a Tibetan Buddhist gong being struck inside my being, truth resounds throughout my bones. Truth can only be believed or rejected; it cannot be proved. We only benefit from its juices by swallowing its flesh... down into our parts, like being grafted into a master vine.

I sit comfortably in my chair and focus my attention onto the core of my being and wait and listen. Is truth relative or absolute? I observe the stillness as I bring my mind's eye back to my center. I can't create truth. It simply is, has been, and will always be. It is God, and we can only unite with Him through believing. If we can't own truth, and we can't own God, why the hell have we had so many wars over it? Jihadi terrorists—the Christian Crusades—the bickering between people. How can they know God and fight? Do they really know Him? The image of Jack's kind face comes back to my mind as I look up and speak with God. "I saw You in Jack. That's why it stays with me. I can't forget. Not You or him. He had more beauty than anyone I've known. I've got to do something for him. I can't let this be the end." I decide to wait for clarity on what I can do about Jack's death as I continue to work on sorting things out.

The Tree of Lies... a rotten tree with decaying fruit. A montage of my drunken, misspent past flashes through my mind. Were they lies that caused all that? I was just a fuck up. That's all that was. My conscience catches up with my thoughts. Was that the lie? Like a divine arrow from high up, I connect my misspent life to the thoughts and feelings that relate to how I've seen myself and this world, which come from my core belief that fundamentally I'm a fuck up—not to mention my beliefs about the God who makes all misery possible! She was right. They do make us who we are.

# Chapter 7: Messiah Latte

#

Later that night as the stars come out, thoughts crowd my mind, thoughts that depict God as that miserable bastard up in the sky Who rules everything and offers no comfort or connection. I fall asleep aware that the Father of Lies might be weaving his threads once again. The lies you believe about Me.... In my trouble, I drift deep into dream state....

I smell roasted coffee beans. There's the black leather-backed chair I sit in at Den of Thieves—my favorite café this side of the city. The picture of the bald man with a monocle up on the wall—I must be there, but I'm not. Where am I? Why is the floor covered in lime green tiles? They don't suit. There's John Lennon sipping a short black on his own in the corner. Why is the waitress serving me two plates of antipasto with two lattes? She offers me the most reassuring smile I've ever seen, and all I know is everything's fine. I relax, ready to enjoy my coffee.

The brass bell that catches on the front door when it opens rings as a man in a full-length white robe appears–an ordinary Middle Eastern man with a plain face. With each step, the fronts of his leather sandals that jut out from under his hem reveal his well-groomed toenails. He strikes me as being around my age, but he's unlike others I've known. Relaxed and comfortable, he smiles at John Lennon, who returns a wink. He walks up and takes a seat at my table before offering me a pleasant smile.

"I hope you don't mind meeting this way," He says. "I was trying to get through to you, but you had other things on your mind. If you're wondering why they brought out the food and drinks, well I rang ahead of time and pre-ordered. I chose this place on purpose—their lattes are to die for," He says with a wink. "Didn't have it in My time, so I enjoy one when I can. You sure have it good in this day and age, but, as Dickens wrote, 'It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.' Something tells Me you've got things on your mind, Skelter."

I guess I know Who You are. Is this real?

"I don't mean to intrude, but yes you know Who I Am," He states. "Try the stuffed vine leaves. They're an old family recipe. I bring people here often when I want to have a chat with them. The green tiles...? I know—doesn't really work does it?"

I lean forward over the table, being entirely cautious. "Are You real?"

"I certainly believe so. I don't know about you. That's why I'm here. I know you've got some things to work through, like what your youth pastor told you about being sinful, for example. I know that's bugging you."

I light up a cigarette as my pulse rate climbs. I don't even smoke or know how I got the pack of cigarettes. This is Christ! A jolt hits me as I realize I'm smoking in the presence of Jesus, and I turn to find an ashtray.

I notice Jesus roll His eyes back as He looks out the front window. Suddenly, a man and women rush in through the front door and run up to Him, full of enthusiasm. "I knew it was You," grunts the man as he glares right at Christ without looking away. He notices my lit cigarette, and in anger, he turns and tells me to put it out. "You can't smoke in front of Him! How dare you!" he barks. He whips the cigarette out of my hand and throws it on the floor and stamps on it before giving me a disgruntled look.

"We've been Christians all our lives, Jesus. We love You and would do anything for You," insists the young woman as she lights up with a self-satisfying glow. "We've got to go now, or we'll be late for our Bible study." Instantly, as fast as they rushed in, they run out of the café and are gone.

I look at Christ. He looks at me. "Friends?" I ask.

Christ replies, "They must think they know Me. I get that all the time. I have no idea who they are. Don't put it out on My behalf, Skelter," He says with a patient smile. "If you smoke, enjoy it. Personally, it's not for Me, but I do love a wine here and there. That I do like!"

"I don't even smoke," I reply, being unsure where this dream is going or whether I want it to continue.

"Either way, just enjoy yourself."

I rest back in my seat as I see Jesus settle in for a deeper discussion. "So, do you believe your youth pastor's words? Not all that glitters in church is gold, is it Skelter? I don't know what you believe, but personally, I believe, and I say this as His Son, that if God didn't accept you as you are, He'd be anything but perfect. I wouldn't believe in Him if He was anything less. How could I? I don't know why others do. Which brings me to what I told you when we first met—about the Father of Lies."

I gaze at Jesus and wait to hear Him continue. "You mean the Devil, right?"

"That's the guy," He says. "Can't say I'm a fan of his work to be honest, but as you know, that's an understatement. The minute things go wrong, and sometimes seriously wrong, he'll be in there sowing his seeds. He's a crafty little creature—a parasite and an opportunist. Every day I watch him lead people to question God and themselves. Why do you think there are so many problems in the world? He's been weaving his threads. Think poor self-esteem happens without any cause? You guessed it—people swallow his lies and end up eating the fruits. People won't get that from Me," He states. "Not everyone believes that, though, despite what they say. People believe all kinds of things about Me, often lies. And sometimes those lies are served up every Sunday morning to those who sit in pews. No wonder they don't feel close to Me. I'm not as hard to get along with as they think. Satan, though, in his 'wisdom,' like he did in the garden with Eve, craftily places questions on people's minds to wind them up and get them to think in certain directions. If he can make them doubt that God really is good and that they are loved, well, he's won the fight, and it all falls apart from there. It goes on every day, especially when the shit hits the fan."

The waitress from earlier comes back to the table with her over-sized smile, this time in a pair of roller skates. The long, straight pigtails on the sides of her head sway with the happy motion of her head as she moves it from side to side. She holds out a large golden tray with a domed cloche and lifts it off with one hand as she presents the tray to Christ. He smiles and takes the small porcelain bowl from the center of the tray and places it between us as the waitress skates away.

"Do you recognize these?" He asks.

I lean forward and peer into the bowl. "Seeds of some sort," I say.

"You can eat them if you want. They're sunflower seeds. You know what would happen if I plant them, don't you?"

"You'd get sunflowers," I state.

"Exactly, if things go well. In the right season, with the right conditions, you'd end up with large glorious sunflowers. Why am I asking you this?" He asks as He looks directly at me.

"The vision," I say as I pay closer attention. "The trees."

"Indeed. Just like plants, people are destined to reach maturity and be all they're meant to be. It's the weaver's seeds, if they sprout and aren't removed, that prevent that from happening. If people swallowed My seeds, My words, they'd end up full of life, but seeds take time to become flowers or fruits, as do thistles."

Without a word leaving my lips I nod my head and keep listening.

Jesus continues as He picks up a single sunflower seed. "This seed, if planted and cared for, would produce one hundred times as much as itself, not to mention the pleasure it gives when we see its golden petals. My words are spirit and they are life, like seeds that when planted in you, can bear rich luscious fruits—they feed your spirit and those around you. If you don't feed on My words, you will end up missing your spiritual destination. And if you miss your spiritual destination, you miss the main part—who you're meant to be."

"You don't mean going to church?" I ask.

He smiles. "What does being spiritual mean to you?"

My brain, even in this dream, goes blank. "It's doing what the Bible says to do, I guess."

A deeper smile shows on His face. "Skelter, it's not hard to understand. Don't be fooled by those who complicate it. Being spiritual and spirituality are simple. If you are a spirit, then being spiritual is about being yourself, and spirituality is about becoming all that you're meant to be, all with My help."

He pauses and waits for me to absorb His teaching while He picks up a sunflower seed and chews on it before He continues. "Do you remember when you used to sit among all those people that cheered and clapped and sang love songs about Me?"

"You mean church?"

"Bingo! You used to often hear messages about the promises of God, right?"

My eyes drop to the sterile surface of the shiny table as I recall sermon after sermon of how amazing it was to be a Christian, while everyone around me agreed, and on the inside, I felt torn and bruised—and nobody wanted to hear about that! "I remember," I tell Him.

"There wasn't a lot for you to be happy about back then, right? In some ways, all the cheering and shouting made things worse for you because it didn't reflect your experience."

I don't speak. I know He knows the situation. I glance at Him before looking away. Secretly, I wish He'd do something to help—save me somehow.

"Trust me, Skelter. You're ready for this. That's why you're here. Not all the believers believe. They jump up and down and make noise when the promises are preached, but most of them don't make it because they give up when they don't see the results—they give up too soon. In the Bible, there's nothing under the sun that I don't promise to everyone," He says, seeing the caution in my eyes.

He continues, "I know you're not an idiot, Skelter. And I know how bad things get sometimes. It's not easy believing My promises when life rises up and throws proof in your face each day that you're a fool for believing. But unless you believe, how can hope exist? A fool believes anything, but there are those who believe my words and overcome all of the odds until they see the fulfilment of My promises. They're the ones who define what is possible for their lives. They know what it's like to have hope, time after time, when naturally, there is no reason to have hope. Those who hope because of what My words promise—nothing is impossible to them." Suddenly, He states, "You're awake now."

"No, I'm not. I'm here with You," I say as I realize I'm sitting up alone in bed in the dark. The night is cool and calm. I drift back to sleep.

# Chapter 8: A Journey Deep

The next morning the burden of Jack's death lays heavy on my soul, so I decide to find a way to put my guilt to ease and somehow show respect and gratitude for the kindness he had given. I slide into my Mustang and rush over to Jack and Beano's squat. As I step out of my car, I notice the gray clouds above mirror my sorrowful mood as the scent of geranium plants catches me off guard, like the promise of a silver lining amid my sadness.

Sparrows chatter all around as I walk past the overgrown garden, up along the side walkway, and find Beano sitting alone in the dilapidated armchair at the back of the house. Does he blame me? His bulging eyes remain fixed on the sky above, and then he pulls his arms in close to his chest, being aware of my presence. "Beano," I say as I squat down to his level.

"Jack's gone," he says, perhaps to remind himself and come to terms with the fact.

"I know, Beano. You told me."

I look around for something pleasant to talk about, but I know this discussion needs to be had. "Has anyone been to tell you about his funeral?"

"I don't know nothing. Nobody's been here since he died except the ambulance guys and you."

"He got to me. He did nothing but be himself, but somehow that was enough. He reached me without trying. No one has ever done that," I barely utter as I hold back my emotions. "He did things for me..., and I will never be able to tell him what that's meant."

