Book Review of “Tucked Inn” by Nadine AuCoin

The story takes place in Nova Scotia, Canada. All is not what it seems at first glance. First things first. This is a story about succession. This is not a story to send to your Sunday school teacher. Intrepid Lucy is a Banisher, and she has visions. She comes from a family of Banishers. Lucy gets into trouble as she happens upon Tucked Inn. She thinks she’ll get help here after her car breaks down on a deserted road, but unbeknownst to her she stumbles very quickly upon hellish terrain in a nutshell.

You get to grips almost immediately with the daring writing of the innovative Nadine AuCoin. Her characters find themselves in drama and conflict. Lucy is by far in over her head right from the beginning. She wants to escape the underworld realm and sinister atmosphere she finds herself in, and searches for ways to find an exit out. Her parents are loving towards each other, and she has wonderful memories of a grandfather. The characters are quirky but you fall in love with Lucy’s unique heart, mind and spirit.

The writing style moves the novella along at a rhythmic pace. It’s sensational writing at its core. It is never frivolous. Drama and suspense builds tension, and the element of anxiety and violence is used to create an atmosphere of fear and horror, keeping the reader glued to the edge of their seat. The story also has the element of the macabre. What makes this book an example of good horror writing is the aspects of the suspense, the overly dramatic, the combination of the mundane and ordinary tapping into the grotesque.

The story, I would say, goes so far as to use fear and anxiety to make an emotional connection with the audience. It plays tricks on the reader as well as being a thrilling psychological mind game. The book will also evoke a sense of disgust and shock in the reader. Horror can be difficult to write, and to read; but if you have an insatiable appetite for it, this book is for you. Horror is more than just a scary story; it’s about fear.

With suspense. There is both the expectation and anticipation of fear. Nadine AuCoin certainly has a flair for this kind of writing. I might just read the next installment. I am toying with that idea. There are creepy, crawly things, a spooky house with locked doors, long hallways and hidden walls, the dark and the familiar made strange.

It most certainly taps into the reader’s darkest fears. Lucy seems extraordinary at times with the reality of her situation quickly dawning on her. She is brave, bold in her forward-thinking, thinks fast and on her feet, letting nothing get her down. On the surface of things, Allister seems to be her match, but he does not have her powers. He can read her mind, and as the attraction grows between forthright and independent Lucy and Allister, the reader can sense their growing chemistry. 

Keep up. The spooky story begins on a foggy dirt road that seems to lead to nowhere. Of course that road is found next to a forest. It paves the way to Lucy’s nightmare world filled with crazies, sex-crazed savages,  the devil, a hell made of underworld realms of hidden caves, exorcisms and back. The only horror stories I used to read were Stephen King’s in high school. Now mind you, this novella certainly has aspects of horror in it as well as lusty passion, and the supernatural. I promise you it won’t be a waste of your time if that’s what you’re looking for.

The story has a sound beginning, middle and end. It flows, it has racy in parts if you demand that from your storytelling, and will keep you guessing at what will happen next. There are chapters where what goes bump in the night threatens to overwhelm you at every turn of the page. The writer keeps you captivated at every turn and twist of the story.

Horror leaps at you from off the page as well as Lucy’s ingenuity and her enthralling romance with the handsome and well-dressed gentlemanly mama’s boy Allister. Drake and Darko are the stuff nightmares are made of and are the complete opposite of their older brother. This is a book to sink your teeth into on a sultry autumn day with a mug of tea at hand under a duvet. Once you get into it, though, you want the story to end with Lucy and Allister falling in love and getting the fairy tale ending. 

One can only hope that good triumphs in the end. I kept guessing until the very end at what would happen to everyone in the book, even the bad guy. What a delightful page turner of a book this was, although it did make me cringe in certain parts. You can read this novella easily in one sitting as I did on a sunny Saturday afternoon with warm sunlight streaming into a cozy bedroom in a coastal town in South Africa. 

Although there is a great deal of adversity to overcome before the end, Lucy takes it in her stride and finally accepts her role in the world as a force for good. Lucy is a survivor. She comes from a centuries-old family of survivors. Evil threatens to overwhelm but peace eventually reigns in the end.

This book review was published on the website Modern Diplomacy on the 21^st October 2023.

