Excerpt

“Where Do You Come From?”

“Where do you come from?” asks the teacher of the adult class in Leopoldville, where I am registered for a course in Lingala.

I hesitate. It is a simple query that puts me in a quandary. Should I state my origins, nationality, or citizenship?

“From my mother’s womb,” I want to tell him in short but resist the urge.

Nobody asked me that kind of question in Cairo where I grew up. We were a known minority. The usual question was “Are you Greek?” “Italian?” “Armenian?” or “What nationality are you?” if my name had not given it away already.

Now in Leopoldville, on an expatriate assignment with the United Nations, I stand out with my foreign accent, wavy hair, and possibly body language, gestures and all.

“From Egypt,” I mutter, to keep the conversation short. I wonder why he doesn’t ask the same question of the other students in class – half a dozen from the United Nations, five from the Swiss Red Cross, and two businessmen.

“Egypt! C’est vrai?” he exclaims in French, “I thought they were all black!”

I feel uncomfortable in my skin but remain silent.

“Is your husband Egyptian, too?”

“I’m not married,” I blurt out, embarrassed to my core. At the ripe old age of thirty, I am shelved as an old maid, all hopes gone.

“I want to show you to my friend. He has never seen an Egyptian!”

My cheeks burn. Am I the first Egyptian in town, the discovery of the century or an antique from Pharaoh’s tombs? Should I be put on display with a distinct label slapped at my feet?”Imported African. Rare species. Handle with care.” How can I explain to my Congolese teacher that I am not a real specimen?

More than three thousand years of history define me as an Armenian, a descendant from the people living at the foot of Mount Ararat where Noah’s Ark settled. The mountain was in Armenian territory for centuries. Politics moved it beyond the national boundaries and we became immigrants. How shall I explain that the DNA in my Armenian blood will survive forever, irrespective of the citizenship I have?

“I’m…I’m not a real Egyptian…” I mumble, trying to avert a misconception.

Thirteen pairs of eyes stare at me, as if I have just come out of ghost town.

I look at them and shrink at the task ahead of me. How will I define in two sentences our family history? My parents are survivors of the waves of “ethnic cleansing” that swept the Ottoman Empire from the 1890s through the 1920s. Under the pressure of reform, demanded by the foreign powers to improve the lot of minorities, the Ottoman Government “solved” the problem by reducing them in massive, harrowing, so-called called “displacements” into the Arabian deserts of the Middle East. Thus, the “starving Armenians” came into existence – skeletal, homeless, wandering survivors seeking refuge wherever a country offered asylum. Thanks to this “solution,” half the nation now lives in countries around the world, constituting the Armenian Diaspora.

“Who remembers the Armenians?” exclaimed Adolph Hitler to his officers on the eve of his invasion to Poland. We, and the members of my parents’ generation do, suffering in silence. The effects of genocide were present in my mother’s glassy eyes and in my father’s angry temper. It affected us all and will probably have its effect on a few more generations. We are the extra- uterine children of Motherland with different citizenships. Once transplanted, always a foreigner. Migration is not our family business, nor is it a national pastime, but circumstances forced us abroad to create a safe haven elsewhere. I cannot explain all this in two sentences. Nobody will understand my dilemma.

“Not a real Egyptian?  What do you mean?  Where do your parents come from?” asks a man who eyes me curiously, taking over the queries from the teacher. The determination of my nationality takes precedence over Lingala.

“They come from Turkey.”

“Are you Turkish?”

“Certainly not.”

“Then what do you consider yourself?”

Good question. I have been a floater all my life, a thin cloud flirting with the sun, daring it rather to disperse me. How can I explain my ethnic longevity?

“Armenian,” I say, with a smirk. I know it will not register.

“Armenian?  With an Egyptian passport?”

“It’s complicated. I’ll explain after class.”

The teacher takes over. We start the first lesson in Lingala. I sit there like a freak of nature. How did I end up here?

I am going through a period of adjustment in Leopoldville and an intense degree of cultural shock, coming from a conservative country. I am lost in this Babylon of United Nations. Last week I invited two compatriots from Egypt to lunch as a payback for their courtesy on my arrival. In this remote city of Leopoldville, one suddenly becomes friends with strangers holding similar passports. They treated me like kin. They advised me that life in Leo is built around entertainment, to escape boredom. So it was my turn. We walked home at noon, all three of us, from across the street, the United Nations headquarters, to find my meticulously prepared hot lunch in the refrigerator! I was indignant beyond control

“Why didn’t you cook it?” I hollered at M’bala, the houseboy.

“You say one o’clock!” M’bala shot back angrily, showing his index and grumbling in an incomprehensible language. My instructions were to cook for one hour.

I joined this class as a last ditch effort to communicate with him and other locals. Sometimes, in my ivory tower of despair, I question myself: is this the expatriate experience I dreamed about? Have I done the right thing by changing the course of my destiny?

Living alone should not be a problem, I thought, before setting out on this journey.  I lived in Alexandria on my own, about three hours away from home. Working with the United Nations was an honorable solution to leaving the parental roof. I didn’t care for Father’s iron rules but I missed my conversations with Berj, my younger brother. The older one, Kev, had repatriated to Armenia, fifteen years ago. He was only eighteen then. He hoped to find a better life in Motherland and meet our Aunt Ebrouk there, Mama’s much-talked-about sister, who repatriated from Lebanon. Was he looking for the same thing I was – a place to fit in?

Now it looked as if I had left my identity behind and more than that. Old friendships, community presence, extended family, and a world of minor pleasures taken for granted, like a handshake, a nod of recognition, eye contact with an acquaintance, a smile from across the street, or a hug from a friend had disappeared. Did anybody miss me? Was I already forgotten?

Perhaps I should not mention my origins at all, but then I don’t want to mislead this man who wants to show me around as an Egyptian. I know some of my new classmates will corner me with more questions by the end of class. I am not mistaken.

“That’s interesting,” says Walter, the Swiss gentleman sitting to my left, engaging me in conversation as class disperses. He is intent on finding out who I am. Fair hair, blue eyes, five foot eight in height, strong muscular build, he is attractive enough to shake my soul. “How can you be Armenian when you’re Egyptian?”

“Have you heard of Armenians?” I ask.

“Yes, vaguely. I really don’t know who they are.”

“Armenia is in Asia Minor, right below the Caucasus, but we live all over the world.”  While I wait for the information to gel, I add, to ease the process. “It’s part of the Soviet Union, you know.”

An eerie silence hangs in the air for a moment:

“Are you a communist?”

“No, for heaven’s sake.”

“I still don’t understand. What’s Armenia like?”

“I don’t know. I never lived there.”

“Then where did you grow up?”