Beano raises his face toward me. "He saved you."

"More than you'll ever know, Beano; he did." A grace is present as though Jack's sweet spirit lingers and listens, smiling down on us. "Did he have family? I want to do something for them if I can, to show thanks."

"Nah, not Jack. Never had kids or anything. His family don't talk to him anyway. It was just him on his own. They were ashamed 'cause he's on the streets."

Beano's sunken spirit radiates sadness and loss as I observe his slow movements. His hand stretches out as though to grab something down beside his chair, but then he pulls it back into his lap aimlessly, like a dog not knowing where its bone is buried, nor whether it had one to begin with. Compulsion draws me closer to Beano's side, and I take a step nearer his chair. I watch his movements, making sure I overstep no personal boundary and cause him to close up.

Suddenly, like the clap of thunder after a strike of lightening, I see it. You're right there. That's it. Somehow, I've got to help you.... That's what he would have wanted. Some form of smile that I've never known shows on my face. This fits. It feels... I want more. I don't know how I'll help him, but it beats ripping people off and selling my soul to get by. The waters of God begin to flow from my depths as I find new meaning for my life.

I finish up at Beano's for now after letting him know I will find out what's happening with Jack's funeral. Once home, I dig in deep to see where God leads as the crust of my inner landscape begins to rumble with the seismic activity that takes place at the core. I breathe in and rest my mind as I contemplate my situation, as well as the powerful choices that lay bare before me that can change and heal my life. "I have the power," I utter as I ooze deeper into my sofa chair and feel the fine bristles of the fabric brush against my skin.

As the possibilities and potential for transformation arise in my head and chest, thoughts of doubt and fear come across the back of my mind. Questions get whispered seemingly from out of nowhere. Can I really change this? Can I really do this? Suddenly, a spike of consciousness seizes me as I remember those words: "The Father of Lies has weaved his threads over your eyes..."

Where did those questions come from? I wasn't really aware they were happening. I just thought what I've always thought. I've always doubted myself. He's still at it! I almost started to go into mental overdrive questioning everything again. He's still at work, weaving his threads. I pause and gather my thoughts as the adrenaline subsides from the anxious direction in which my mind was about to go. I rest.

As the questions continue in the back of my mind, I stay silent, knowing I have the power to choose what I believe. The realization of the real war we all face hits me. "Success and failure, victory and defeat—they all begin on the inside. Our hearts and minds are the battlefield." I feel my body tighten and brace for action. What do I do? I lift my face and pray. "Show me how to win this fight."

"You've already won—just live like it," come the assuring words to my spirit.

After the initial reactive thoughts that go through my mind as I tried to grasp what was just said, I remain quiet and think. Again, I pray. "What have I won... how?"

"He overcame Hell and death—how much more for lesser things? With Him, you have all victory. Believe it, and it is yours. The Father of Lies can only take from you what you permit him. He came to steal, kill, and destroy, but Christ came so that you can have and enjoy life until it overflows. The war is over—only believe and your time will come," comes the message.

An avalanche of memories from my youth, of time spent in church, reminds me that those words are found in the Bible. "Does that mean I have to go back to all the things they taught me in church?" I pray. Dread surrounds me.

"I don't want you to be religious in any way, Skelter. Christ wasn't. Just walk and talk with Me," are the words uttered from high up.

"But what about being good Christians and practicing Christianity?" I say.

Wisdom washes over me as I hear God speak. "What does any of that really mean to you? Is it believing certain things about Jesus, or having certain behaviors, or having certain views? Any definition you come up with for what you think I expect or want from you, well that could become a heavy boulder on anyone's shoulders..., and I just want to lighten your load. I want to lift you up. I AM... and I don't need a thing. I just wonder sometimes when you'll work that one out, but I'm with you all the way until you do."

As the bombardment of negativity over my mind ceases, I soak in the inaudible words I've just heard, while my mind comes back to my tangled emotional state. I speak out loud and revolve my life-long motto around in my mind: "I'm a fuck up." I look at it from all angles and examine it closely. You are what you eat... true for the body and true for our souls. "I've been eating spiritual junk food all my life. I've been eating poison. No wonder life seems fucked."

"I wonder what lies I've been feeding on about God. Maybe that He's an asshole! Can't say those thoughts haven't gone through my head over and over. No wonder I've ignored Him all these years. It sure did seem true. Maybe that was because I believed it?"

I sense a heaviness in my body, so I get up to get my blood pumping and walk over to the kitchen and stretch my limbs. The cool movement of air around my face refreshes me and lifts my soul. What a day this has been! I fix myself some lunch, eat it, go into my bedroom and fall backward onto my soft, comfy bed to let everything sink in. I breathe in and out, and nothing more, except for the yearning to find God—that constant conflict and desire to know and be known. My heartrate lowers, and I unwind as I focus only on my exhales.

The luscious ripe fruits bursting with flavor that hung on the Tree of Truth in my vision spur me on with excitement. Spiritually, I drool to eat their juicy goodness and have their nutrients flow through my being and my life. I lay still and feel guided through my past and through my soul as I uncover how I got to here.

I've always believed I didn't belong. Being picked on for things I could do nothing about—my face—being part of a poor family... those bastards taught me that. They taught me I wasn't worth talking to because I was poor, and I believed them. And the fact that I prayed for help, and nothing happened—it seemed God had more important things to care about than me. Most of it started there. I've just grown up believing all that, which is why I haven't cared. A tear streams down my face as I feel a root of bitterness become exposed to the light and begin to drift away into the ether.

In a flash, I remember the years of scheming and mischief and all the rotten things I did and said as a marketer. God's presence washes over me as I link my choices to the fact I didn't care about myself, which stemmed from the lies I swallowed when I was young. I don't cry. I don't laugh. I lay still and wait to see where God leads. I know everything is all right. Thanksgiving rises up from within. It's all I can offer.

"That was real," I say. "I've never felt that before. It feels like something broke off of my life, like a dead weight."

Like gifts under the tree, I relish the new hope and possibilities of the truths I can believe. "Give me something great," I pray. "Some great truth—I want to take this as far as I can. I want something dynamic and earth-shattering—something powerful. Here's a challenge.... I'll believe whatever You say."

Words come down from Heaven into my spirit. "Believe you are loved."

Are You serious? Jesus loves me this I know.... I've heard that before! Overwhelmed by the disappointing response, I begin to rethink the message. I jolt upright on my bed as though the message I've received jarred my spirit. Where God is at, and where I am—they are two different places. I can't help but think about those words. My chest squeezes air in and out of my lungs as I wonder if God has more sense than I do.

As His words bypass my reactive mind, they penetrate down into my heart where they lodge and sit at the core of who I am. I do nothing but be present and wait. The revelation unfolds inside me that all things that exist are founded in and upon love and find their true place and purpose within it. The revelation lights me up as I am enlightened to learn of my need for such a thing.

"That's why everything never worked when I was young and went to church. I felt like I had to do everything just to keep You happy. They all said that You loved us, but they said other things that made that difficult to believe. And all the misery I've lived with...."

An argument arises in my thoughts as shards of anger interrupt the tranquil peace I enjoyed a moment ago. I calm myself down and think. Loved... really? Amid the torrent of hurtful memories that descend upon me, parts of me cringe at the thought of believing I am loved, especially by Him. Also, in the quiet core of my heart, I know. I know it makes sense, despite all of the questions in my head. I know that to believe this would change how I see myself and satisfy a hunger that I now know exists.

Sitting on my bed, I look around my room as though a new beginning has dawned. Despite my reluctance, I want to experience the heavenly fruits I saw in my vision. I grit my teeth and offer up my steely words, "I'm not a fuck up. I never was. I don't believe that anymore." I wait to see what changes take place inside me, but nothing happens.

A greater revelation of the tangled roots inside me hits me as I realize this is no easy task to fix. They've become part of me. What we believe becomes real—even lies. All of the years I've lived believing the things I have about myself and God have become tangled up in my thoughts and emotions and become part of me. How can I simply believe God loves me and go on my merry way down the yellow brick road like nothing ever happened? I want this. It seems so simple, but it's not as easy as I thought....

# Chapter 9: What Goes Up...

The next morning, I drive over to the hospital where Jack died. I go alone. I ease my car into a parking space and step out onto the asphalt, ready to tie up a frayed loose end. The bold brick hospital towers high above the surrounding buildings along the road. As I walk along, the pastel shades of the roses in the garden to the side of the parking lot remind me of a sparkling crisp rainbow after a light drizzle—a sign of hope and promise after a storm. I cross over the strip of green grass on my way to the entrance of the hospital foyer. The spring under my feet beckons me to take off my shoes and feel the bristles of fresh grass on my skin and get close to nature in my vulnerable state, but I march on.

The revolving glass door spins on its axis at the front of the building as I enter and walk up to the reception desk to ask for help. A woman who appears to be in her mid-thirties waits for me to approach as she sits behind the desk. I see her name, Maria, written on her nametag pinned to her chest. Her long, dark, curly hair spirals out in many directions away from her kind face.

"Hello, may I help you?" she asks as she turns away from her computer screen.

"A friend of mine died here recently. He was homeless. I need to find out what's happening with his funeral."

A gentle smile is offered my way as she turns back to her computer. "Okay, what was his name? I'll see if I can help you."

"Jack—I don't know his last name. He lived on the streets. I don't know what happens in these circumstances. He didn't have family."

"Right, do you know when he died?"

"Last Saturday morning at about four o'clock. I was in next to him. We both got electrocuted."

After typing on her keyboard, she opens her mouth to speak as she reads the screen. "You'll need to see the coordinator, Michael Randolph. He's on the second floor to the right. You'll see his name on the door just on the left-hand side as you leave the elevator."

I leave reception and head over to the elevator, waiting for it to return to ground level. Do I want to do this? How can I go to his funeral? He died because of me. The green light of the elevator blinks as the sharp ping echoes around the foyer, signaling that the doors are about to open. I don't know what I'm doing. The doors part way on both sides, and the vacancy inside the elevator seems to call me in. I step inside and instinctively press the cold, steel button for the second floor.

My heart sinks into my stomach with the pull of gravity as the elevator travels upward. Why am I here? Subconsciously, I recall that look of sweet kindness in Jack's eyes while consciously I wrestle to forget it. The weight of guilt and sorrow hammers down hard as the doors open on the second floor. I stand in silence and wait for the doors to close after I press the ground floor button. I momentarily feel weightless as the elevator travels back downward, but moments later, as it jolts into place and opens its doors, my chest is squeezed tight, and I head straight for the revolving glass door and crouch down in front of the building, holding my face in my hands as the sounds of my sobbing escape through my fingers. I can't do it. The boulder of guilt hinders any chance of today being the day that Jack's affairs are laid to rest.

# Chapter 10: A Word in Due Season

One o'clock Sunday rolls around and Mrs. Delaney knocks on my front door on time as always. I open the door and see her simple, unassuming face that hides the wisdom collected after a good, long life. Like a solar panel seeking sunlight through gray clouds, she awaits my invitation to come inside and get started on the work she loves to do. "Come in, Mrs. Delaney," I say as I offer to take her closed umbrella.