Afternoon

A person’s life is but a walk on an afternoon

from the louvered window where dark clouds roll

to the meadow where sunlight still shines bright

is equivalent to a sleep, dreaming oneself

Huge cloud symbols hang low as the hand of fortune

there is a kind of forgetting that cannot be foretold

its shadow crouches on the roof, panting

sunlight is bright, as if it will never fade

I once searched for pollen on the grass

a strong wind blew from the clouds. When I returned

I found the river under the door had long since gone

hanging beneath Mars

The afternoon, refusing to end, pushes away the setting sun

the house of a lifetime slips from the shoulders

all flowers on the grass have turned black

flesh escapes from the petals

a flower’s life shortens to a single kiss

The afternoon, delaying its upgrowth, tell me

who is it, at the speed of a tower’s shadow leaning

fading away in the act of walking

January 4, 1992

Sunset Glow

When the sunset glow unfurls the whole day

a pillar of unearthed radiance shoots up to the sky

you have a thousand reasons to step into coolness

like a horse, walking toward heaven’s feast

The sunset glow appeared early, first in the lungs

then spread to the face

if it burns, it’s a sick child

pouring out roses of imagination

Unfurl, brilliant sunset glow

you’ve burned for too long

that even the form you drag is rotting

yet link a child’s loneliness to a distant place

Now he lives only by his flaws

possessing more landscapes, but unable to hold any

just as the first sunset glow belongs to another land

allowing a white horse to return whiteness to transparency

January 8, 1992

The Black Tower

The first floor will house a woman of non-being

her long hair upsets flowing water

regaining a ghost in the vacancy of her body

The second floor houses a graceful emperor

who abandoned his throne and glory

to pursue a phantom, an echo

Stones thrown from the third floor

scatter across the snow

walking emptily, to gather on the moon

The spire raised toward eternity

occupies the cold

gathers light, the air grows sharp

In the basement, dogs are kept, and devils too

they crawl filthily on the steps, whimpering

pressure makes the darkness seem solid

January 15, 1992

The Setting Sun

The setting sun displaces the scenery in my heart

like a drowning man, searching for traces of his own passing

the setting sun, dividing dizziness evenly among the day’s clouds

An hour’s setting sun reflects into the living room

guests in feathered robes wear restless faces

their white seats roll down from on high

a winter freight train maintains a calm speed

after slopes and tunnels

the setting sun stretches boundless, a winter freight train

gobbling the distance, excreting

stations, snow-laden yards, the living room beneath clouds

a great fire reddens the clear nerve of a needle

If things transform, the setting sun will be the hinge

when summer’s light and shadow, from bread to book pages, enter humanity directly