“In Cairo.”

“How was it growing up in Cairo?”

“We had pharaohs for teachers and rode camels to school.”

Walter’s hearty laughter eases my tensions. I can’t imagine that working for good grades, fighting with siblings, rebelling against parents, and waiting for a knight in shining armor is any different elsewhere.  Am I mistaken?  For the first time in my life, I feel like a hybrid, not knowing exactly what the Motherland looks like, what our original traditions are and what superimposed customs have seeped into our culture. This class teaches me more than Lingala – the need to redefine myself.

One of the independent businessmen has heard our conversation.

“Did you say Rumanian? I didn’t really catch it,” he butts in.

“No, Armenian.”

Good Lord!  With such titans as politician Anastase Mikoyan, composer Aram Khatchatourian, and writer William Saroyan, Armenians should have carved a page in history, but they haven’t.

Raised eyebrows size me up. I realize that if I make a wrong move now all other Armenians around the globe will be judged by my behavior. I may not be a chip off the old block. In fact, I may even be the black sheep of my community, but, to the uninitiated, I am now the single specimen that represents the mass.

This “where do you come?” scenario repeats itself all during my vagaries, from the Congo through travels in Europe, through my transfer to Togo to my attempted stay in the Lebanon, and to my permanent residence in the United States.

As an immigrant, I am the suspicious new strain of virus wherever I settle. The immunization system of the local community produces antibodies to arrest the spread of invasive elements of my type. Landlords look for the transient in me. Educational institutions detect an accent and frown upon certificates earned abroad. They devise elaborate schemes to deny me college entrance, but they don’t know how stubborn and persistent this strain of virus can be. Employment agencies shrug off my international experience as they give me an obscure slot. To preserve dignity, I hoist my ethnic pride… and pray. Will I ever be accepted as an integral part of the local community where I will feel comfortable in my skin?

“Why can’t you give up being Armenian?” Caroline, a roommate in my migrant life, asks. Like my classmates in the Congo she is puzzled.

“How can I?” I reply. “My forefathers were massacred for their Christian faith and identity. I can’t betray them.”

I wonder if she understands what it is like.  Can one expect pears from a transplanted apple tree? Heritage runs in my DNA. It squats in my womb. I need to keep language and ethnicity intact in order to keep the communication lines open with my extended family and between the generations strewn across the world.

“My best friend never invites me to her Armenian Club,” a colleague complains. “She’s so clannish!”

“She’s doing you a favor,” I offer, “do you blame her?”

“How’s that? I find it rude.”

“Wouldn’t you feel left out in a community where everybody speaks his ethnic language, down to the dialect? Most know each other anyway.”

“I never thought of that.”

Should I mention that we treat the seventh generation still as family? That nobody is once or twice removed? That our theory of relativity is more complex than Einstein’s?

Where does all this leave me? Like all children born in the Diaspora I persist on foreign soil by standing close to the local ethnic oasis, the expatriate Motherland, where I feel safe and secure in being me, while making forays into the local culture. We cajole our parents, but keep pace with the world.   We end up living a double life, externally the law-abiding citizen, internally the conservative traditionalist. No wonder the question “Where do you come from?” follows me from the Congo to California, where I have lived longer than in Egypt.

This book defines my roots and perhaps will help promote awareness of the problems of many immigrants like me who, for various reasons – ethnic cleansing, political dissidence, unfamiliar religious practice, or, simply, lust for the unknown – travel the world in search of a haven where they keep their splintered souls together.

Read more about The Immigrants’ Daughter and Mary Terzian HERE.

Copyright 2010 Mary Terzian. 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, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

Excerpt

The Boy Next Door

We all learned as children that the “Man of Steel”, Superman was not really human at all. Our super hero was actually an alien born on the planet Krypton and sent to earth by rocket ship by his scientist father. I can still clearly hear the announcement that Superman stood for “Truth, Justice and the American Way.” This was something that I deemed important as a child and something that I would try to emulate as an adult.

What about America’s real super heroes? Were they also “Strangers in a Strange Land” like Robert Heinlein’s Michael Valentine Smith or maybe the sons of some fictional Rambo?”

During my brief tour with the US Army I had the honor of standing and fighting beside many of those American super heroes. These real heroes were lads that sat next to you in church or who lived next door and perhaps mowed your lawn. These brave men had lived in our neighborhoods, attended our schools and churches and had done all the things that American kids do. But these brave men were different in a very special way. They too had the strong moral compass of Superman and had heard the call for “Truth, Justice and the American Way.” They had heard the call of their country and had stood proudly to accept their responsibility as United States citizens. They were not afraid of the talk of war or its intrinsic dangers. These men volunteered over and over again for the good of their country. These men were the Green Beets of the Studies and Observation Group (SOG).

Green Berets were three time volunteers. They had to join the military on a voluntary basis and not be drafted. Furthermore, they had to volunteer for airborne training and willingly jump out of perfectly good airplanes as part of their training. Thirdly, they had to volunteer for Special Forces. The volunteering part done, there was a long period of testing, qualifying and training before these young men could wear the Green Beret. Once awarded the beret, there remained a lot more training in a job specialty and in other areas such as jungle warfare and survival training. In the end, these few, these Green Berets, were the boys next door now grown into men of honor and dignity, highly trained and motivated to go wherever their Country would send them.

Special Forces medical class 67-1, Fort Bragg NC

My story began in Los Angeles, California where I was born to wonderful parents, George and Estelle Perry. My parents had dignity and had taught their children honor and love. My parents raised me as a Catholic. After moving to a home in Whittier California in 1952, my sister Judy and I were enrolled in a Catholic grammar school named Saint Gregory the Great School. It was in St Gregory’s parish that I learned more about my God and my Country. I learned that it was honorable to serve my Country and my God. I learned that the freedom to worship God was a right unique to free societies and a right that was indeed worth fighting for.

Growing up I was a typical lad who enjoyed hiking, camping, nature, and the out of doors. I joined the Cub Scouts and remained a member of the Boy Scouts of America until I was fifteen years old. I made a number of the long range hikes that were popular at the time including the Silver Moccasin and Golden Arrowhead. I was “tapped out” for the Order of the Arrow when I was thirteen years old and I remember being taken out in the woods of the Brea Canyon by a young man dressed as an Indian brave and made to spend the night alone on the ground with no sleeping bag or tent. Little did I know at the time that I would repeat this act may times in the jungles of Vietnam.

One day at St Gregory’s church I was saying the prayer that Roman Catholics say when they receive communion and I had a very special encounter with He who would remain my God and my protector to this very day. The prayer goes like this “O Lord, I am not worthy that thou should come under my roof. Say but the word and my soul shall be healed.” I said the prayer devoutly while gazing upon the image of the crucified Christ hanging on the cross and I was overcome with a peace beyond my understanding. When the day ended, I got on with my youthful life and grew far from the God I had encountered that day.