"I've come to cast a spell or two and perform my usual magic, although I see no beer bottles or pizza boxes—perhaps there's been a miracle of other sorts? What's wrong, Skelter? You may want your temperature checked. The usual stale beer scent doesn't fill the air."

"I think those days are behind me. I've got other things on my mind now, not that I don't get the urge."

She smiles and moves on to pick up the basket of cleaned clothes, ready to iron out the creases. "I'll get about my business, Skelter. You just let me know if you need anything." She meanders up into the laundry room and returns with the iron and plugs it in. The ironing board comes out, and she fills the sink with water and dishes to soak while the iron heats up.

"Those words you said last week, 'Be careful what you believe...,' you know what you're talking about, don't you?" I ask as I pull out a barstool and take a seat at the kitchen counter. "You said they make us who we are."

She looks up at me, smiles, and then tests the iron to see if it's hot. "Just how I like it—a nice, gentle warmth."

I gaze at this woman as she irons out my wrinkled shirts and wonder what she knows. "What else can you teach me?" I ask.

"To start with, use a gentle cycle for your shirts. They'll last longer and be easier for me to iron." Her keen eyes pay close attention to the cuffs of my shirt as she uses her nous to give them a crisp look. She does not lose her concentration.

I lower my head down in front of me toward the counter and clasp my hands together as I realize the wit in her response. I know she knows what I want, but she gives no clues as evidence. Not a crafty look, nor twinkle in her eyes. She's as content as can be with her warm iron and a smile. "They take root in us," I say as I watch intently at her skillful handiwork with a pair of suit pants.

"I once heard a minister preach that Christ wants us to be abundantly fruitful. Words straight out of the Good Book," she says. "Full of encouragement for those in the seats to do all they can and get busy doing good." She looks up at me and offers a kind, thoughtful smile. "Not everyone who teaches from that book is qualified to do so if you ask me. No problem with the words from the book, but busyness and haste? I like to take my time and enjoy the trip. He never mentioned the importance of strong roots—only the fruit. Seems to me like the preacher hadn't thought through the gardening metaphor. Fruits follow roots, last time I looked at a tree. And those things take time to work their way down."

Her words stop me. I stay quiet. That's why nothing changed. I wanted the fruits instantly. I keep my personal affairs to myself, although I have a hunch not much would surprise her. "Do you believe in destiny?"

"I believe we have a choice—many choices. Life is like a journey of any other kind, and there can be many destinations. For some, that's prison. But I believe if we learn the rules and then learn how to break them, we can find ourselves in our own promised land, yes. In fact, it is the journey to our destination that prepares us for that place."

"That message I heard when I died, 'Only believe, and your time will come...' it was like He was calling me into something. He didn't say what, but I know there are choices to be made."

"Skelter, I'm happy for you and hope you find what you're looking for. These last two years I've been cleaning your messes... seemed you weren't looking for much. So, I am happy, 'cause now you're awake. I also know some of the potholes in the road you're traveling. In some ways, I've been there, and in other ways, I've seen many mistakes others have made on this path. They do, indeed, make us who we are. I've seen things get inside people's heads, and they lose themselves for the sake of their religion. Even Christ's words—a Man who stood for relationship with God but against needless religion—have been used as religious rules and regulations. It seems as a race we can't help ourselves most often... or choose not to."

"What is it you're saying?" I ask as I watch her hang the last shirt up and step over to the sink. "There are rules, but we need to break them? I don't get it."

"Those who follow the rules all their lives end up finding out it's others' rules they've been keeping, and often they end up disappointed when things don't work out. When we're taught, we learn the rules. At first, they guide us and keep us safe, but there are those who outgrow their infancy and need to make their own rules. Wisdom is knowing which rules to break and how to break them. Sometimes doing what ought not to be done is what gets you to your destination. Those who make the history books have had to learn to think for themselves. You've got a brain on you, Skelter—you will need to use it."

She holds a lead crystal tumbler up to the kitchen window and inspects it to see if it's clean. "Crystal clear?" She makes direct eye contact as she continues washing up my pots.

"I need time to process that."

"If you go all the way, there are some who will drag you through the mud and laugh at you for being dirty. And they will read Bible verses out to your ears so you know God is on their side. Things can get ugly. Christ had that kind of trouble. He wasn't well-liked in the religious communities. I don't know what you make of Him, but He bakes my cake."

She pauses from scrubbing my skillet and lets her hands rest briefly in the water. "All I'm saying is listen to your heart. If you want my advice, God is within, and He guides us as such. No matter what they scream at you, or even what your head tells you, trust your heart and the God who guides it. Lean not on your own understanding, but on Him.... Sometimes we can have things filed in the wrong folders upstairs, and when faced with a dilemma, we need to make a choice. Go with your heart, Skelter."

# Chapter 11: A Long White Robe

I wake the next morning and discover my coffee machine is broken, so I walk down toward Den of Thieves, the finest café this side of the city, for my morning latte. An overgrown patch of orange pig face flowers flows out onto the gritty cement sidewalk near my feet as I walk on past. Neat picket fences and rendered wall after wall, I pass through the streets back out onto Sydney Road and make my way into the funky coffee house and place my order.

I take a seat at the table near the front window. The smell of roasting coffee beans hangs in the air and complements the clean interior of the premises. I look upward and see the light. The white frosted shade that encapsulates it has collected dust around its rim. The tight leather backs and seats of the chairs pair beautifully with the elegant chrome frames onto which they are screwed. Laminate woodgrain flooring runs wall to wall, up to the stainless-steel coping at the edges. I notice the black and white picture of a man with a long, pointy moustache and monocle as he sips from a porcelain cup. His bald head gives an element of surprise and interest, as though a top hat would have been expected.

I stare blankly out the window and think back to the voice I heard in the light, and I realize I'm looking at the dark, gaping entrance to a stone church building across the road. The tall gothic spire governs the skyline in front of me, like a tribal elder overlooking the affairs of the people down below. The thick wooden doors hang open just inside the entryway. I can't tell if the sight of this old building evokes wonder in me or an air of evil foreboding. I read the engraved wooden signpost that stands at the front near the sidewalk: Saint Martin of God.

I notice the people out the front of the bar that stands beside the church. Right there, I see my old life next to my new life. As I sip my coffee, the intrigue builds, and I can't get it out of my mind. Maybe destiny calls? I don't want to go back to having some church elder breathing down my neck and telling me what to do. Maybe things have changed? I could do with a friend right now. A connection would be good. I finish my coffee and decide to go and investigate.

I check for traffic as I stand at the curb and cross over Sydney Road. Do I just walk in? I see nobody go in or come out. The dark opening of the church haunts me, and I need to know what looms inside. I can't tell if God's spirit inside me is prompting me to go in or run away. I step up onto the paved concrete slab that leads to the open doors. I still myself and pay attention to the senses inside me, hoping to find some divine guidance, perhaps to walk away.

"I'm Father Andrew. Can I help you?" comes a solitary voice from just inside the entrance.

The bright sunlight glares as I stand outside. My eyes cannot adjust to the darkness to see who speaks. In an instant, I hesitate and lose my bearings. I decide to ignore this person and leave. "Sorry, I'm just lost."

"You're in the right place. Christ came to seek the lost," he replies. "You're welcome to come in."

In an unguarded moment, I decide to enter and speak with the priest, not knowing where it will lead. Who is this? I walk inside through the shadowy entrance, and the chill of the air tightens the skin around my face and neck. A man in a white, full-length robe appears just inside the entrance as he inspects the cabinet that stores relics and artefacts of religious significance. His holy attire gives him an appearance of purity. His ring of groomed, gray hair suggests wisdom and righteousness in full measure. No part of his garb tells of imperfection. A warm cozy sensation runs up my skin.

"Come and tell me your story, son," he says as he gestures for me to sit with him in the pews.

I ease on through the doorway and walk up the stone floor, taking a seat in an empty pew next to him. Colored light from the stained glass windows dances upon the pews on the other side of the hall as I look around the room. A statue of Jesus bleeding as he hangs on a crucifix sits high up on the front wall behind where the sermons would be given. Father Andrew sits a foot away, ready to listen.

"What do you want to know?" I ask.

"Something must have led you here. Things happen for a reason, don't you think? You strike me as a man searching in the dark. Perhaps I can offer you some light for your journey."

"A lot has happened lately," I say as I take in the sights of this room and try to grasp all of the changes in my life.

"Take your time," he says.

I glance over at him, and all appears right. His focus is fixed in my direction as his hands lay clasped in his lap. "I met a homeless guy named Jack when I got hit by a speeding car recently. He took me in to his squat to help me, but he ended up dying when he tried to rescue me from being electrocuted. He was a kinder man than me, or anyone else I've ever met, but he died, and I didn't."

I hold in all of my tears. Chest tight, I keep it all together and hope I don't come undone. But a gentle sob begins to find its way out of my being, and my eyelashes become wet with tears. "Why did I survive? That's what I keep asking myself. He did more good than me, and before then, I wouldn't have even noticed him."

"That's a heavy load on your shoulders, I imagine."

"If I had my shit together I never would have been hit by that car, and he'd still be here. I was walking home drunk from a bar," I say as I bend forward in my seat, holding the shattered pieces of my soul together.

"I see. Yes, you were in the wrong, weren't you? Would you like to go to confession? At least your sins can be forgiven if you truly repent."

I cannot look at him as this hurricane of heavy emotion weighs on me. Is this what I need? Can he make it better? Jack's sweet face is swallowed up inside me by the heavy boulder of guilt. My lungs breathe, but my soul does not. At my most vulnerable, I reach out for help. "Can you make the guilt go away? I just wish he were here. There's things I want to tell him. He saved my life in so many ways. He wasn't a bum."

"I think we should go into my office for more privacy, if you don't mind," he says as he observes the woman lighting candles on the left side of the hall.

I follow Father Andrew down the aisle and through the oak doorway at the back of the hall and into his office. The luxurious décor of an older age, combined with modern technology that sits on his desk, speaks of a link between history and the now. The reddish tinge of the carved bookshelf has a fine layer of dust on its shelves, which adds to the time-drenched, sacred atmosphere of the building. We take our seats and sit on opposite sides of his desk.

"Do you believe in Christ, Our Lord?" he asks as he peers down his nose at me.

"I believe He exists, yes," I say with head hung low.

"Well, you need your sins forgiven if you want to be right with Him. As a priest, I'm qualified to administer God's forgiveness if you need it. You can be made pure today."

They will read Bible verses out to your ears so you know God is on their side.... God is within and He guides us as such.... The remembrance of Mrs. Delaney's words rings in my ears. I go deep within and search for something to guide me—some knowledge or wisdom to help me find my feet. Not everyone who teaches from that book is qualified to do so, if you ask me.... Caution rises up from my depths amid the desire for atonement for a good life lost. I refrain from speech as I gather my thoughts.

"What exactly is it that qualifies you to teach others about God? Why would I believe you over someone else?" I listen not to his words, as all guides insist they're right, but listen deeper for what is not spoken.

Instantly, I feel the offense in his spirit go down inside him and take root and grow. "I passed my exams as a priest thoroughly, if that's what you mean," he says as he readjusts himself in his chair. "I know the Holy Scriptures as is my job to do so. The authority of the Church has been imparted to me through my ordination."