all evening, snow falls on the railroad ties

and our thoughts, mixed into the darkness

a life confined by the setting sun—who can still step outside

to see the setting sun without end, snow oozing tears under pressure

the living room collapses when glanced back at, flames blazing inside the body

Let a few summers ripen on our bodies, toil bitterly

we poets, grown wealthy, overflow in the living room

go lie beside the witch next door, then lie cold

easily ended by a single word

The setting suns overlap. Weaving hands never pause—

here we are, the stove warming our bodies, making them weak

when you tire of thought, we are silence

balancing your conversations

we are echoes, easily spoken

an hour’s beauty, reflected by the setting sun into the fire

In unusually calm air, the setting sun slices skin

pointing to griefs of early years

the man who’s been away from home five years returns from the dust

mouth holding tiny spring fish fry, crying like a bird

he lingers long before the door

until another spring, the pond fills once more

January 15, 1992

Butterfly

A butterfly is a sleep longer than a lifetime

it shakes off the material that clings to it

entering another dimension of existence

as brief as the radiance of summer

who is dreaming of the butterfly, never waking in whole lifetime

It makes me think of fallen leaves and snow, the early days of the foliage

of the brave mother beneath the tree

she opened the brass dressing case

waiting for someone’s whole life

Shifting ceaselessly in the mood, the butterfly

carries emptiness within its body

appearing in someone’s dream

it does not dream of anyone

whoever it touches vanishes in mid-flight

like a phantom reclaimed by the mirror

Brief, yet longer than our whole life

when it alights, the dark cry of dust surges up to our fingertips

when it flies along the long plane of a person

the dream it unfolds is darker and deeper than hope

January 15, 1992

Crescent Moon

Before the crescent moon rises, we are in darkness

wordless and awkward

souls are right beside us

yet we have not yet been born

The crescent moon rises, all things smaller and colder

behind the moonlight live some other kinds of petals

they lean down, crossing the boundary

like coffins unaware of which world they belong to

If the crescent moon rises

the flowing water will glimmer with silver light

whoever stores spring branches at this moment

their hope will come to nothing

With honey of many uses

anoint our parts

that graceful climate, the chatter of old age

in the dazzling air that records glory

recall the history of the soul

And on the moon, it is always snowing, snowing stones

ten thousand hectares of dust, not falling for a long time

The moon has risen

the moon regains ghosts in the hollows of the body

the world is darker; we once dwelt on the moon

now none of us survive

January 19, 1992

Word: Bees Fluttering

Bees, fluttering over early autumn grapes

at the fruit stall by the crossroads, like sailors in striped shirts

drunk and staggering, carrying a whole world

pointing out the sweetest cluster for you

As long as bees flutter, this world will never vanish

their frail bodies, storing pollen of the departed

they were once just bees, once seen

on window screens dented by the wind after rain

Stinging autumn’s increasingly transparent skin

childhood is shorter than a moment of pain

who secretly pinches the morning glory’s bell

listening to angry dark clouds roll inside

Who passes noon carrying a world no longer whole

and sees bees fluttering. “Buy some, brother

just picked fresh!” “How much to buy

that swarm of bees on your grapes…”

Bees fluttering. They were once a swarm of bees

later turned into a word, stored in the radio

a monotonous sound. Now it’s bees returning, not the word

but they bring more words: a poem

with nine “bees” inside

January 21, 1992

Ma Yongbo was born in 1964, Ph.D, representative of Chinese avant-garde poetry, and a leading scholar in Anglo-American poetry. He is the founder of polyphonic writing and objectified poetics. He is also the first translator to introduce British and American postmodern poetry into Chinese.

He has published over eighty original works and translations since 1986, including nine poetry collections. He focused on translating and teaching Anglo-American poetry and prose, including the work of Dickinson, Whitman, Stevens, Pound, Amy Lowell, Williams, Ashbery, and Rosanna Warren. He published a complete translation of Moby Dick, which has sold over 600,000 copies. He teaches at Nanjing University of Science and Technology. The Collected Poems of Ma Yongbo (four volumes, Eastern Publishing Centre, 2024) is composed of 1178 poems celebrating 40 years of writing poetry.

Stella Kwon is a high school student living in Virginia. Her artwork often explores quiet, introspective themes and is inspired by memory, nature, and the edges of ordinary life. She is currently putting together her art portfolio for university.

The Bites of the Mosquitoes

The mosquitoes bit me that night

I could not sleep the whole night

The condition was so drastic

Like the tortured dogs on the roads

The sun was still late to rise

Night, not the night only

A blood sucking night

Sometimes I stood up, sometimes I fell down

On the hot beach of the ocean

The sleepless nightmares for a while suffocated my breath

Though slightly I could avoid death

In this life and death I found myself

Where the sun rose

A shower of lightning ascended to relieve

Who is escorted by the inhabitants of Gaza in these suffering nights?

Can the fearful faces see the light of the day still?

Though the sun rises and awakens us all everyday morning.

Md. Mahbubul Alam is from Bangladesh. His writer name is Mahbub John in Bangladesh. He is a Senior Teacher (English) of Harimohan Government High School, Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh. Chapainawabganj is a district town of Bangladesh. He is an MA in English Literature from Rajshahi College under National University. He has published three books of poems in Bangla. He writes mainly poems but other branches of literature such as prose, article, essay etc. also have been published in national and local newspapers, magazines, little magazines. He has achieved three times the Best Teacher Certificate and Crest in National Education Week in the District Wise Competition in Chapainawabganj District. He has gained many literary awards from home and abroad. His English writings have been published in Synchronized Chaos for seven years.

When I think of ages past That have floated down the stream Of life and love and death, I feel how free it makes us To pass away.

Rabindranath Tagore

Welcome, readers, to September’s first issue: The Stream of Life, Love, and Death.

Sayani Mukherjee speaks to the weight of the world’s grief, of millions of lost loves over historical time.

Ahmed Miqdad quests for love and peace in Gaza, all in vain. Yucheng Tao bears witness to genocide in Cambodia through his evocative poem where memory and grief echo off the rocks and pages of history. In his piece, self-declared pure idealism leads only to death.

Eva Petropoulou Lianou addresses the issue of domestic violence. Christopher Bernard reflects on humanity’s continual state of conflict among different groups as Patricia Doyne excoriates tolerance for school shootings and immigration enforcement violence in the United States.

Alex Johnson speaks to the need for radical creativity as resistance to the forces of death and authoritarianism. Mary Bone captures moments of human and animal growth and creation. Jacques Fleury discusses the need for humans to coexist equitably with each other and with the wide diversity of natural creatures who share our planet.

Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal speaks to energy, creativity, and the need to support young people. Xudoyqulova Shahzoda highlights Uzbekistan’s efforts to empower the young, the disabled, and women. Rayhona Sobirjonova expresses her gratitude for a caring teacher. John Sheirer’s short story depicts a boy learning a mixture of love and toughness from both a father and stepfather. Bill Tope presents the story of a mother determined to overcome obstacles and keep her family together. Muhammadjonova Muzayyana praises the love and care of her devoted mother. Judge Santiago Burdon’s video presents an ironically humorous tale of a man’s adult son coming out of the closet.

Otaboyeva Zuhra shares how education can transform a young woman’s life. Madina Furkatova highlights efforts to educate and empower young women in Uzbekistan. Muhammed Suhail reflects on the indispensable contributions of women to shaping the early days and teachings of Islam. Bhekisisa Mncube reviews Nthikeng Molele’s novel Breasts, etc, a feminist story of a group of women and a man who photographs them nude. Anna Keiko shares her determination to live out her calling as a poetess, in honor of the many female trailblazers throughout history.

Rahimova Dilfuza Abdinabiyevna shares ways to heighten students’ communication competence. Boboqulova Durdona outlines ways to engage students in active learning. Sevinch Mukhammadiyeva talks up a student leadership conference she attended, “Office of the Future.” Panoyeva Jasmina O’tkirovna highlights advantages of blended classrooms and self-study combined with instruction. Nafosat Jovliyeva discusses roles for technology in language learning. Dilshoda Jurayeva urges students to learn and adopt self-discipline as a study tool. Janna Hossam discusses the problem of burnout in gifted children.

Abigail George speaks to finding and claiming beauty and selfhood in the face of mental illness. Tursunbayeva Shohida Baxtiyor traces the history of diagnostic methods in psychiatry. Ana Petrovic speaks to the confluence of forces and emotions rising up in the human psyche. Brian Barbeito journeys through real and surreal worlds to tend and befriend the different and the marginalized. Hua Ai speaks to the wildness still inherent in our feelings and encounters with urban nature. Joan McNerney draws on elegant nature metaphors to describe love and the transitory states of life. Mark Young speaks to growth and transformation in our bodies and the natural world. Anakha S.J. compares maintaining feelings of love to tending a flower. Mahbub Alam presents a joyful couple forgetting themselves among the beauty of nature and their blossoming romance. Jerome Berglund and Christina Chin’s tan-renga present an adorable take on modern relationships. Mesfakus Salahin’s extensive nature metaphors speak to the psychology of a lover.

Brian Barbeito reflects on a random capricious day with various encounters, positive and negative, with people and nature. Chimezie Ihekuna expresses cynicism about the hypocrisy inherent in many relationships, Raisa Anan Mustakin laments people’s growing isolation and separation from each other, and Alan Catlin processes work anxiety through dreams while out in pastoral greenery. Nageh Ahmed evokes feelings of both love and loneliness under the moonlight as Wazed Abdullah finds inner peace in lunar light. Mykyta Ryzhykh evokes efforts of love in the face of the loss of innocence. Duane Vorhees speaks to the vulnerability and unpredictability inherent in love.

Vohidova Ruxshona discusses the internal composition of Saturn and the wonder of the far-off universe. Don Bormon expresses his fascination with a constantly changing cloudy sky. Abdurrahim Is’haq’s artwork of a door shrouded in shadow and sunlight evokes mystery and wonder.

Abdulboqiyev Muhammadali turns to medicine as a subject, sharing some of the warning signs of a stroke. Eshmurodova Sevinch discusses how modern financial technology can improve the functioning of global economic systems.

Mathematics is also part of our physical universe, and Mamadaliyeva Durdona shares methods for solving systems of linear equations. Mardonova Marjona finds the beauty in each season, in change, as David Sapp revels in “relentless” natural elegance. Nikhita Nithin sways with the wind during a neighborhood festival. Nilufar Mo’ydinova offers suggestions on how to live sustainably with nature, suggesting improved environmental practices for the publishing industry.

Sushant Thapa writes of finding happiness wherever he can in life as Stephen Jarrell Williams enjoys a tender moment with his wife and Mahbub Alam loses himself in the joy of nature and love. Maja Milojkovic speaks to a transcendent love, present even when the couple is apart, echoed in endless mirrorings on water’s surface. Summer Kim takes joy in transitory childhood moments and memories. Su Yun’s Chinese bilingual elementary students write joyfully about nature and play. Sharifova Saidaxon reminisces about her happy childhood as Xo’jamiyorova Gulmira remembers her elementary school days and classmates.