I earned many badges and awards while I was a boy scout, but the best were the Ad Alteri Dei which is the highest award a boy could earn from the Catholic Church and the Rank of Eagle Scout which is the highest rank a boy scout could earn. Not too many months after earning the rank of Eagle my interest turned to hot rods, surfing, and girls and my days as a boy scout came to an end.

I graduated from St Gregory’s in 1959 and attended high school at Don Bosco Technical Institute in South San Gabriel, California. I graduated from Bosco Tech in 1963 and attended my first year of college at what was then Fullerton Junior College (Now Cal State Fullerton). Since our family had grown over the years to now include my brothers David and John, and sisters Judy and Marilyn, it was time to replace our three bedroom house with one more suited to our family. A beautiful new five bedroom home was found in Huntington Beach and we moved in late in 1963. The following year I moved in with a few new friends from Orange Coast College. We shared apartments in Costa Mesa and later in Newport Beach where we lived until four of us enlisted in the Army in November of 1965. We enlisted on the buddy plan and each of us had hopes of winning the Green Beret.

I had enlisted with roommates Bert Merriman, Jim Sexton and Chris Cox. Each was just another “boy next door” until the spark of patriotism ignited a fire to serve. We all completed basic training at Fort Ord, California. We were tested and screened for Special Forces and two of us were selected to proceed to our goal. Friend Jim Sexton, the blond haired surfer I had shared many an adventure with while living on Newport Beach was found to be too young to proceed to Special Forces. At the time a candidate had to be twenty one years old to begin training and Jim would only be twenty and, therefore was disqualified. Jim went on to serve out his years of enlistment somewhere in Alaska.

My friend Chris Cox was diagnosed with a severe case of asthma and was disqualified and later medically discharged from the service. Chris went on to become an entertainer. He moved to Aspen, Colorado and sang his ballads in clubs within the town over the years while he pursued his love of the mountains and skiing.

Bert Merriman and I were accepted for further qualification and training in Special Forces. We were sent to Fort Leonard wood, Missouri for training as combat engineers and from there to Jump school at Fort Benning, Georgia. After completing Airborne training and receiving our “silver wings” we were bused to Fort Bragg, North Carolina and the John F. Kennedy Center for Special Warfare. Here we were assigned to Special Forces Training Group where we were tested, screened, interviewed, and tested some more as part of the SF qualification process. After passing all the mental, physical and psychological tests we were given more tests to best determine our academic abilities and strengths. From here we completed eight weeks of Special Forces qualification training followed by issuance of our Berets and assignment to a Special Forces specialty school. Bert was sent to engineer school and I was sent to medical training.

For the next year I was trained in all aspects of medicine. My training was conducted at Fort Bragg, North Carolina, Fort Sam Houston, Texas. Classroom training was followed by on the job training at the Army hospital at Fort Rucker, Alabama. My medical training class got smaller over time as men failed to complete sections of the training. After completing on the job training we were returned to Ft Bragg for another eight week class on tropical medicine and then the notorious “dog lab.”

In dog lab we were assigned a patient (a stray dog collected from a local dog pound). My patient was ironically named “Whiskey” and like my classmates I became attached to my pet-patient. The patients were worked up medically and then one day each was individually taken into a chamber and shot through the meaty part of the rear thigh with a high powered rifle. The high velocity of a bullet tearing through flesh sends out shock waves that kill flesh. Our job was to stop the bleeding, debride(cut out the dead tissue), and battle dress the wound. Over the following days and weeks we would change the dressing and nurse our patient back to health. When recovered, it was our job to put the patient under general anesthesia and amputate the leg as though it were a human patient. The patient was then over sedated and dog lab was complete. This whole process may seem cruel, but was necessary to give the Special Forces Medic the hands on training in skills that he would be expected to perform on his comrades when the need arose. Public protests at some point after my training led to a change where goats replaced man’s best friend as the new patients of the SF medics.

After successful completion of dog lab, my surviving classmates and I stood individually before oral boards where we were tested orally on everything we had learned over our year of medical training. A team of four doctors fired difficult medical questions expecting correct and immediate responses to all. Several more of my classmates fell by the wayside as they failed to perform well under the pressure of the oral boards. By this time in the process, the men who washed out of the medical training were given the option to attend some other SF specialty training, but were not allowed to serve as Special Forces Medics.

After completing the Special Forces medical training there was another short training session of about eight weeks followed by graduation and assignments to the various Special Forces Groups around the world.

My friend Bert had graduated long before me due to the shorter nature of his training and he was already in Vietnam. Bert had been assigned to Project Delta. My classmates from my medical class (SF medical Class 67-1) were sent all over the world; Germany, Panama, Okinawa, Vietnam but I was left stateside, assigned to the Seventh Special Forces Group. My assigned duties for a time were to provide medical coverage for war games being conducted in the Smokey Mountains of North Carolina. It was here, in the then dry counties of North Carolina that I encountered my first moonshiners and sampled their potent brew.

Not wanting to be left behind, I called Mrs. Alexander at the Pentagon and volunteered again, this time for the Fifth Special Forces Group in Vietnam. Within a month, I received orders to report for transport to the Republic of South Vietnam. And so, the boy next door had become a man wearing the Green Beret.

After returning home for a two week leave I reported to Fort Lewis, Washington to be transported to the Republic of South Vietnam. It was here in early December of 1968 that I befriended Ken Cryan another boy next door and native son of California. Ken and I became great friends and remained very close until his death in May of 1968. We traveled to Vietnam together, arriving at Cam Ranh Bay and from there to Fifth Special Forces Headquarters at Nha Trang. All of the other Special Forces men who had arrived with Ken and I were quickly assigned and shipped to their A or B teams around Vietnam. Ken and I began wondering what was wrong with us that nobody wanted us assigned to their teams. Then one day before Christmas 1967, we were called into the office. As we stood at attention before the officers desk, the stoic faced captain informed us that we had both been assigned to C and C North and that we had been held pending approval of our Top Secret Clearances. Neither Ken nor I had any idea of what the officer was talking about or what C and C North was. We were loaded on a C 130 transport later that day (Christmas Eve 1967) headed north to Danang and by Christmas day, we had learned our fate as new guys assigned to the Special Operations Group (SOG). SOG was not officially part of the Special Forces operations in South East Asia, but Special Forces was used as a cover to shift highly trained insurgents into the top secret operations.