I take in all his words and weigh them up. You passed your exams.... Your qualifications come from knowing words in a book. And your authority... you have that because other people said you have it. What makes you right? What makes you know? "I see.... What is it that makes you think you're right? Could others who have a different view to yours be right?"

Father Andrew stands up and towers over me from the other side of the desk. "You're questioning the authority of the Church now? Surely, you're worse than you realize. It's not too late to repent and receive forgiveness. A man's death on your conscience must be a heavy weight."

The barbs in his words tear through me as I hear them, but I have seen this man's true colors. A phony. "Thanks, but I need something else. I'll take my business elsewhere," I say as I stand up to his intimidation and calmly rise to eye level with him. Despite my yearning to atone, I leave in silence and let this man carry on with his engrained sense of self-importance.

# Chapter 12: Crumbs for the Hungry

I switch off my bedroom light and fall into bed long after my meal has settled and nourished my bones. The image of Beano's face stays with me. Undisturbed, I recollect the micro-expressions I saw on his face, hoping for some tell that would explain his poverty, and therefore, be able to be remedied. I see nothing. Only him. Why? How do they get like that? What are the answers? My mind rolls over and over the etched expression on his face as I fall captive to the night and drift into a sleepy dreamscape.

I hobble down a cozy red-brick paved laneway and peer through the windows of the stores that stand side by side on both sides of this narrow road. I've never been to this place. Is there any reason I'm here? I pass the red and white poles out the front of a barbershop and see Abraham Lincoln sitting in a chair as two barbers create plaits on either side of his head. I see this and think nothing of it. I keep moving. A freshly shorn llama clip-clops on the red bricks as it comes toward me and whispers, "The lamb is in there."

I fix my eyes in the direction of where the llama pointed with its head and notice a brass bell just inside the glass pane of the front door of a shabby, run-down building on my left. I walk over and push open the door, making the bell ring and revealing those lime green tiles that cover the floor of this familiar café. Jesus zooms toward me on a hover board, between the tables, and stops just short of entering my personal space.

"Fun stuff!" He looks down to His hover board before dismounting and parking it near the door. "Come," He says as He guides me toward our table.

The same smiley waitress rolls up to our table on her skates and serves us café lattes as we take our seats. She careens away, through the back swinging doors into what I imagine is the kitchen, and moments later, returns with a crusty loaf of bread on a golden tray. "As You requested," she says as her eyelids naturally flutter while she speaks with Jesus before going away.

"It's still warm on the inside," He states as He takes the loaf and tears off pieces. "You might remember that in My time I referred to Myself as the Bread of Life?"

I prepare to take in what I feel is going to be another lesson from Christ. I watch His graceful movements as He breaks the bread. Like no one I've ever seen, He seems to be present and attentive to even the act of pulling apart the loaf. Divine. "If I recall, that was because You satisfy us," I say.

A restful smile dawns on His face. "Eat with Me," He urges as laughter gently pours out of His mouth like heavenly music.

I take a shred of bread and chew the malt-enriched crust as Christ eats with me. I don't know if it's the fine bread or whether it's something I've done, but He looks at me with such pleasure in His eyes. He gives no clue.

"Finish what you've started," He states.

I pull the uneaten remnant of bread away from my mouth and look at it and then stare at Him.

"Not the bread. Beano. Finish what you've started. Eat with him, and by this, you will feed his soul."

I hesitate before I respond, thinking about Beano's overwhelming situation. "I don't think I'm cut out for that."

"I'm cutting you out."

After turning under my blanket all night, I wake up at nine o'clock in the morning, eager to get up and get out of bed. A new day has come. I sit on a stool at my kitchen counter and reminisce about the dream with Christ. I feel like falling onto the floor and rolling around in explosions of worship but remain seated. I must see Beano. By lunchtime I am ready and out the door to pick up some food and see if he is home.

The small, overgrown lawn at the front of Beano's house, along with the boarded-up front windows, make this house look desolate. I carry the plastic bag filled with Indian food up along the side path and around to the back door. He's home. I see the back of him through the kitchen window as he stands inside at the kitchen counter. I step up to the door and knock three times.

"Who's that?" comes his croaky words.

"It's Skelter. I brought some food," I say as I gently open the door and step inside.

Beano stands over the kitchen counter cutting up a fresh apple from the tree in the back yard. He lifts his head and looks at me with eyes so hollow I see right through to the lost and lonely child that remains neglected inside him. I step over to him and drop the bag of food down onto the counter. Part of me wants to look away from the raw human need I see in his face, but as I recall the dream from last night, I am spurred on to see where this goes.

"I got myself a vindaloo—I like spice, but there's a choice of two others you can have. And there's a tub of rice to go with it," I murmur as I take out the shiny, white plastic cutlery pieces.

He looks at me cautiously, takes a container of food, and peels off the lid. "This is good," he says without even trying it.

"You might want to taste it. I think that's rogan josh. The other one's mango chicken. If you don't like them, I can get something else—you saved my life man—both you and Jack in some ways."

I look around the room and see the small teddy bear still untouched, uncuddled, from where it lay when I first came here. I follow Beano's lead and sit in the other chair next to his. What next? Half of the container of rogan josh has been eaten already as rapid-fire movements of Beano's hand shovels spoonful after spoonful into his wide-open mouth. With a gentle gaze, I watch him feed. His hurried, unkempt mannerisms I would have once despised, but somehow, I see beyond what my eyes see. I see the perfect child he once was, who now, through life's ordeals, has met with an unfortunate fate.

Inside, I feel alive. Ready. Awake. I pause and think as I eat my vindaloo. I don't know what to say. "Do you like it?" I ask. What a shit question! But I don't know how to help him. I look over to him cautiously, as though at any moment he may take offense at my words.

"Can I keep the other one for later?" he asks.

I guess you do like it. "Sure. We'd better finish off the rice between us now though, otherwise it'll go bad by tonight, and you'd get sick. You need a little fridge."

As the last spoonful of curry from Beano's container is slurped up, he wipes his mouth with his striped shirt and jumps up to get the rice from the bench. I hear the awkward sound of a tight plastic lid being pulled off of the rice container. He comes back to his steel-framed chair with a pile of steamed rice in his empty curry container and scoops mouthfuls into his gaping mouth. "Why do they call you Beano?" I ask as I listen not only to his words, but also to him.

"I used to know a way of sneaking into the baked bean factory and getting free cans to eat. Kept us full," he replies.

"Did you ever get caught?"

"Nah, we watched and waited for the security guard to go and then snuck in through the hole in the fence in the parking lot. Was good till they found out how we got in. Then they fixed that problem, and we didn't get no more baked beans, that's for sure," he blurts out as he places his empty container onto the floorboards and sits still in his chair.

I spoon the last spicy remnants of vindaloo into my mouth as a satisfying glow radiates from my stomach, and its warmth spreads throughout my body. Eat with him..., and by this you will feed his soul.... "Have you ever had a partner, Beano?" I ask to get a conversation going. "A special guy or girl?"

He lifts his head and gazes out the back window. "When I was fifteen, before I left school, I was with this girl named Shilao. Fancy name, but she wasn't up to much good. Got into the white powder, she did. Pawned everything to feed her habit. Too much trouble they are for me. I like being on my own. I can please myself that way. Wasn't worth the trouble."

An unexpected shift transpires inside me. I no longer feel the pity I felt I needed to have for Beano. Suddenly, a respect and appreciation wells up for the man beside me that I once would have walked right on past. He's got stories just like anyone else. Is this me helping him, or him helping me? I'm getting more out of this than what I'm giving. Beats wiping myself out each weekend and the shit I did which I called a career—there's life in this.

"A bit of fun between the sheets comes along every now and then though," he says as his voice brightens.

A grin brims all over my face. "I'm pleased for you, Beano. You probably get more action than I do." The atmosphere saturates with pleasure as I hear him chuckle in his seat next to me. I've never seen him come so alive. Quiet shouts of victory echo throughout my mind as I relish the success I'm finding with God. No force or threat can steal it away.

THWACK!

"What was that?" I ask as I jolt forward in my chair, unsure if a visitor has arrived. "Are you expecting people?"

"Shit. That was loud. It was the window I think," he says as he steps over to peer through the glass pane and see what made the noise. Silence dawns as I watch Beano investigate. "Can't see a thing," he states.

The hairs on my arms bristle, and skin tightens as I calm myself down and breathe. "I'll check it out," I assure Beano, but he seems unfazed either way. I step over and turn the aluminum handle of the back door and open it up as the sunlight sweeps in and dresses the floor with its warmth. I poke my head just outside a little and see a beautiful small bird twitching on the cement under the window as it lays there, unable to fly. "It's a bird."

"They do that every now and then. Is it dead? It hit the window hard," says Beano.

I keep my eyes fixed on this delicately colored bird as it gives up its twitching and final breath. "He's gone. He's not hurting anymore," I say with saddened eyes. Jack! The weight of guilt plummets down on top of me again. I look over at Beano as his weary head hangs low once again.

"I miss Jack, the old bugger!" he states. "If it wasn't for you, he'd still be here."

I shatter into a thousand fragments. "Beano, if I could bring him back, I would. Fuck, I wish he were here, too. I keep searching for ways to make everything all right again, but what's happened has happened, and I can't change that. I'm sorry, Beano."

"Stupid bloody power strip. I know it wasn't you really. It's just fucked. That power strip shouldn't have been on the bench near the kettle. You're all right, mate. I'm sorry I said that," he says as he comes over and stands beside me in his aimless fashion. "Should we bury him?"

"What? Jack?" I say as the swell of grief subsides.

"Nah, the bird." He steps outside and hobbles over to crouch down beside the motionless bird and casts his eyes over its form. A broken wing feather blows with the wind as it sits up and out of its usual formation with the other feathers. "There's a spade in the shed. I'll dig a hole."

Within half an hour, we have laid to rest this graceful creature, complete with pink geranium petals over the mound where it lays at the back of the yard. As we sit outside near the back door with our coffee, a need for closure arises. "Last week, I tried to find out what's happening with Jack at the hospital. I couldn't do it. I backed out and left."

Beano nods his head in recognition of my words and grief and lifts his head up, looking out over the horizon. "They never came to tell me what happened."

"Who?" I ask.

"Nobody. No one came after the ambulance people came and told me he died. I still talk to him, though, and he hears me."

"I sense he's watching over this place—over you—us, maybe?" I say as I hold my warm coffee mug close to my chest.

"Should see what's happened. Maybe he's been buried somewhere. We could go to his funeral or visit his grave, the old bugger," says Beano as he gets up off of his chair and goes inside.

A stillness surprises me, and guilt is not present as I feel led to inquire of Jack's whereabouts. Amid the tranquility within and without, I take out my phone and make the calls needed for us to find closure concerning Jack and move forward and carry his memory. Within an hour, I find out Jack's body has been cremated as no one came forward to claim him. The state trustees afforded him not the farewell he deserved with flowers and song but gave the cheapest option available to this man of no fixed address.

Soon after, Beano and I make our way to the nearby crematorium as the busy sounds of traffic on the roads, and life on the streets, give a surreal sense that life carries on as usual while we tend to the aftermath of Jack's death. "Are you ready for this?" I ask Beano as my car approaches the crematorium.

"Yeah," he says. I sense his heaviness.