Dilnoza Bekmurodova reflects on how she will always hear the unmistakable call of her home. O’g’iloy Bunyodbekovna Muhammadjonova sings the praises of her radiant Uzbek homeland. Maftuna Rustamova finds comfort and peace in her heritage as Ozodbek Narzullayev joins in the reflections on Uzbekistan. Nomozaliyeva Hilolaxon analyzes how the film “Suv Yoqalab” reflects Uzbek cultural values. Maxmudjonova Begoyim considers the weight and grace of her Turkish heritage as Dr. Priyanka Neogi shares a poetically beautiful tale of the Indian flag. Eva Petropoulou interviews Greek sculptor and painter Konstantinos Fais, who is examining the myth of Hercules to revive classical civic virtue for modern Greeks.

Uzbekistan’s writers go beyond heritage to relate how the nation is currently a source of pride, as Jumaniyozova Nazokat discusses the potential for wellness tourism in Uzbekistan. Madinabonu Mamatxonova describes rapid Uzbek economic growth driven by entrepreneurship. Xurshida Abdisattorova highlights the accomplishments of an Uzbek mixed martial arts coach. Meanwhile, Shahnoza Ochildiyeva outlines what Central Asian countries, and the rest of the world, can learn from Finland.

J.J. Campbell explores different sides of memories: nostalgia, loss and mourning, and the quest to separate oneself from toxic or false aspects of the past. Brooks Lindberg laments the death of glaciers through a poem that grants nature a measure of agency even in melting. Jake Cosmos Aller reflects on historical revision at the Smithsonian Museum.

Grzegorz Wroblewski’s fresh installment of asemic poems evoke the aesthetic of language as a part of human culture. Ken Gosse’s ars poetica defends the power of rhyme and meter in a world of free verse. Graciela Noemi Villaverde celebrates the mysterious and poetic works of Jorge Luis Borges. Dr. Jernail S. Anand argues for the primacy of literature as a study and discipline to help us return to our humanity as Mirta Liliana Ramirez does something similar, depicting dance as an act of love to add beauty to life.

Michael Robinson shares, in his final piece after ten years of writing for Synchronized Chaos Magazine, the family and sanctuary he has found through his faith.

Susie Gharib draws on historical mythology to explore our place in the world and our vulnerabilities as humans. Patrick Sweeney’s tiny vignettes capture distinct moments in human life: wonder, confusion, humor, or just us pondering being alive. Taylor Dibbert relates the paradox of what happens when we care too much – or too little – about money. Santiago Burdon explores human nature in his tale of a chance encounter on an airplane.

Finally, Sarvinoz Orifova reflects on the nature of hope and the power of holding on to it during challenging times.

Different Feathers?


Has free verse been freed from tradition?

Was the latter determined adverse?

Is different different than better?

Just what is the price of free verse?

 

Does free verse have better transmission?

Is tradition decidedly worse?

Is better better than different,

and will the twain ever converse?

 

Be Realio-Trulio

Sonnets ill-used,

erroneous meter,

perhaps a reader

will be confused

 

when it’s perused—

although by name

it may be the same.

If form is abused,

 

rhyming refused

(not really a rose),

it clearly shows

its poet accused.

 

Though enthused,

none are excused.

 

The Piper’s Sonnet

Although I write this sonnet silently,

clandestine, as it were, so none may see,

I wonder whether someday I’ll allow

its light to shine and break its silent vow.

 

So why express in secret on a page

the thoughts in which I currently engage?

It’s hard to say, although on August 3rd

no surreptitious sonnet is absurd.

 

By that, I mean that none would not suffice;

by writing one, at least, you pay the price

the Piper calls for on this special day

so that his tune won’t swoon each muse away.

 

To write or not? I’ll do it secretly.

For now, a covert action just for me.

 

I Come to Raze Your Ears, Not Praise Them!

I went to a poetry reading

with a follow-up open mic.

It’s the first time that I’d been to one—

didn’t know what they might like.

 

So, alrighty then,

I could listen without care,

since diversity of poetry

wasn’t what had brought me there.

 

We all heard the featured poet

reading from his new chapbook.

It’s the first time that I’d been to one

and I read the one I took.

 

Well, alrighty, then,

they could listen without care,

since diversity of poetry

wasn’t what had brought them there.

The second poem, “Be Realio-Trulio,” is a “minison,” a form established by The Minison Project (https://theminisonproject.com/): 14 lines, 14 letters per line, and a 14-letter title.   