When Ken and I arrived at Phu Bai a few days after Christmas 1967, we stood formation with other newcomers and were greeted by the FOB 1 commander, Major Ira Snell. The CO told us that the medics had a critical MOS and would be assigned to medical duties in support of the teams. He said that the FOB was in dire need of volunteers to serve on the recon teams and that he would consider any of us who volunteered. After thinking about this overnight, I went to the COs office the following day and volunteered once again.

Major Snell was delighted with my choice and assigned me to ST Idaho under the command of SFC Glen Lane. In the following days and weeks, I would get to know the men on ST Idaho during both training and leisure time.

Read more about Bright Light and Stephen Perry HERE.

Copyright 2010 Stephen Perry. 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, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

Excerpt

The Fullness of God John 1:15-18

As John the Baptist bore witness to the coming Jesus, he con- tinually emphasized Christ’s superiority over himself. Though Jesus came after him, He was greater, John said, because He existed before him. Notice verse 15. “He who comes after me is preferred before me, for He was before me.” John was born into this world before Jesus; he was older by several months. John’s words here are an unmistakable reference to the eternal nature of Jesus, His divinity, His existence in the beginning mentioned back in verses 1-3.

Grace and truth have come by Jesus Christ. The Bible often speaks of grace and truth, claiming Jehovah God as the source of both. God’s grace is often referred to by such words as loving- kindness, mercy and compassion, and His truth represents what is real, lasting and unchangeable, the trustworthiness of God. Exodus 34:6 says the Lord is “abundant in goodness and truth,..” and in Psalm 25:10 we read, “All the paths of the Lord are mercy and truth, To such as keep His covenant and His testimonies.” In verse 17 of our text, John identifies Jesus Christ as the avenue by which we are made to realize God’s grace and truth.

Many great men have improved the course of man’s history. Moses, for example, brought a system of law and correct deal- ings the like of which history had not seen. Galileo opened to us new vistas of understanding. Shakespeare used his genius with language to stir our emotions. With their music, Mozart and Schumann continue to soothe our souls and fire our spirits. But, true knowledge of God’s love and faithfulness came only through Jesus Christ.

John points to the fullness of Christ received by men and extends the scope of Christ’s fullness to all men. That includes you and me as well as all those early disciples. His fullness is without limit, sufficient to fill the needs of everyone of all time. Out of the fullness of the God who came down we all receive grace upon grace. Literally, the thought is grace exchanged for grace. All the attributes of divinity are summed up in Jesus, and, as from a divine spring of which there is no end, blessings out of the grace of God flow forth upon all Christians. There is no end to God’s loving-kindness. Each expression of God’s grace stands as a promise of more and greater blessings ready to take its place.

Is it any wonder that John concludes this thought in verse 18 with the fact that we see and know of the Father by looking at the Son? Jesus is God, the only begotten of the Father. He was with Him in the beginning and, though in His bosom, He came down to reveal the fullness of God’s grace and truth among men. Dear friend, would you like to know God? If so, learn of Jesus. Only in Him can you come to know God.

Just a Voice John 1:19-23

John 1:19 begins a discussion in which John the Baptist gives testimony of himself and the Christ and how Christ was greater than he.

John was a powerful preacher. He told it like it was, often in scathing terms. Such preaching did not go unnoticed. It couldn’t. National fame, or should we say notoriety, was hard on the heels of his preaching. For most of us this would have been a heady experience, a monumental ego trip. When public attention comes, it is easy to get caught up in it and bask in the glow of be- ing widely known and acclaimed. Some may even lose sight of their true mission as they bathe in the glory of self-importance. John kept himself and what he did in proper perspective. When the Jews in Jerusalem sent priests and Levites out into the coun- tryside to find John and to learn more of this preacher who caused such a stir, John did not let it go to his head. He was careful that they understood he was no more than he really was. He took no undue glory. “I am not the Christ,” he said. “What then? Are you Elijah? Or are you the Prophet?” perhaps referring to the prophet that Moses had said would come (Deuteronomy 18:15-18). “No,” John said. None of these.

How easy for John to have taken credit for himself. Can you hear him saying, “I am a lot like Elijah, aren’t I?” And wasn’t that so? Wasn’t he a lot like a modern day Elijah? “I am not Elijah,” he might have said, “but I have a similar mission.” John didn’t do even that. He answered simply, humbly and truthfully. Who I am is not important. “I am the voice of one crying in the wilderness. Make straight the way of the Lord.” My reason for being is to tell people to prepare for the coming of the Lord.

Surely there are lessons for us in John’s answer. First, though John the Baptist fulfilled his mission wonderfully, we dare not, in the religious fervor of our day, make more of him than he really was, than he made of himself. Just a voice crying, “Make straight the way of the Lord.”

Further, let us not miss the lesson that we ought not to make ourselves more important than we really are. The apostle Paul put it this way in Romans 12:3, “For I say… to everyone who is among you, not to think of himself more highly than he ought to think;…” This is certainly a most important lesson for any area of our lives, but it is especially needed as we tell others the gos- pel story and work to bring others to the Savior. Let us not think of ourselves more than we are – a voice, simply a voice in the world’s wilderness of sin helping others prepare for the Savior.

Copyright 2010 Charlie Brackett. 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, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

Excerpt

Introduction

When we find a soul mate to spend the rest of our days with, problems in life become easier to cope with and the good times are even more enjoyable because we have someone to share them with. That special person becomes our primary support system.

But what happens when catastrophe strikes and you’re world falls apart? How much can we prepare? Sure, we can save money for downturns and missed work. We can buy that overpriced extended warranty to ease our minds. And we can spend quality time with our spouse and children in order to stay in the loop. But, where is the book telling us how to cope with our dying child?

When we first heard of the H1N1 it was something that happened to people in Mexico. By the time it made its way to the U.S., it was an underlying problem in a sea of hysteria. Being an avid watcher and reader of the media can have its down side. Drama sells. So in order to try keeping on the bright side of things, the news gets shut off, hoping a blind eye and ignorance will cure the problem.

Trying to find a balance between family, friends, work and the world is a daunting task. And then putting GOD into the mix seems to throw everything out of whack. Looking at the world we live in, with all the horrendous things happening, where is He?

He’s waiting.

CHAPTER 6

Lizzy rode in the ambulance with Tony, and I followed in my truck. On the trip to the hospital Tony was still having a hard time staying awake due to his blood oxygen level, but he said he remembered seeing my truck following. Once we arrived at OU medical center Tony, Lizzy and the paramedics waited for me to park the truck and catch up to them before they headed to his room.