We enter into the parking lot, get out, and walk up along the side path amid the greenery of the agapanthus plants that line the gardens beside the path. The beautiful latte-colored brick building where we're due to pick up Jack's ashes rests nestled under the shade of giant eucalyptus trees that surround it. The beautiful song of chirping birds in the trees ushers me into a sacred place in my soul where reflection upon life and death catches me, spurring me on to take action and find out how far I can go with God.

A heaviness weighs down upon me as I push open the glass door for Beano to enter. The sight of large ceramic planters filled with glorious artificial flowers complements the sound of trickling water that comes from the stone indoor garden feature at the far end of the room. Polished pink granite floors line the way up to the service desk where we go and ring the bell for somebody to come and tend to us.

Out comes a woman who appears to be in her sixties, dressed in fine clothing that gives an aura of respect and quality. She presents well, as would be expected for a person in her role. Her golden, shoulder-length hair is brushed flawlessly straight with a slight inward curve at the bottom. Minimal makeup complements her natural glow. Her inviting demeanor lifts me as I ready myself for this task.

"My name is Skelter Valentine, and this is Beano. We're here to collect his housemate Jack's ashes. He was homeless. I rang just before. I was told the container would be ready for me."

"Ah," she says as she raises her finger in the air as though she remembers. "I'll be right back."

Soon, Beano and I are in my car driving back to his squat with the box that contains the final remains of the man who saved my life. As I get on with watching the peak-hour traffic, I glance down beside me and notice Beano's fingers gently stroking one side of the cardboard box. I don't speak. The loss he feels seems visible. After the short trip home, we go inside to share a coffee together and chat. Beano places the box on the kitchen counter where it's safe.

"Rest buddy," he whispers as he pulls his hand back from the container.

We sit around in a comfortable silence as we process our grief and come to terms with Jack's death. I tell Beano that he can decide what to do with the ashes once he's ready, and after I share another meal of roast chicken and fries with him, I leave him alone for the night and go home to think and sort some things out. I feel that gentle tug from within calling me onward.

# Chapter 13: Seeing in the Mirror

#

After I arrive home, I undress and step into the shower, in part as a ritual to cleanse me of all that has been and to step into the newness of life that lies ahead. As I rub the bar of soap over my torso and down my legs, it symbolizes a shaman or priest, guiding and preparing me through this passage of change, ridding me of the old and ushering in the new. I turn off the water, get out of the shower, and stand up straight on my bath mat, throwing a pale blue towel over one shoulder as I lean in closer and gaze into the bathroom mirror.

"Only believe..." I say to my reflection as I consider the message. My piercing eyes peer back at me, looking for proof and the reasons why I feel I'm such a fuck up. I'm sure those reasons exist. Memories of being ten years old and being told that I'd never get married and that no one would ever want to touch me run through my mind, along with the years of grief that ensued. How can I believe He's good when life is filled with misery? I gaze hard into the mirror to see what I can see. Is there hope? Crumbs of faith? My heart questions and wrestles and hopes for salvation in the presence of doubt. I see only the person that got what he somehow deserved in life. The ache gnaws.

I look upward. "I want to believe," I say as my eyes slowly fall to the floor. "I'm not so sure I know how to. Help me overcome my disbelief."Help me."

I look again in the mirror; this time something catches my attention. Unsure if the reflection of the light is causing what I see, or whether my eyes are going blurry, I rub them. Clearer now, I see my naked self in the mirror with alternating images of the Tree of Truth and the Tree of Lies that go down to the core of who I am and spring forth up out of me. Pulsating between the rotten, dark tree and the luscious green, leafy tree, I see how my beliefs germinate, take root, grow, and take on a life of their own.

I peer closer into the mirror. As the images continue to alternate, I watch what appears to be an electrical current or life force that radiates and travels up from the central tap root, slowly up into the trunk, and out into all the branches above it. As time moves on, these pulses of life, or energy, bring the thistles and fruits of their kinds into full maturity where they fall off to the ground and spread their seeds.

"It's all about believing," I whisper to myself. "I have the power, and I can change my life with it."

I look up to the ceiling and stare as though I might see up into Heaven. "That's how You work—it's all by believing—that's our connection to You, and it carries us."

I towel myself dry and jump into a pair of jeans and a T-shirt and sit at my kitchen counter. I spread my arms out on the front of the countertop and take in all that has happened in my life. I wiped myself out and spent all those years creating a hell for myself, even if I did have help in that. What a waste! I rest my head down in front of me and let it hang in the air before lifting it up in prayer. "I can feel a shift happening already. Something's brewing. Something like I've never known—and I want it. I want more."

My eyes pierce through to Heaven as I speak. "I want everything You have for me—I want to be all I'm meant to be!" I rest, knowing He heard my deliberate, heartfelt prayer. "And I want You. I want to be where You're at. I need You. Take me to places I've never been." My chest thuds to an electric pulse that beats throughout my body.

Later on that evening, after a contemplative afternoon, I set out to pray for answers on how I can help Beano. I want to understand. After all is done for the day, I pray. Alone in my home, I lock my door and close the curtains. Eased into my sofa chair, I look around my living room as my thoughts turn onto God. My heart thumps and pulsates in anticipation of what I might achieve. Ask, seek, and knock....

"I don't know how to pray—I don't know what to say," I say as I look upward. I press on. Suddenly, I realize I need to pray about not knowing how to pray. "That's where I'm at—that's where to start." Instantly, a shift transpires in my being as I find myself speaking with God about what's happening for me. Gone is the mindset that prayer is formulaic, and I am left to be vulnerable and open with the Master where anything can happen, and what will happen will be real.

"Finish what I've started, aye? At least I made contact with him. I don't know where You're leading me, but I'm up for the ride."

I close my eyes briefly and search myself for the wisdom to pray intelligently. I hope to identify some form of need in Beano that I can discuss with God that will lead to better living standards for him. "I have nothing," I say. "There's just him and me. You're not going to just make a house fall from the sky if I ask for that. I see nothing. Just him." Knowing God hears, I rest with the knowledge that I don't have the answers, knowing He does.

A smile comes over my face as I sense the Divine presence surround me and fill the room with a rich, quiet awe and beauty. All is well. "Show me what he needs." Not knowing what to do, I trust the one Who does. "Show me how to help him." I sit and wait for a response, but nothing comes. A fragment of inspired idea, or whim of incentive—nothing. Hope wanes as my eagerness to see Beano's life improved is met with a wall of silence.

After further questions put to God, I get up and step over to the portable beer fridge. It catches my eye as it sits at the end of my sofa from when Sharky and I used it on weekends. "Is that You?" I wonder if God caused me to notice the fridge as I think how Beano has nothing to keep his food cold. "I don't need it anymore, and it'll help him. I know it won't fix everything, but it's a start. I'll take it over tomorrow." The sight of the mini-fridge reminds me of the sensation of getting drunk and forgetting all of life's hassles. I feel the tug for comfort to go back to what I know, but the need to know what can be drives me forward. I'm not going back to that.

The next morning, I drive over to Beano's with the small fridge in the back of my car. After making sure he's home, I carry it up along the side path and around into his kitchen. "I thought you could use this. It was a spare, and I don't need it anymore," I say to Beano as I wait to gauge his response.

"Thanks."

That short, sharp word offers no tell. No change in emotion, nor inflection of speech, indicates success.

At least he'll use it. Better off him having it than me. I was hoping for something more—I don't know what. Maybe I wanted him to cry or express joy or be thankful? I sit and have a coffee with him to get the day rolling and ask him if he wants me to bring him dinner tonight. He tells me his welfare payment is due today and offers to buy the meal, but I insist I've got more cash than he does, so it's my treat. We agree that I'll meet him back here at six o'clock to work out what to get for dinner. I leave him to tend to his own business as I go home to tend to mine.

††††††† ††††††† †††††††

I press the button on my shiny, new coffeemaker and wait for an earthy latte to drip into my cup and work out where to go from here. As I watch the dark, golden drops fall, anxious cares about life seep into my thoughts. Can I really make a difference in Beano's life? Can I even help myself? And at some stage, I'm going to need to sort out what I'm going to do for a living. I haven't even thought about that yet! I compose myself and bring my mind back to a restful state. This isn't helping. I take control and choose to get up and on with living life.

Loved? "How long will this take?" I pray as I go and lay down on my sofa in the living room. I breathe out and focus, hoping for the next step to be revealed. In and out, my breathing centers me. The unpleasant and jarring experience of sharing what matters to me with a distant God suffocates me. The feeling that a God Who divides everything up into right and wrong and has His critical eye on me saturates my being. Joyless.

"Help me," I pray. "All I need to do is believe. It's harder than I thought. I trust You—it's just taking longer than I expected. I know what to do—I just want it all to change. I want to experience life without feeling there's something wrong with me and that I matter, without pretending I do. And I hate the shadow that comes over me when I think about You. It's intertwined inside me—it's part of me now."

Seeing no response is returned, I figure to keep doing the last things He showed me to do and have faith I'll see the results in good timing. I dig in deeper. I choose not to complain and reserve my mouth for words that won't hinder, despite the bitter temptation. In a moment of divine inspiration and steely resolve, I utter the words of the insightful revelation I receive that hits me: "The harder the fight, the sweeter the victory."

# Chapter 14: Hot Soapy Words

In the hope of gathering wisdom to guide me, I call Mrs. Delaney to see if she can come and do a mid-week clean at short notice. She arrives at two o'clock in the afternoon, ready for house cleaning, perhaps in more ways than one. As she steps inside, she notices the house is in a similar state to how she left it only days ago, with minimal mess. She passes by my side on her way to the kitchen with her usual cool demeanor.

"At least there's dishes that need doing," she says as she takes in the orderly view. "I sense something's baking, and you may need help to raise the temperature and bring it to a light, golden crust, Skelter." She fills my kitchen sink with hot soapy water and puts in the few plates and cutlery pieces that lay around on my counters. "I'll let them soak for five."

I sit on a barstool as I watch her maneuver my vacuum in and around my living room furniture, leaving the carpet blemish free. Back at the sink, she dips her hands into the hot water and washes the dishes and lets them drain on the wire rack as the steam rises up off of them.

"Your words... you're having an effect on me lately," I say. "As though what you say is exactly what I need to hear."

"Stranger things do happen," she says without looking away from the foamy water. "Indeed, they do."

"At your church... do you go to confession?"

"Every church has a different flavor, Skelter—can't say we do that where I go. As I said, I go for cake and coffee. The thought of having to confide so often to someone I barely know... I'd have to invent sins to confess just to keep them happy. Although, I've heard about their list of sins. Honestly, Skelter, I commit those regularly. They can be a great source of joy if you put your heart and soul into them."

She finishes up washing the last plate and places a dirty skillet into the hot water before turning to face me. "But we all know God ain't interested in our pleasure. That guy has been sucking our joy for a very long time. Most never question Him. They just accept what they're told about God and are taught they are powerless to question things. Just ask my brother and his boyfriend what they think of that guy!"

"What are you saying?"

"The concept of an all-knowing, all-powerful God.... For those who choose to believe, that is such a monumental image it evokes and an all-important one. And if we are not careful, we can draw dangerous conclusions that go down into our parts.... You know the rest," she says.

"I do."