The third, “The Piper’s Sonnet,” was written a month ago for Surreptitious Sonnet Day, August 3^rd.

The last, “I Come to Raze Your Ears, Not Praise Them!” was written to the tune of Ricky Nelson’s 1972 hit tune “Garden Party.”

Adopted by God 

                  An journey of Faith

   My heart says of you, “Seek his face!”

           Your face, Lord, I will seek.

                Psalm Of David 10:8

     “Though my father and mother forsake. me.”

                    Psalm of David 27:10

             “GOD WANTED ME.”

             (He was my salvation.)

    “For I know the plans I have for you declares the Lord plans to prosper you, and not harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.” 

                        Jeremiah 29:11

Preface: I have walked seeking God since my earliest days of life. God has been my focus because of my need to know that I belonged to someone. I felt surrounded by an empty place and dark place, but felt comforted by the seven day candle representation God’s Holy Light, the burning colors of the votive candles burning and finally, the magnificent array of colors flowing through the stained-glass windows. 

This was my sanctuary from the darkness that pervaded all aspects of my life outside of God. Here in the church, I felt God’s heart for me – in this place of salvation. 

My aunt Lucille adopted me legally at age eight, but God accepted me since my birth. When she introduced me to Him, I knew that He truly loved me and He created me, and adopted me into the family of His Son, Jesus.

My aunt Lucille exposed me to Holy Redeemer Catholic Church on New York Ave in DC. Morning mass was a part of her religious ritual. Each weekday I accompanied her to Holy Redeemer. Sitting there amidst these elderly women of the church were regular attendees for weekly mornings mass -Monday thru Friday. On Saturday, we went to another Catholic Church Saint Aloysius on North Capitol St. Saint Aloysius was different to me. It was different inside. It seemed larger than Holy Redeemer. It wasn’t those old ladies there and just a few other attendees at Saturday morning mass. Being the only child at Holy Redeemer added to the feeling of being out of place.

However, at Saint Aloysius there was a sense of privacy with God that I did not feel at Holy Redeemer. It was just me and my aunt sat in the pews with plenty of space. 

One day. there was a circumstance in which the priest approached my aunt. When I would receive Holy Communion, I would take the body of Christ out of my mouth and put it on the floor where I had been kneeling because I did not like the taste of it. She was embarrassed and ashamed for being scolded by a priest for my desecration of the body of Christ. I didn’t know anything about desecration, but I didn’t like the taste in my mouth. I was also that child who, when he didn’t like his food he would feed it to the dog. I can still see the priest using a white cloth – probably a handkerchief – to pick up the body of Christ off the marble floor. I don’t remember her words to me, but I remember the shame and guilt she felt.

This was a pattern between us…she seem to always be apologizing for me. Dee was aware of my quiet nature and allowed me to be quiet. 

Sitting in church alone was a way for me to be safe from all the noise of the darkness outside. Inside of me and outside of me in the sanctuary was quietness that transcended the darkness. The lit candles and stained glass windows offered more colorful light. To me, light offered safety.

Dee was part native American and half-negro and had a very strict belief that children should be raised to be respectful and listen to adults. However, her lessons were teaching me how to be with God. Her words continue in my memory: “you belong to God.” She often reminded me of this. Therefore, I sought God’s safety from the place of darkness that surrounded me.

There was noise and more noise in and outside the house. The streets were full of noise and more noise. Still, I sought God in the streets of noise and darkness that existed surrounding me. The fear of darkness wasn’t in the night, but a continuous journey into the daylight – which also dark. 

Sitting in the quietness of light in Holy Redeemer Church was a reverse of being surrounded by not only darkness, but the fear of what may happen to me outside of the sanctuary of God. God’s sanctuary was a different experience, as the feeling of being consumed left and was replaced by security. It was a different stillness than the stillness of being hidden from the treacherous streets. The candles flickering and the white color represents God’s presence on the altar in front of the Tabernacle. 

The church was my refuge, my sanctuary, my safe haven from the treacherous street of darkness. In the church, the votive candles burned with glasses of various colors of blue, red ,and yellow. The votive candles were on a stand with several rows of candles and the variety of colors blended together in unison. I was mesmerized by the light and the quiet. Sometimes the sound of a candle would quietly reach a place deep within me. The most quiet candle burning was the candle of God’s presence, and was a white candle made of beeswax. For me, this handle of God’s light represented purity. 