On the way up the elevator the paramedic pushed the button for the PICU (Pediatric Intensive Care Unit). Feeling aggravated, I was thinking this guy doesn’t know where the hell he’s going. We don’t need the PICU! We just need a room to monitor Tony for a little while, maybe overnight. Surely that doesn’t require the PICU! That’s for the really sick kids, not our Tony! Right? It finally dawned on me that the regular rooms were probably on the same floor as the PICU. After breathing a sigh of relief, born of ignorance, we arrived on our floor. Walking down the hall I saw the path to the PICU. We won’t be going that way! We’ll just keep walking to the “just staying a little while” rooms. But wait, we’re turning down the PICU hallway!? NO!.NO!.NO! This can’t be right!

While holding my breath in disbelief, Tony was transferred from the gurney to the bed. The room seemed rather large with the south wall being all windows with a glass door looking to the nurses’ station. The west wall had a sink, a door leading to the bathroom and a computer for the nurses. The north wall had one window with a chair that pulled out into a sleeping chair barely big enough for one.

I was still thinking, though, we were in the wrong room of the hospital we’ll only be here a short time, so the single chair will be fine for our short stay. The east wall was where Tony was lying. To the right of him was a single pole to hang medications. To the left was the monitor that would reveal his soon-to-be stats. The nurses wasted no time getting Tony all hooked up to the monitor! While doing so we were rushed off to fill out a little required paperwork. The paperwork could have easily been brought to us and filled out in the room. But, I think they did this so the doctors and nurses could do their thing without us getting in the way.

When we came back from filling out the mandatory paperwork, which took about 15 minutes, Tony was all wired up! He had the wires monitoring his pulse, blood pressure and his oxygen level, which was at 75% thanks to the oxygen he was receiving from the tube hanging on the end of his nose. The doctor was not at all happy with 75%, so he said Tony was going to be put on what’s called a Bi-Pap machine to help get oxygen through his lungs to his bloodstream. Every time Tony would take a breath the machine would push oxygen into his lungs, and from Tony’s response, it was not at all comfortable. For the first 20 minutes he fought the machine, pulling it off every chance he got and crying, saying, “But, Dad, it hurts to breathe this deep!” As any parent knows, what hurts our children hurts us tenfold, and this was breaking our hearts.

Lizzy and I just patiently kept after it, no matter how much it hurt us, saying, “This is what we need to do to get better, Tony.” But in the back of my mind I’m thinking we don’t need this! All we need is just a little oxygen under his nose for a little while and we’ll be fine.

One of the hardest things to do that night was to let go of the reins and allow the doctors and nurses to do their jobs. For Tony’s entire life, since childbirth, Lizzy and I have supplied all of his needs! Now we’re just supposed to stand back and watch? Surely there’s something we can do! We did help out wherever we could, but Tony’s well being was no longer in our hands. It was in the hands of strangers wearing scrubs and lab coats, their badge proclaiming, “I belong here and I know what I’m doing.” I wasn’t convinced. Sure, their movements were direct and purposeful, and they talked like they had done this a million times, but this wasn’t just any kid here. This is part of me lying on the table before you. One of the four reasons I enjoy coming home every night. This is my son, my buddy. The one I like to hang out with, to play games with, to go riding four wheelers with, and sometimes to do nothing more than cruise around in the truck with the tunes turned up and chat about whatever comes to mind. This is my pal. Please, oh please be right in your decisions, because I don’t have a badge.

Most of the night, we struggled with the idea of hurting Tony in order to help him. When he was finally able to tolerate it enough, he fell asleep. Lizzy and I were able to close our eyes for short periods but never really getting any rest. We would hold our breath with every beep from a monitor and look at each other in disbelief of our circumstance. I would try to assure Lizzy that this was still just a temporary problem and we would probably be out of here in the next few hours. Earlier in the night when I told her this, we both believed it. Instead, my heart started to sink when telling her this again while the feeling of uncertainty started to intrude our room.

While Lizzy and I were chatting and wondering if we would get any real sleep that night, we looked out the window and saw the beautiful rays of the early Oklahoma sunrise. This was our last giggle for weeks. We looked at each other and said, “Well, guess not!”

To end our peacefulness with Tony sleeping and Lizzy and I sharing a little time, a man pushing a mobile x-ray machine entered the room. He said, “This will only take a second, you may leave now.”

Leave? I don’t think so! The thought of leaving Tony’s bedside made me feel sick. The man saw our determination and said, “Fine, but you need to put these vests on to protect yourselves from the x-ray.”

No problem! The x-ray did only take a short time and the sliding doors were glass but I just wasn’t in the position to be parted from my son.

For the next three hours Tony fell in and out of sleep and his blood oxygen level jumped and dived at the same tempo. It would drop to 70% then climb to 90%. This was all while still on the Bi-Pap machine pushing 100% oxygen. It was concerning me but I had no choice other than to allow my ignorance to blanket and comfort me, for sanities sake.

The nurses were like eagles, if not coming into our room, they were sitting at their desk facing the glass doors able to see Tony’s every move and would note his stats coming from the monitor. This was comforting, but we were starting to feel like we were a distressing exhibit in a zoo.

While hovering over Tony, two Lab Coats entered the room. Both Lizzy and I jumped up in anticipation of a hopeful diagnosis. They started the conversation with a timid smile that slowly and painfully dissolved into a look that almost put me to my knees and with good reason. They said that Tony needed to go on a ventilator to better his oxygen level and to give his lungs a break to heal. “We will be putting him to sleep while on this vent. It will be a tube going down his throat to the point where his lungs separate.”

The thought of Tony getting some much-needed, restful sleep drew a smile from me, which was quickly painted over with a much darker color when the Lab Coats continued their assault. “Tony has a collapsed lung and will need a chest tube to drain the built-up fluid and air pushing against his chest cavity.”

We were now feeling much weaker than before, but they still didn’t stop with their brutal attack. They also said there is a strong possibility Tony may need the ECMO (extracorporeal membrane oxygenation) machine. Puzzled and allowing a little anger to cover my sorrow, I hastily asked about the machine. “It’s a device used when one’s lungs are failing. We would put a catheter into the artery in his thigh. This would be attached to a hose that would draw the blood out of Tony’s body. His blood would run through the ECMO, and the ECMO would oxygenate the blood and then be put back into his body with another catheter entering in through the artery in his neck. Your son’s lungs are starting to fail, but the implication of the ECMO is only a possibility for now.”

They brought consent forms for us to sign and handed us three papers explaining ECMO.

All I could do was sit back down and hold onto Lizzy in hopes that our support system would stay strong between us. I was stripped of the comforting thought on our overnight stay. Our world was starting to crumble around us. To sidestep the pain, I quickly jumped up and said, “Babe, it’s time to call in the troops.”

We both whipped out our cell phones and started searching for the numbers of our loved ones, letting them know of the situation and pleading for their appearance and prayers.