"The image we form of God, both consciously and subconsciously... if we don't truly know... we may end up fighting with a God who we think is out to destroy all hope. Everyone who believes says that He is good, obviously. Otherwise, why would they believe? Yet, people infringe upon others' human rights in the name of God—go figure that one out. Don't add up to me."

"Do you believe He speaks to people?"

"God?" she asks as she begins to scrub my skillet. "Every sunrise is a message from Him. The question I ask others is, "Do you listen?" An angel on my right shoulder, devil on my left... I'm not so sure that's completely fiction if you ask me."

"Do you believe He talks directly with people?" I ask as I stare right into her eyes.

She pauses and rests her hands in the sink as she holds the skillet and then returns my gaze. "Skelter, most folk wouldn't know it these days, but if we believe we are made in His image, and we get our messages across in various ways, why would it be so hard to believe He is any different? Why do you ask? What's on your mind?"

"Have you ever heard Him?"

"There's been a lot of change happening here lately. I have heard things over time, sure, but this isn't about me, is it?"

I get up off of the barstool and lean forward over the counter. "I haven't believed in God since I was young. Now it seems it's my time to get to know Him. I lost interest as a teenager because I felt I couldn't please Him, and I didn't want to feel the need to apologize every minute. There were so many things I had to do and so many things I couldn't do. It became too much, and I needed to get free from all of that."

Mrs. Delaney pulls the plug from the kitchen sink and lets the water drain as she listens. "You're not alone there, Skelter. I've seen many people, especially young people, get loaded up with heavy burdens on their backs. But you know where you're going now. You summed it up perfectly.... It's your time to get to know Him." Her eyes rest on me as she relaxes her shoulders.

"Many people know about God, Skelter. Priests, pastors, and the like. But when it comes to the crunch, in my book, that just doesn't cut it. That stuff they just get from reading a book—even if it is the Book. You don't know a person by reading words on a page that you may or may not be understanding correctly to begin with. There's no compromise for really knowing Him for ourselves. Otherwise, there's no real authority in how we live. There's knowing, and there's knowing about."

I keep my eyes on her as she pulls off her rubber gloves and places them in the cupboard under my sink. "I think it's my time to get to know Him for myself."

"Bingo!" After rinsing her hands, she flicks the water off, and with her two thumbs and index fingers, she makes a rectangle in the air as though they form a photo frame around my face from a distance. "Watch this space.... That's about all I can say."

# Chapter 15: A Deeper Need

I arrive at Beano's at six o'clock sharp. He's home. "Hungry?" I ask as I walk in through the back door. He stands at the kitchen counter tinkering with a rat trap. A cask of cheap red wine sits on the counter near him, complete with wine droplets that stain the laminate surface and a half full coffee cup, filled with wine, to his right side.

"I'm gonna get these buggers," he murmurs with a smile as he glances up at me. "They eat my bread."

Cellophane wrappers and food packaging trays lay scattered around on the floor that weren't there earlier. Wine and cheese.... There goes your pay. I hope you've got enough cash to last you until you get paid again. "You can keep the bread and cheese in your fridge now. It'll last longer. But at least you're dealing with the rats."

"Yeah," he mumbles as he fidgets with his contraption.

I look around to see where he's placed his new mini-fridge but can't see it from this side of the counter. I step around and join him in the small kitchen space and look under the counter. Nothing. "Where's your new fridge, Beano?"

"Gone." He doesn't even blink.

As I am hit with the unexpected, I sense I am about to learn some of the finer intricacies of his world. "Did you give it to a mate?" They probably all share anyway.

"It's hocked," he states as he gulps down the last of his cup of Cab Sav.

A trickle of burgundy wine runs down one corner of his mouth onto the collar of his shirt as I try to understand what happened. "What? You needed that. I gave it to help you."

"It did help!" he says jovially as he raises his cup toward me.

"That's not what I meant. I thought you needed a fridge to keep your food safe. I need to be alone for a minute," I say as I step outside to collect myself.

He hocked it! He needed that! I cast my eyes around the perimeter of the yard to ground myself and get outside of my own head. The sight of nature blowing in the wind and the movement of the branches of the apple tree distract me from what feels like a blow to my stomach. I search for words that will ease the situation. I did help him, he says.... Did I misjudge his needs? Fuck it Beano....

A million thoughts run through my mind, but the loudest and most prominent voice is that of reason. I know I need to be still and be guided through this situation. God's given me a brain for a reason. Just think about this. I continue to breathe in and relax as it dawns on me that Beano, in his homeless state, has very different priorities than that of most other people. Have I seen this from his perspective? He hocked it to buy wine and get drunk. Was I any different not so long ago? It's how he copes. Peace and calm begin to ease my soul. He's just not ready for what I hoped for. Maybe he has very little hope to begin with. Maybe that's his greater need here. I've got to get through to him.

I go back inside and sit with him as we eat slices of the pepperoni pizza I brought for dinner. The gooey mozzarella stretches all the way from the box to my mouth as I take my first bite. The firm texture of the black olives gives me pleasure as I bite through them with my front teeth and savor their saltiness.

He turns to face me. "I get food most days, here and there. What I want most is something to help me forget. God sure doesn't help me fix anything." His speech begins to slur as he raises his cup in the air. "This is my savior. The only true medicine that heals all troubles."

I take a step back, but I can't look away. All frustration and disappointment fall away as I see him for who he is. The anesthetic of the alcohol appears to have loosened him up, and I see the tender and timid side of him. Right there, he is raw and real. I cannot deny him his experience or perspective. The years of deep suffering are all laid bare before me in the expression on his face and in the piercing look in his glazed eyes. Like a left child with no one to care for him, he is present in all of his inner poverty. I want to look away, but I keep eye contact for both our sakes.

I don't give into the temptation to look away from his suffering and neediness. My soul breaks, seeing his plight. Suddenly, Christ's message to 'eat with him and by that I will feed his soul' makes sense. Just like a Christmas tree, I am lit up with a revelation of how deep his needs are—deeper than I first realized. Sorrow weighs on me. Unexpectedly, compassion fills me, and I find myself seeing the value in helping those who need it. Priceless. Love makes sense—there's life in it. My life-long motto of survival of the fittest disintegrates. I see worth in Beano for being the man he is—a worth that cannot be removed, or stolen, or broken... or ignored.

Worth that has never been affirmed.

"I've found a home for Jack's ashes," he states as he rocks himself gently in his chair. "He's going in the back corner behind the apple tree. He'll be safe there. He'd want to be here. This was his home. Didn't have anywhere else. And I'll keep him in the container in case I get kicked out of this joint so I can take him with me."

"Okay," I reply as I read his emotions. He seems calm.

After finishing off the pizza, Beano and I decide to take action before the sun goes down and lay Jack's ashes into his resting place so we can celebrate his life and the man he was after we have said goodbye. I sense a night coming that will be filled with depth and sincerity.

Beano gets up, walks over to the kitchen counter, and taps his hand on top of the cardboard box with Jack's ashes. "You can look after this place, Jacko. Just like when you were here, mate. I'll still talk to you, too. I know you're still here. I know."

The sun's light begins to fade as we prepare the ground to receive the last fragments of Jack. After digging the hole, Beano brings out the box. We kneel down on the grass and clear away all debris from the area that surrounds Jack's resting place. We pick up the stones along with twigs and throw them to the side. I lay my right hand, palm down, on the earth and give a silent blessing to the ground. Only God knows my thoughts. Not even I know the mysteries that transpire within me as I silently reflect on that twinkle I saw in Jack's eyes—an image that got to me. An image of hope. In this moment, eternity is here.

"Let's do it," I say.

Beano takes the cardboard box in his hands and opens the flip-top lid, pulling out the pale gray plastic container and nursing it between his palms. "Bye, mate," comes his broken words. He leans forward over the hole and puts the container down into the earth and looks back at me.

My eyes are wet and my heart full. "Thank you, Jack," I manage to say. Suddenly, a weight is lifted off of me which frees me to more fully express my gratitude, whether spoken or otherwise. "Ashes to ashes, dust to dust... shine on, mate. I know where you are." We pause.

"Let's cover him up," whispers Beano.

We lean forward, and together, we slowly push piles of dirt from the small mound beside the hole over the top of the container. Scoop by scoop, Jack is laid to rest as the shiny container disappears from our sight and the hole becomes filled with the soil that holds him tight. Beano mumbles kind words in his remembrance as he pats the soil down flat, and we breathe out our relief at having completed this journey. "Now you can watch over this place and make sure no buggers come round," Beano blurts out. The uncouth words from his lips are welcome, bringing a smile to my face.

We go inside the house, and I tidy up Beano's mess and put the food wrappers that lay on the floor onto the counter before I sit back down for a chat. I turn my gaze to Beano as he fidgets with a rat trap and notice his alcohol-induced state of tranquility. The shards of frustration over his hocking the fridge linger but are transcended by the sense that, in some way, I did help him, and to him, I gave him what he needed. A sense of richness fills me. Does he feel that? Wanting a connection, I glance across at Beano, wondering what's going on inside him.

"Have a drink with me. There's plenty to go round," he says through his slurred speech as he tilts his cup of wine toward me. He seems perfectly inebriated, content. I raise my hand and gesture a polite refusal. My time with that is done. He gets up and grabs the cask of wine from the counter and pulls back the plastic lever to fill his cup. The wine splashes as he thrusts his cup up to my face to take a drink. At least he's social.

"I don't drink," I say.

Disappointment shows in his eyes. "And what's brought on your sudden change? You were off your rocker when you first come here. Has the Lord Almighty set you straight?"

"I get the urge every now and then, but I'm just happier not to drink. It's no big deal."

I sit and wonder why God spared my life but kept Jack, but I let those thoughts go, knowing no answers will be given. What am I doing here? Eat with him, and by this you will feed his soul? Like lightning, the revelation comes. It's not about food or cash; it's about love—relationship—connection. That's how I feed him. He just needs human interaction. I guess we both do. I'm spurred on and encouraged to see where this leads.

"What makes you happy, Beano?" I ask as I watch him tinker with the rat trap.

He peers across at me as he seems to think. "I used to want things... a long time ago." He pulls his arms in close to his chest, seeming unsure if he wants to share. I gently nod my head as a gesture for him to continue. Patiently, I wait. "Things don't work out for me," he says as his body language slumps. His eyes appear to look into a far-away place beneath the floorboards. A sigh leaves his open mouth.

"Tell me," I say.

He fidgets with his fingers, and I sense a smartass comment about to come my way—a defense mechanism, I suspect, that hides his sorrow. Once again, his shoulders slump, and surprise catches me as he responds.

"Some people are born lucky," he whispers. "Not me. I used to try to make things work. They only kick you in the guts when you fuck up, though. I can't do that anymore—live in your world. You all... they're only in it for themselves, and they don't make room for people like me. We have it easy now us—people on the streets. Kings and queens of the free world we are—nobody to please, but us."

Despite knowing his obvious hardship, I offer a smile in return for his honesty. "Thanks. I'm not after anything from you, by the way. To be honest, I thought you might need some help, but really, it's about more than that. I think we can have a friendship. I don't pity you because you're homeless. You don't seem to have company, and I've lost my mates recently, so this seems to work for us both, aye?"