The wonderful colors would seem to fade as my eyes slowly, with purpose, scanned the altar and rested on the light of God as the candle could somehow flicker and be still almost the same time. 

This shiny marble floor added to the light of God’s surroundings. It was the total opposite of being in the darkness outside. Now, the light of God was surrounding me and filled my inner most being. My very essence was now safe. While I slept, death surrounded me in the streets and feelings of fear covered me. I walked in fear and slept in fear of my surroundings because of the volcano of sounds of the streets that slipped into the cracks of the apartment walls.  

But when I came to know God, a stillness came inside of me – a place that nothing had reached before. It was the innocence of knowing that God existed in the total stillness of my thoughts. My heart was still and calm. It seemed to be still in unison to the stillness of the light of a flickering wick. The feeling of peace and the comfort of my heart were beating in unison with the flickering light. 

Surly, God would live here in the light shining from the candles and stillness. I couldn’t imagine how God could live out in the streets with all the trappings of inner-city life. Yes, God would live here with the light of His light. God’s quietness flowed into my essence and held me safely in the light of His presence. I sat alone in the majestic palace of the essence of God’s presence surrounding me, protecting me, and giving me life like the breath of God at my birth. I was not alone, but was His creation that fit into this glorious sanctuary.

Dee often times would not speak and I watched her more intently. By watching Dee, I would learn to listen for the quietness of movement. She moved with a quietness and stillness. It would be fair to say that I loved her. She was always there while surrounding me and teaching me and loving me by giving me to God to care for.  

The inner-city wasn’t a sanctuary, but rather darkness even in the daylight. The darkness surrounded my thoughts, my emotions and my body. My serenity faded, and the bright light of the sun made me close my eyes as I exited God’s house. 

My neighborhood was full of the trappings of darkness and noise- lots of noise. There were gunshots and screaming and babies crying into the night, as if they also felt the dead and darkness. This filled each moment of my waking and night life. I cried for safety. I would cry myself to sleep in the darkness of my bed. Yes, I cried without ending and afraid my gasping for air would be heard in the darkness. So, I held my breath as the tears soaked my pillow and my heart ached.

Many years were filled with soaked pillows and holding my breath as I continued to gasp for air. It was the same kind of gasp made when crying and the gasping for air. The voice in my head said, “Shut up or I’ll give you something to cry about.” No, I cried without sounds that would be heard in the safety of my bed under the sheets.  

The time passed slowly before there was a shift from darkness to light and the feelings of abandonment inside of me. Because my mother left me with Dee at two weeks old, tere was an emptiness of not belonging. Therefore, I sought to belong and Dee had said that I belonged to God. I was not convinced of that. This was before I was taken to Holy Redeemer Catholic Church by aunt Lucille. Prior, I would receive lessons from Dee, who had a personal relationship with God and Jesus Christ. She always said that I belonged to God. She always spoke about God and Jesus. I don’t recall anything she said, other than I heard His name seemingly all the time. Before going to Holy Redeemer Church, seeking God meant walking the darkest streets of New Jersey Avenue. There is one night that is still clear on my memory where I experienced the darkness of New Jersey Avenue before P street. It was perhaps about seven years old at the time. The important part of this memory is that I was seeking God in the streets of DC as a very young child. The night lights were dim not bright but dim the brightness of the streets that come from the headlights of the passing cars.  

Mostly, I remember feeling void and lost. So lost that even today at sixty-eight, I recall vividly that experience of walking physical in darkness. Another time that changed my life completely was a time when I was standing on the corner of Q street and I forgot the intersection. The light was green and then red and the light was green and then it was red. I shook as I was unable to breathe. I know I was six or seven at the time, because I hadn’t been adopted by my aunt Lucille yet. Dee said that she was tired of our parents not coming for us and she was tired. Even at that very young age, it was a burden not to belong and I had feelings of being unwanted and a burden to Dee. So, I stood there as the light kept changing colors. Where could I go? Who wanted me? Slowly, I began the walk to my aunts apartment on North Capitol St. I knew the streets because it was the way we went when Lucille picked me up from Dee’s.  

Did I want to go to my aunts? No. Yet I had no place that I could go in the night that I stood at the light. Truthfully, I never felt loved, which was understandable. 

I went to my aunt that night and stayed with her until I was twenty-one. All those years, I never truly felt wanted by her or my uncle Bernard. However, i managed through that hardship until returning to Holy Redeemer. Sitting in Holy Redeemer Church in the quietness of my soul and God being God was quiet. He was undeniably peaceful. I loved to be alone with God. Alone with all the safety and attention without needing to hide. It was ok to be still and quite but not out of fear but rather to just be still and breathe. 