Read more about A Line That Was Drawn and Hugh Estlinbaum HERE.

Copyright 2010 Hugh Estlinbaum. 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, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

Excerpt

INTRODUCTION

Have you ever said or thought any of the following:

o Could I get that coffee straight into my vein, please?

o I need to lose five pounds by this weekend.

o Call me back right away!

o That hostess thinks I’m gonna wait 20 minutes for a table, are you kidding?

o If you are going to drive the speed limit then get in the right lane!

Today it seems that we not only want instant results, but we often feel it is our right to expect and receive things immediately. We always have what we think are good reasons to justify this need for immediacy. Some of those reasons appear in the rationalization Small Business Owners use to explain why they haphazardly market their business and why they do little, if any, Marketing Planning and Research.

Have you ever used any of the following justifications?

o Why make a Marketing Plan, the marketplace drives my Customers.

o I’m too busy servicing my Customers to market my business.

o I don’t have time to do research.

o I’d like to get some government business, but I don’t know how (or it’s too complicated).

o I have a Marketing Plan – call on 30 people every week.

In your hands you now have a “workshop in a book” that provides you 101 Actions that yield immediate results and collectively produce a marketing action plan.

When I was in telecommunications marketing/sales we Account Managers were required to develop and use Marketing Action Plans – MAPs. In developing these MAPs (plans) we listed Actions, established time frames for them and identified roles and responsibilities for carrying out the Actions. Some of the marketing research was done for us because we had assigned geographic territories and customer types such as: Professional Services, Medical, Government, Manufacturing, etc. When I first worked in telecommunications we operated as a utility so we were to market/sell to everyone in our assigned area and business type. However, after we really had competition, management realized we needed to operate more like a business than a utility and Account Managers were instructed to incorporate qualification of prospects into our MAPs (plans).     Most businesses, whether large or small, that are successful have some type of Marketing Plan that includes activities with time-frames. So if you are operating without a Marketing Plan or have one but it needs updating or is not helping, you can increase your success by following the Actions in this book.

The book provides 101 Marketing Actions that, when used, provide you understanding, activities, templates, methods and challenges. These Actions will simplify your marketing and sales efforts and make them more efficient and productive. If you use the Actions and set time-frames for them you will have a Marketing Action Plan – MAP. Many of the Actions utilize forms and examples to help you understand and get started. There are even some Actions that give you immediate payback.

All the Actions may not apply to your business or they may not be feasible now. In the last Chapter of the book (Chapter 9) is a list of all the Actions with a place for you to make notes or set dates for future use or consideration.

Some concepts that you will see throughout the Actions are:

o Subcontracting – an approach that increases your opportunities by allowing you to participate in the big projects.

o Outsourcing – being the recipient of outsourced projects, processes and functions

o Partnering – another method for increasing your opportunities.

o Focused – meaning alert, targeted and homed-in; all things that will make your Marketing Actions simpler and more productive.

o Doing – the book uses Actions instead of Tips because Actions will move you forward and get results for your business.

Some of the Actions are dependent on or intertwined with others, but most of them do not have to be done in a specific order. The Actions are divided into 8 sections to help you choose the ones that apply to your specific situation at a specific time. A chapter is devoted to each section:

* Chapter 1 – BEGINNING

* Chapter 2 – PHILOSOPHY

* Chapter 3 – PREPARATION

* Chapter 4 – PROSPECTING

* Chapter 5 – GETTING THE WORD OUT / GETTING NOTICED

* Chapter 6 – TRADE FAIRS & NETWORKING

* Chapter 7 – FOLLOW UP / FOLLOW THROUGH

* Chapter 8 – SCHEDULE

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Janet W. Christy has spent the majority of her professional career in marketing, sales and public relations positions.

In 2003 Janet formed Leverage & Development, LLC, a consulting firm focused on helping Small, Disadvantaged and Woman/Minority Owned businesses and the agencies and organizations that work with them.

Janet currently works with businesses to develop plans that will help them maximize their Small, Disadvantaged or Ownership status. She prepares a customized manual for her clients that includes: Market Assessment, Key Prospects, Prospecting Strategy, and a Step-by-Step Marketing Plan.

Janet also conducts seminars on marketing and certification for Small, Disadvantaged and Woman/Minority Owned Businesses. She conducts the seminars for Chamber of Commerce memberships, private businesses, education institutions and municipal/county governments. These workshops provide attendees with practical instruction, resources and experience-based advice.

In 2006 Janet’s fist book Capitalizing On Being Woman Owned was released. This book is still available through bookstores and online booksellers such as Amazon.com and Barnes&Noble.com. Janet has also written articles for several magazines and blogs including “Home Business Magazine.” She has made more than 30 radio appearances to discuss the advantages and opportunities for Small Businesses. Janet was selected as part of the “Brain Trust” for the Small Business Advocate (www.smallbusinessadvocate.com). She was named as “Communicator of the Year” by the Greenville SC Chapter of the Association for Women in Communications. She continues to speak and conduct workshops related to Small, Women and Minority Owned Businesses.

Janet has worked on both sides of the procurement process. Her experience includes both preparing RFPs (Request for Proposal) and RFIs (Request for Information) and responding to them. She currently works as a consultant for Small and Woman/Minority Owned Businesses to aid them in marketing to government and education entities. She also assists government and education entities in the development of RFPs and the evaluation of responses. Janet’s firm, Leverage & Development, LLC offers a workshop to help businesses understand the culture behind government purchasing.

Because of Janet’s experience and unique grass roots research methods she is often called on by both businesses, government entities and non-profit organizations to conduct feasibility, needs assessments and other complex studies. Reports from Leverage & Development, LLC provide detailed information and practical applications that are easily adapted for business plans, operational guidelines, and grant applications.

Before becoming a Consultant and Author, Janet spent more than 25 years in the telecommunications industry. In late 1999, Janet, along with several partners, formulated, raised angel and bank financing, and implemented the business plan for a telecommunications company specializing in back-office and consulting services for Internet Service Providers (ISPs), Virtual ISPs and Competitive Local Exchange Carriers (CLECs). The group launched the telecommunications company and within less than a year sold the ISP portion to a publicly traded company. Janet served as Executive Vice President for Sales, Marketing and Customer Service.

At the website of her firm Leverage & Development, LLC www.leverageanddevelopment.com, you can find more information about Janet along with helpful articles and guides she has written. She can be contacted at janet@leverageanddevelopment.com. Janet is also the host of two other websites www.janetchristy.com and www.businesshospitalforwomen.com.

Read more about 101 Winning Marketing Actions for Small Businesses and Janet Christy HERE.