"I wish you'd drink with me."

"I would have until the other week. The night you saved me, something happened then, and things have been changing. I won't go into all of that now. I've got plenty of cash in the bank, which you probably don't, but in many ways... I don't think we're that different. We've both got stories. We're both on a journey. We don't know where we'll end up, but we matter."

Beano swallows the hard lump in his throat. What's going through your head?

"You don't have to thank me for anything I do for you. I know you're worth it. That's all I need," I say.

Like a whimper of a hurt dog comes his broken howls. Softly, they fill the hard, empty room. I find a trace of beauty within the moment. A need is met. "You're not alone," I tell him as I go over and rest my hand on his shoulder. He pulls himself together as his tears come to an end. At some point later, after a chat that goes on into the night hours, we gradually fall asleep as we lay on our backs on the thick mattress that lays on the floor.

# Chapter 16: Disrobing the Statue of Stone

Why is Den of Thieves next door to Saint Martin's Church? It was across the road yesterday. And why is Christ sitting outside at the front of the church all dirty with a sign, asking for food? Adrenaline pumps. I'm four-fifths asleep, but this time my conscience is in part steering this dream in ways unlike before. I watch Father Andrew walk in his holy attire right up to Christ.

"You'll have to move along," says the priest. "This is holy ground where you sit. Can't you see this is a church? I have important business to attend to and matters of the highest regard to deal with. Go."

Jesus lowers his head in shame and gathers his few belongings and leaves. Father Andrew opens up the doors to his church and stands at the entrance announcing, "The kingdom of God is here. Everyone is welcome. Come inside." He turns and walks into the shadows of the building inside the hall. Am I being led? Is this me choosing? I take a few steps closer to the entrance and peer in. Sensations run through me unlike any I've ever felt. A sense of calling beckons me to enter the church. I march on in.

My shoes click-clack on the hard stone of the church floor as I, Skelter Valentine, a man on fire, walk down the aisle and up to the confessional booth. The crisp echo from my shoes notifies the priest I am present. I enter the cubicle and wait while I hear the soft footsteps of Father Andrew come near. The sound of his garment that caresses the stone floor soothes my senses as he walks into the confessional, adjacent to me. The gold ring on the priest's finger glistens on his hand as he pulls back the window to hear me confide my secrets.

"Welcome, my child. Would you like to make a confession?"

"Yes."

"What is your sin?"

"Causing trouble."

"Is it serious?"

"I don't know yet. I haven't done it."

Through the meshed window, I see his eyebrows raise at the surprising response.

"I'm about to," I say as I relax back in my seat. "Last night, I killed a man."

"This is serious, indeed. I thought you said you hadn't done it," says the priest as he leans in closer to the window.

"You'll work it out," I reply before continuing. "I then stole his wallet and hid his body."

The father's eyes widen in intrigue and disbelief.

"To top it off, I went home and mixed cola with a twelve-year-old single malt scotch whiskey, the whole time knowing it would interfere with the complexity of the flavor profile. Is there hope for me? Can I be saved?"

The priest's nostrils flare as he grinds his teeth, ready to spew out his venom. "Are you mocking the house of God?"

I calmly run my finger along the wooden window pane to check for dust. "Having a relationship with a religious person is like talking to a cold, hard stone with the words 'God is love' inscribed on it, and disappointment after disappointment, as you talk to it, you eagerly await its warmth and affection. You keep seeing its inscription, and you feel the weight of the promise that bears, and the hope of it, but all you get is a dead paperweight devoid of love."

Without hesitation, I continue. "Father, do you really think your manufactured-religion-for-the-masses has anything to do with the broken and beaten down souls that hunger to be touched and held? Will it save those on the streets from all that plague them—the outcasts—the hookers and thieves? They have needs, too. If you ever want to know the truth... you know His name—just ask!"

"You're an abomination to God! You'll burn in Hell for this," roars the priest.

I reply, "Absence makes the heart grow fonder.... So get away from me!" I push the cubicle door open and leave the priest behind, speechless. All that can be heard is the click-clacking of my shoes on stone as I leave the building.

††††††† ††††††† †††††††

The scent of camembert interrupts my sleep as I open my eyes and see Beano slowly wave a wedge of cheese under my nose. The crisp morning light bounces off of the aluminum garage and into the kitchen through the back window. "Eat up," he says. "Should stay all day. We could eat like kings and have fun."

I launch myself up with my arms and sit erect on the mattress. "Fun? What do you have in mind?" I suck in a deep breath and yawn like a lion to pump oxygen into my lungs.

"Could get drunk and go climb on tops of buildings in the city—I know which ones! I know how to get up there."

"I told you, Beano, I don't drink."

He opens his mouth, places a torn-off piece of camembert onto his tongue, and tilts his head back as he savors the pale, creamy cheese. "What about getting food vouchers from the church around the corner and going to get caviar to go with this cheese and crackers? Just say you're homeless like me."

"Saint Martin's?" I ask.

"I don't know. I only go there to get food. The one on Sydney Road—the big stone building."

"I know the priest. Father Andrew," I say as I rub my face with one hand and recall my dream.

"Well, why don't we all go and sing hallelujah together to fill in the time? We can have our sins forgiven while we're there," grunts Beano.

"Don't worry about vouchers. I'll get lunch," I tell him.

A few hours later, we walk around the corner to the closest supermarket, ready to buy up treats to dine on for lunch. Beano hobbles behind me as we enter through the automatic doors and in through to the polished floors of the aisles that stock every kind of epicurean delight. The white lights above cause the freshly cleaned floor to gleam and the shelves seem to be fully stocked.

"Get whatever you want," I say to Beano as he peers like an outsider at all the things he cannot afford. He has never been part of that world.

"Cheese. I want cheeses."

"I'll get you another cask, too. We can do communion with the wine—it goes well with cheeses," I remark.

A sneer, then a grin emerges on his face. I see him soften like camembert cheese on a warm day. We grab a box of crackers, head over to the deli section, take our selection of cheeses, and add a cask of red and a bottle of champagne to our basket before we head to the checkout.

"What's the bubbly for?" inquires Beano as he watches me scan our goods through the automatic checkout.

"I feel like celebrating with you. I won't object to one here and there."

Within minutes, we are back at his squat unpacking lunch. Beano lays the selection of cheeses on his kitchen counter, ready for lunchtime when they've come to room temperature. The day warms up as I take a shower, using Jack's unused towel. What I would give to have you here, Jack. Somewhere, I know you're looking down and seeing all of this. Fresh inside and out, I sit with Beano and enjoy his company as we share stories of misfortune and life's troubles and laugh about fun times.

"I had a dream this morning," I say to Beano. "That priest around the corner was in it. I went to confession."

"So, what did you confess to him? All your rotten sins?" he asks.

"No. I confessed his."

Beano whips his head around and looks me up and down. He doesn't inquire, but only tilts his head to the floor. "I've seen that look in his eye—the way he looked at me and Jack. We were invisible ghosts to him."

"Who?" I ask.

"That priest."

"A beacon of light, love, and hope for the world that man is, right?" I say. "He's only for show. He wouldn't know God if he fell over Him."

Beano's posture appears frail as his shoulders slump. "I can't believe like Jack did," he blurts out. I listen. "Believe that He's good when He seems like a monster! I can't."

"That's it. You do believe. You just believe He's an asshole. Kill Him!" I say.

"What?"

"Kill God!"

"What the fuck are you on?" he says as he rocks himself back and forth.

"You kill that guy by knowing God."

"Why, do explain.... Please do," says Beano as he picks up his half full cup and takes a slurp.

"We all have beliefs about God. We all develop ideas and pictures of Who He is. Even if we say we don't believe, we often seem to manage to have Him figured out to be a monster—encouraging isn't it? But they're all lies. The other guy sneaks in his lies—especially about God. If we doubt He is good to us, what hope is there? That's why we walk away. So, we destroy that dark image of God we all carry by really knowing Him. Then it becomes a joy."

The perplexed look on Beano's face softens as I continue. "As we get to know Him for ourselves, all the lies hold no power over us. They go. Truth overcomes darkness. Follow the Son, and the shadows will fall behind. But it's about knowing, not knowing about. You're not too far gone, Beano."

I sense a tightness in him as he pulls his arms in close to his chest, and a furrow appears on his brow. I watch him as he churns the cogs of his mind. "I can't be like you," he says under his breath. "I can't be like them. I tried."

"Beano, I feel like a fuck up, too. It's not you versus everyone else. Not with God," I say as I lean forward in my chair. "He's not asking you to be like everybody else. I'm in the same boat as you, brother. He meets one need at a time when we're ready for it, whatever that need is, and over time, He enriches who we are on the inside. Eventually, that will catch up with our circumstances. It's all processes, and processes within processes. It takes time, and we need to do our part."

I pop the bubbly and enjoy a light lunch with Beano before I go and tend to more personal affairs. Something beckons. I leave knowing Beano has turned a new corner in his life's journey. Hope has emerged within his dimly lit soul. I will feed him again soon, but for now, I go home to wrestle demons of one sort or another. The calling urges me on.

# Chapter 17: The Futility of Gritted Teeth and the Time for Salvation

Key inserted, I turn the handle of my front door and enter my home for a night of reckoning between me and God. So much change has happened. Who would have thought I'd help a homeless guy to find hope in God? Who would have thought I'd believe in Him again? It all seems crazy when I think about it. I walk up to my kitchen counter and lean on it as I take everything in. But there's still a shadow hanging over me. Not everything is sitting right. Will it ever go? I know what the answer is, but it's not happening for me.

"Help me," I say as I look upward. The realization that only God can help me hits me. Helpless? No! If I give up, there's no hope. I've got to see this through to the end. I've got to take a chance on Him, even if I don't know where it will lead. "I've lived with all this shit most of my life. But honestly, I can't do it forever," I pray. I am met with cold silence—all but the dripping of my tap into the sink. I need more. My organs clink and churn like the intricate workings of an old brass clock in need of fine oil.

"I need more." I kneel down on my living room floor and rattle my brain as I try to recall if anything I heard in church when I was young would deliver me from my predicament. Perhaps some long forgotten piece of wisdom that meant nothing to me then would be my salvation now. Nothing stands out. I grab my phone to find the Christian forum I recently discovered, if even only out of desperation.

As I scan through discussions within the forum, a flood of memories returns from my days in church. Suddenly, like in a springtime downpour of rain, all the seeds that lay on the ground are awakened and ready for growth. The messages from sermons and Bible verses feel like they have just been uttered. Everything seems new. Everything is now. But what do I do? I keep reading. I click on the thread with the title "No Darkness" being aware of the subtle haunting sensation that creeps in at times when I think of God.

All I read is a boring message about a part of the Bible that says there is no darkness in God. Yeah, but that doesn't help me. That's fine for Him, but what about me? I continue to read a Bible verse that says God is utterly trustworthy, followed by somebody's dry and moralistic beliefs about what that means. Suddenly, I feel nauseous at the thought that I've gone back to my days in church. Good for God. That was their answer for everything—trust God. No matter what the fuck happens, trust God. What else? I can't trust Him into fixing my life. I can't make Him do anything. I want action! I can't fix myself. And I need help.