 Day after day sitting in the sanctuary of God in Holy Redeemer Church. I had been adopted by the age of eight by Lucille. Still, I had no home – no sense of belonging, but sitting there inside the sanctuary was home. It was not only a physical retreat, but something much deeper and calming and familiar to my inner sanctuary. Although there was still chaos outside and other noise, in here, God had come to that empty place within. My longing for Him has continued, since those very first encounters back while sitting in the pew waiting and waiting and listening for God to speak. Like waiting for that light to change before crossing the street – just waiting to be connected again and again by the Holy presence of God. 

Perhaps, I knew God wanted me since those very first time when sitting in His Holy sanctuary in His heart. You see beyond the colors of the votive candles burning and the sunlight piercing thru the stained-glass windows and the altar with God’s light burning. There was a sense of quietness and firm stillness inside of me. The surrounding atmosphere of the Holy sanctuary blended together deep inside of me and the outer sanctuary was in unison. No, there was no audible voice, but rather a voice of serenity which never faded 

Home was finally accepting that God wanted me and had adopted me at eight or so, but it was God that wanted me while caring for me. I was used by Lucille, but cared for by God. Lucille rejected me and God accepted me. Lucille harmed in many ways which is not needed to be expounded upon. I will only repeat that harm came to me when I was adopted by her.  

     Salvation Lived Moment by moment (The gift of life for all eternity in each moment now)

 “The LORD is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear? The LORD is the stronghold of my life; of whom shall I be afraid?”

                        Psalm 27:1

 “Surely God is my salvation; I will trust and not be afraid. For the Lord GOD is my strength and my song; he has become my salvation.”

                         Isaiah 12:2

Living each moment in the present moment without fear. My salvation has come and my redemption has been accepted by me. My walk to Calvary step by step with my Cross and my Crucifixion and now my full Resurrection thru Jesus Christ. You see, it was Jesus walking with me to Calvary and helping me carry my Cross and my Crucifixion was my inner-self accepting Jesus’ gift of Resurrection for me. This is my daily life – to accept and recognize the truth that without Jesus’s Resurrection I would not be free in spirit.  

The freedom has awakened my soul to the truth about my being adopted into the family of God. The Holy family of God who created me with a plan and purpose for my life not just here and now, but for eternity. Moment by moment remembering that thru Jesus, my freedom has been paid in full. Yet, it was thru many hardships for decades that I sought God. 

August 15th, 2025 it came into play that yes, I had been redeemed long before when being about eight sitting in Holy Redeemer Catholic Church watching the candle of God burning in front of the Tabernacle and the votive candles with an array of colors. In the stillness and quietness sitting there for an audible voice of God. 

I felt His presence inside of me as I left the church. However, it is now in the present moment God has been surrounding and inside of that deep deep place known as my soul. 

My soul is there quietly listening to Him and when the thoughts come and my hands write from a place in which is deep inside, my faith is strengthened and renewed. I learned that God communicates in the quietness of light as the the white flickering candle which burns in front of the Tabernacle. It was that light which brought a comfort and serenity to my worries and calmed my mind. 

God’s Holy presence has carried me since age eight years old. Now at sixty-eight years I can say that I have lived thru His grace and love that gives unequal faith because His faithfulness and fullness encompasses my being. I’m faithful to Him. 

“Trust in the Lord, and do good; dwell in the land and befriend faithfulness. Delight yourself in the Lord, and he will give you the desires of your heart. Commit your way to the Lord; trust in him, and he will act.”

                   Psalm 37:3-5

“For the Lord will not reject his people; he will never forsake his inheritance.”

                       Psalm 94:14

     “For God alone, O my soul, wait in silence, for my expectation is from him.” 

                         Psalm 62:5

The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.” 

                           Psalm 34:18

                         Prayer of Faith

In remembrance of you my Holy Father, my heart finds rest. My faithfulness is rooted in your teachings to my soul of your faithfulness. My actions now are a continuous reminder of your deep desires for me to prosper in your Heavenly Kingdom. You patiently waited as you taught me at eight years old, for the time to unite with you for all eternity. You are my treasured inheritance and I shall never forget that you saved me thru your Holy presence. Yes, you did not harm me, but saved me. My time has not been in vain for you have honored me with your opened heart which led me to the fountain of resurrection. My soul is full.

In the name of your Holy Son Jesus Christ.

Amen

Michael, Your Beloved Son of the Most High.