Copyright 2010 Janet Christy. 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, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

Excerpt

INTRODUCTION

Returning to “Go” With Will Rogers
It’s only the inspiration of those who die that make those who live realize what constitutes a useful life.–Will Rogers
I was lying on my back on one of the flat, gray concrete banisters that edged our front steps, watching the stars flicker to life in the Kansas summer twilight. The lightning bugs were in flight, and the rhythmic buzzing of locusts in the trees across the street filled the air.
Dad sat on our porch swing, quietly smoking his favorite cigar, a Roi Tan. From time to time, a trail of well-formed smoke rings expanded into the still air. Then for no apparent reason he asked the question I have so clearly remembered all these years: “What do you want to be when you grow up?”
Being a grown up was not as yet a burning concern for me. Although at times I did manage to see myself somewhere in the future as a cowboy, a fencing Musketeer, an African explorer and big-game hunter, a Mississippi river boat captain–all subject to change based on the next exciting adventure movie at the local Paramount Theater. Sometimes the image of a song-and-dance man in vaudeville slipped in, but only fleetingly. I knew vaudeville was not what it had once been. Besides I could not carry a tune. As for dancing, I’d never tried.
For the moment, however, Dad’s out-of-the-blue question touched a reflective nerve. I looked inside myself as deeply and as seriously as an eleven-year-old is able. As I gazed up into the darkening sky, thinking, Will Rogers, everybody’s hero, came into my mind.
He had seemed special to me for some time. So many things about him I liked. Not lost on me was that others liked him, too. Before he died, only a year or so before, much of the townsfolk’s conversation had included quotes from his newspaper columns and radio programs. Many of his sayings were still being repeated, always with the same effect: a smile and an approving nod. I never heard anyone say a bad thing about him.
“What do you call someone like Will Rogers?” I asked. “A humorist.” “That’s what I want to be–a humorist.” Even now I recall that those words revealed my deepest heart-
felt secret. I had just offered Dad my pearl of great price. However, as we were in the middle of the Great Depression, Dad’s response, although a disappointment to me, was probably predictable: “You need to be practical.” That ended our discussion about my future plans without either of us giving any thought to what being a humorist might have meant to me. Had I been asked I would have been hard pressed for an answer. However, I was aware that Will Rogers was a man who made people feel good and that he drew them together. At some level, I knew I wanted a part in that togetherness.
I continued to admire Rogers, but never to the point of idolizing him. I did have sufficient interest in the humorist to make him the subject of a college sociology paper. The prof scrawled on the cover sheet: “Good statement of a philosophy of life, but this was not the assignment. C–.”
Later, after college and out in the real world I read a couple of Rogers’ biographies. I could sometimes come up with one of his quotes when an occasion suggested it. My old conversation with Dad sometimes surfaced when I tried my hand at humor writing. Still, I found other humorists to be as enjoyable and of equal interest, if not more so, writers such as Robert Benchley, H. Allen Smith, James Thurber, O. Henry and Ogden Nash.
It was not until a half-century after my evening conversation with Dad that I began to realize how central Will Rogers must have always been in my life. This awareness came only slowly after I had decided to portray this great humorist and initiated the required research and study to do so faithfully.
My journey with Will Rogers began as a portrayal of the importance of play for the individual. Play is a resource to transcend the limitations imposed by society and life. In his autobiography, renowned psychoanalyst Karl Jung described a personal crisis during his mid-thirties. He discovered that reconnecting with the play of his childhood helped him clarify his thoughts and situation. He said of this reconnection, “That was the turning point of my fate.” I began to incorporate some aspects of play into my hospital counseling, and eventually developed a small-group experiential workshop I called Playlife: Rediscovering the Secrets of Childhood which was meant to introduce people to the importance of play in adult life. This effective program helped participants to revisit their own play experiences and bring them into the present, and showed clearly that playful energy can transform the humdrum and mundane, into thrilling, stimulating, creative events that excite the imagination. Playfulness belongs to all of life, not just youth.
I had a chance to put it to the test personally in the late 1970s. I had been working at a full-service hospital with over 400 beds. I was the entire chaplain department. For twelve years, whenever needed, I was present in emotional and traumatic situations. Suddenly without warning, I felt a gut-level message: “Enough!” I realized I could no longer deliver the quality of service that patients and hospital were entitled to, and I resigned, moving into an uncertain future. The transition was neither smooth nor swift.
Driving home following my last day of work, I realized my identity was no longer connected to the hospital. Another thought came and began playing tag with the first. This was the first time in my adult life my identity was unrelated to some institution, business, or organization. As the department head of a state mental hospital, the pastor of such and such a church, a U. S. Marine, a representative of a financial institution, or a university student, I always had identified myself in terms of something that was not me. It was a sobering realization.
What was my identity? Who/what was I–as a person–in my own right? The thoughts tumbled through my mind as I came face to face with one of life’s most confounding questions: What does it mean to be a human being? Or as it is sometimes asked: Who am I? Why am I here? What can I do about it?
Fast forward. Fall 1991. I am immersed in a book project to incorporate some hospital experiences and my independent studies in humor and play. But the very spirit the book was to celebrate seemed missing. It was simply pages of thoughts without soul. As in a failing marriage, my labor of love had turned into drudgery. I felt the irony in losing my way while trying to describe the very workshop I had designed to encourage playfulness and spur creativity, imagination, and ingenuity. The natural thought was to engage myself in one of my own workshop’s activities. If that didn’t bring renewed vitality to the writing, perhaps I had no business offering it to others.
I found myself making a “spider” from a pencil eraser, held by a bent straight pin, and wrapped with four dangling legs cut from a rubber band. The spider was suspended from a thread. Immediately I was transported back to the balcony of the local Paramount movie theater in the hometown of my youth. There I would tie the spider to an extra long piece of thread wrapped around a pencil stub. Leaning over the rail from the front row of the balcony, during the movie, I would lower it slowly in front of an unsuspecting moviegoer seated below. Gratified results guaranteed! Being smart for my age I never used the spider twice during any one show.
My spider triggered something else. The image of Will Rogers burst suddenly into my mind. Instantly, in an intuitive moment, I knew there was a connection to my moment of playfulness and Rogers’ special connection to the American people.
I immediately turned to re-read a biography I had not looked at in years. There I discovered, or re-discovered, halfway through the first chapter, that Rogers had learned to rope at the age of four. Roping each day was a normal part of his adult life, and he became one of the world’s most accomplished fancy trick ropers. I realized that Rogers, who had been thrust into my consciousness by some unexplained presence, had, throughout his life actually lived the play process.
Reading about Rogers’ childhood roping was my Eureka moment. It linked Will Rogers to my investigation and developmental work in the experience of play. The more I read, the more I discovered that Rogers epitomized every one of my theories concerning personal fulfillment. Often his life enlarged the concepts behind my theories.
I began to revise my presentations on the nature of play. I decided to incorporate, as best I could, a brief Rogers-style monologue, which I would script from published quotes, to convey his playful nature to those who had little or no knowledge of his Oklahoma cowboy persona. This would, however, mean learning to rope.
Finding a spinning rope became an adventure of its own. They were not stock items, even in western-wear stores. A trick roper could have given me the information I needed. But I didn’t know any trick ropers, and they are not hanging around just any street corner. I was on my own.
Eventually, I found a pre-packaged trick-roping kit. Printed across the top of the package were Rogers’ portrait, his autograph and an action picture of him doing a rope trick. Included with a 12-foot, 100% cotton spot cord rope was a 52-page instruction booklet: Will Rogers Rope Tricks, by Frank Dean, who had been a friend of Rogers.
One of my earliest Rogers presentations was given to my Lions Club, and I asked for the members’ written comments afterwards. One particular comment, from a friend of mine, was a turning point. He wrote, “We would like more of Will Rogers and less of you.” I first laughed, then thought: “Of course, why should I tell Will Rogers’ story? Let him tell it himself.” I found myself taking one of the most reluctant steps of my life: performing as Will Rogers on the stage.
As I continued to learn more about Rogers, I became more aware that the social dynamic embodied in the spirit of play was active in Rogers’ relationship to the American people. When children engage in spontaneous play, often without any or very little discussion, they intuitively group themselves around the essentials for any meaningful interaction: Fairness, caring, respect for one another, trust. Indeed, group play has its own ethics.. This, I realized, was what went on between Rogers and the people. It was this ethics that bonded Rogers and the people. The exuberance of his playfulness connected with the natural spirit of play that resided in others and they formed their own community of trust. The people gave him their trust, a trust he never violated. He in turn gave his to them, believing in the hopeful realities of a people-matter society.