"Show me the pages on here that I need to read," I pray. The shadow that hangs over my soul squeezes me as the issue is brought to a head. "I just want to feel good," comes the prayer from the crevice of my heart. The image of how I see myself seems to pulsate in my mind, and the questions I have about God go unanswered. How can I feel good about myself? God is silent.

I see another heading, "Ask, Seek, Knock." I remember Christ taught those words. Energy fills me as those words stir in my spirit. "Ask—what do I ask for? Ask and you shall receive is what He taught. And seek and you shall find. Please help me to feel good and that I'm not a fuck up." That's all I can do.... A sense of sheer powerlessness to change myself comes over me. Even though I don't understand it, a glimmer of hope stays present, and I refuse to give it up. My prayers seem ignored, unanswered. I feel like yelling.

The feelings that have permeated my soul for many years don't budge. Everything inside me screams out that the feelings I feel reflect the truth, despite knowing better in my head. Reason alone makes no difference. How can I believe the truth when everything screams out that it's a lie? Like a steely nutcracker wrapped around the shell of an almond, I grit my teeth and tense my muscles, determined I will see change. The whole of my strength and energy is mustered into a final act of force to change myself.

As I muster the effort to make the magic happen and have Heaven fall on me in the hope that the haunting questions will go, a cool breeze passes over the tight skin on the back of my neck. Fuck it! My tensing heartrate pulsates into the upper stratosphere. Lift me up. Break me if You need to—just help me!

Suddenly, I come down with force from a place inside me that demands to find out—I've come too far—I need to know if this works. I dive in, needing to know for myself what lays beyond the borders of all that I have known. God is love! I try and force truth into my inward parts to make it real, wanting relief from what I now know are the effects of long believed lies that have altered my being. My teeth grind, and my chin tenses.

I draw from deep within upon waters that do not come. I urge, want, and ache in pain. Come! No window opens that leads to the skies of Heaven. I push and press, but nothing. Like a burning man in a rush to sow love, heavily I breathe and seek relief. One breath. Another. A downpour of truth falls—I can't do it! But I can't give up hope. I can't give up. Surrendered, I break. Surrendered, I stand. Surrendered, I am.

In a moment of grace and glory, mystery reveals her face. In my most pure state of consciousness at the essence of who I am, I hear and see three golden words that illuminate the dark. BELIEVE YOU'RE OKAY. Suddenly, like wildfire through a windswept valley, the revelation hits me that if I believed those words then the plagues of my soul will be cured. Beliefs do make us who we are! How can I believe I'm okay and feel like a fuck up? They're incompatible! I can't believe both. All measures of judgement of both good and bad, and the associated fear and shame that have haunted me forever, fall away, and are swallowed up by this new truth—a truth that supersedes all traces of fear and doubt. Knowing has come.

A freedom is birthed within that enables me to be more of myself in ways I had felt hindered before. Suddenly, I am. Alive. The sense that there is something wrong with me goes. All I do is breathe and silently give thanks. Awe of the most beautiful, sweetest kind abides in me. Like molten silica that hardens into glass, so too does my new revelation take root and grow. The burden of being myself is replaced with a lightness and joy to be me.

As I soak in my new experience and way of being, casually, gently comes the remembrance of the Bible verses I read only minutes ago on my phone. In my tranquility, without expectation, I contemplate those words. I look at them from many angles and inquire of their meaning within my thoughts. Like being on a mental vacation, I take time and care to examine these words and sentences as though I was inspecting fine art on display in a beachside giftware store.

In my semi-dreamlike state, only pleasure and joy are with me. Carefully and consciously, I roll these words around in my mind; there is no worry or need for anxiety. No explanations needed or expectations felt. No darkness in God.... He is utterly trustworthy.... Utterly.... Now, like hidden jam inside a doughnut, out oozes the meaning as sweet truth fills my soul.

Greater knowledge surpasses all shadows that have clouded my perception of God. The darkness of lies is superseded by truth as the knowledge of His perfection is revealed. The hell inside me is swallowed up as both God's character and nature, His entire being, is made known. The looming shadow that not all things are right between me and my Maker goes. All traces of darkness gone, clarity has come, ridding every hindrance to my trust in the One who loves me without exception. The revelation of His goodness, wisdom, and ability to do all that needs to be done in my life replaces all fear and doubt.

I crouch down on my kitchen floor. "Thank you," I pray as I hold my head in my hands. Suddenly, I realize things have changed. My time has come. This is going to last. Life has more meaning now, and nobody can take it away. I feel grounded. I lift my head up and look around inside my home to take in the sights as a way of grounding myself through my senses. Nothing's changed. After all of this, life carries on. It's changed for me—I've changed—my life has changed, but the world still turns the same way. The unchanging love of God abides in all of my secret places and parts, both within and without. The knowledge of this dwells. It is love that makes the world go round, after all. It's what makes all things work.

In need of fresh air, I jolt myself upward and decide to go sit outside and feel the elements on my skin and momentarily forget all that has been. I open up my front door and take a step back as a scurry of pigeons fly away from my doorstep. Caught in the moment, I watch the beautiful birds fly up above my roof into the far away. I sit down against the front wall beside my door and soak in the life-giving, soft sunlight that bathes my skin. I whisper under my breath, "I haven't got a clue, God, but I'm up for the ride."

I look up as something above me catches my eyes. A floating white feather from a bird cascades downward, back and forth, until it softly lands on my lap. A thrill runs through me. A gift from God! I pick the feather up at the base of its quill with the fine, fluffy fibers resting against my fingers—so gentle, they cannot be felt. Awe. I roll it between my fingers and see the sheen that forms at a low angle. I turn it around and observe the shapes within its shape and hues within its tones.

Suddenly, I see it. This imperfectly perfect object, with its mathematical, scientific, and artistic brilliance in front of me—I hold the proof that God lives. I release the pressure between my fingers to let it fall into the palm of my hand to gaze at its beauty and wonder, but a gentle gust of wind picks it up, and I watch it blow away over the fence. For a moment, I held all the evidence in the world of all that can't be proven. In that moment, I touched something so real. Now, it's gone, perhaps to be picked up by a child and used in a craft project with his mother, and soon thrown out into the trash.

As I lay in bed at the end of the day, I take the time and care with my blanket and pillow to ensure I am tucked in snug for the night. My mind drifts onto what might lay ahead. New adventures? Greater victories? Or who knows—maybe war could break out in the world? Or perhaps I could develop pneumonia and die? As the joy and trepidation of questioning all the possibilities that go through my mind both soothes and excites my inward parts, I fall away into unknown places—lands where the strangest things happen and unexpected meetings transpire.

Those green tiles! Now what? And why am I naked? In a burst of energy, out comes Christ through the swinging kitchen doors in a pair of roller skates. Why is He naked? I look around the café and see that nobody else is present. I am surprised that the questions in my mind don't cause my heartrate to race. Peace and joy transcend all things, despite the knowledge I bear from my experience of life on Earth. My cultural and social sensibilities are present, but fear and shame are not.

He takes a seat in the opposite chair at my table. "We're all alone," He states, making direct eye contact. Suddenly, a smile breaks over His face. "How's your love life, Skelter?"

How do I answer this? And why does it feel okay to have this conversation? "Ah, Jesus, we need to have a little chat...."

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The making of Breaking Religion:

Touching Real

In the Autumn of 2014, I went alone into the heart of the Alpine Mountain Range to be with God. During this camping trip I began to edit a screenplay I'd written. I took this script with me to give me something to work on during the daylight hours. After I reread it, I surprised myself with the quality of my own work, as I had little confidence as a writer.

The script had been sitting on my shelf for years, and I had forgotten what I'd written. Due to this being my first screenplay, and noting the quality of my work, I prayed, "God, if it's going to be worth it, I'll write another one."

At that stage, nothing I'd written had been published, and the thought of undertaking another big project that was destined to gather dust on my shelf did not enthrall me. As I sat around the smoky campfire, amid the gum trees, I began to pray and think about what the next script could be.

I wanted to write something that made the audience stand up and pay attention, but what? Suddenly, the title of the series 'Breaking Religion' came to me. I loved it! But what was the story? Who were the characters?

Once I returned home, I began searching the internet for universal truths or needs. I wanted to write a story that spoke to us all. Days later, the words 'Touching Real' come to mind—hence the full title was birthed.

Within a month or two, I had an idea for a much larger series of books with each volume dealing with different subject matter. Everything from sex, money, drug use, to death, politics, mental health, and more.

Due to the ease of launching a book, as opposed to getting a screenplay off the ground, I decided to write the story in novella form. Since then, there have been four or five attempts at the book, with the majority of the completed version written within the last twelve months.

Right up until the last minute, the process of writing this story was filled with twists and turns that surprised even me. But, finally, after the years of toiling, I can say I've written the book I'd hoped to write. 'Touching Real', I hope will have spoken to you in ways beyond what fiction usually does.

As always, you're in the driver's seat of your life; you choose what happens each day from here on in. As with anything, it's your job to sort out the fact from the fiction. Where did I get the inspiration for this book? Well, some say truth is stranger than fiction. I'm just glad I've gotten to share with you the things that have meant a lot to me and helped carry me through the storms that life brings us all.

Only believe, and your time will come!

About the Author

Scott McKernan was born in 1976 in his hometown of Traralgon, Victoria, Australia. He is the proud uncle of three beautiful nieces, and 'like a dad' to his little treasureman, LDV, who is in fact his second cousin.

Scott has endured much personal tragedy and trauma from events earlier in his life, but now brims with hope and joy, as, through his writing, he can use all of those hardships for the benefit of his readers and for himself... just like he believed he would do, oh so many years ago.

He is a highly creative person, having worked with everything from wood, cakes, drawing, pottery, and now various forms of writing.

Also by Scott McKernan...

No matter what circumstances we were born into or currently face, there is hope for a brighter future, and hope for success. In this book, I share how I have used my faith for a turn around in life, from being damaged by the effects of trauma and abuse, to seeing my faith for a changed life become a living reality.

This book offers hope for troubled people or anyone who wants to discover lasting hope for a new beginning. I share how having faith in my dreams has helped me to turn around the long-lasting, dire consequences of being seriously abused into a life filled with ever-increasing joy, satisfaction, and success. Come and enter the land of believing—the land where all things are possible!

Also by Scott Mckernan...

Are homosexual love and Jesus at odds with each other, or are gay relationships and the Bible perfectly compatible? Indeed, homosexual Christians can find that their sexual expression and identity are things that are found in, and originate with, God.

Find out how we can all experience peace and wholeness with ourselves and God while the battle between people in same-sex relationships and the Church continues. In this new book, you will learn how to gain freedom from the oppression of those who say that gay relationships and Christ are incompatible. Give yourself the opportunity for self-acceptance and the right to be who you really are—who God made you to be!

A Children's Story by Scott McKernan

Come to Crimson Perch—the land where Thursdays taste like caramel and where they haven't had a Sunday in years, since they forgot where they put them. In this children's story, contentment awaits little Billy once he meets the Nuffs on his quest to find an answer to his burning question—'Why can't I be good enough?'

With this first book of the new series of kids' fiction, low self-esteem becomes a thing of the past. Thanks to this imaginative children's story, self-acceptance and self-respect can become every child's guiding force. Children of all ages will love discovering, just like Billy, that they too are enough!