If the ordinary folks of the land could not exercise their own playfulness as readily as Rogers, they could at least experience it vicariously through him. It was said the people could look in a mirror and more nearly see themselves as Will Rogers than as any other person on the American scene. Perhaps they could not execute the desire, but they could feel themselves freed from the negatives, freed from trying to control others, to control events, to control life– liberated from the trappings of power, status, position. And so freed, what else is there to do but to radiate hope, joy, trust, and seek satisfaction in the moment–just as Will Rogers did.
As part of my research into Rogers, I visited the Will Rogers Memorial Museum in Claremore, Oklahoma and experienced another rediscovery: Will Rogers was part Cherokee and was raised on the Cherokee Nation. This heritage would prove to be a principal landmark guiding my future thoughts. When a friend recommended Forgotten Founders by Bruce E. Johansen, I came across a new insight into the American way, and into Will Rogers’ impact on the American public. Our cherished American way is in fact a blending of important American Indian cultural values and the emerging European value of individualism. I realized that the values Will Rogers expressed were inherent in the value systems of many American Indians. And that it was those values—fairness, tolerance, the importance of community, compassion and caring for others—that struck such a deep chord with the American people during the Great Depression. His commentary and observations were common-sense ways these values related to the events of the day, with people saying, “He’s right about that.” It resonated with their inner wisdom.
I found myself again looking at the importance of an active spirit of play in a functioning society. For Rogers, his playfulness grew naturally out of the values he learned from his Cherokee mother and others around him during his childhood. His spirit of play helped keep his people-matter values foremost in his living, even in desperate times. I began to understand that a healthy spirit of play also creates and sustains community. Together the playful individual and the caring community form an environment of trust in which human life flourishes. In Will Rogers one sees that personal fulfillment and creating a better world is a matter of child’s play.
As children, many of us were admonishing to “Grow Up!” And we did. Will Rogers showed us the wiser command would be, “Grow Young!” Fortunately, it’s never too late to do that.

Read more about WILL ROGERS and E. T. (Cy) Eberhart HERE.

Copyright 2010 E. T. (Cy) Eberhart. 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, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

GOD’S SECRETS REVEALED

Divine Mysteries and Parables Explained/A Message of Hope for a Planet in Peril

(Featuring a Real Life Story of the Fall of Atlantis, and How the United States is Heading Down the Same Path.

Are you concerned there’s no way out for our troubled world? Take heart! God is sharing His highest truths with those who are seeking. It’s a plan for happiness the likes that dreams are made of; the plan He’s had all along for us! This is not a doomsday scare, but a message of hope for an “end unto a new beginning.” Learn how you can help make it happen!

The following items are excerpts from the book including the Prologue and Introduction taken from this newly released book. To order your copy of this 270 page, 6X9 trade paper back, please see far bottom.

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P R O L O G U E

Let it be known,

In the beginning, there was love, the purest that’s ever existed, on a small planet in a far corner of the universe. I, whose name is “Creator” came forth from this love with a mind so vast and intelligent all I can think of is beauty and creating.

The first order of business was to expand the heavens, my homeland. No sooner would the thought emerge and another celestial body manifested. And setting it upon nothing, it stayed according to my word. Thinking it was very lovely and good, I continued creating more beautiful large orbs; suns, moons, planets and stars. I bid them to move about to bring me glory and be perfect and they did. But again and again, I wanted to do something different.

From these urges, inclined by my boundless love, was issued eight archangels that I called my sons. I wanted to be Father to many children so they could share my love. Night and day we were together, bonded by the joy of eternal wonder. But there was something missing. We had each other but we were still “alone.”
In my own likeness, inclined by my boundless love, was issued forth a companion, one in my own image, to cleave only onto me for eternity. She is my bride, split from my soul, created to compliment me in every way. This made me very happy.

My sons looked upon my joy and wanted to share it so I let them. In time was issued forth soul mates for them as well, one for each in their own image. I saw it was good and my joy was multiplied but still not completed. I wanted a son from my own flesh and blood.

In time, inclined by my boundless love, we gave birth to a son, my perfect eternal companion and I. He was made in our own image in every way, and I thought this was very, very good. Later, my mate and I were delivered also of a daughter cast from the soul and meant from before the time of conception, betrothal only to our new son. My other sons and their wives saw this and even though they were issued not from my physical flesh also as my newborns, they still wanted to share my joy; all, that is, save one… To my utter dismay and sadness, my eldest archangel, the son I created before all the others, started shedding his happy glow.

Meanwhile, feeling overjoyed with our joined completeness, my begotten son and I wanted to share our boundless love with others. Already we had made every conceivable life form in the plant and animal kingdom, but something was missing. Besides, he and I wanted to do something different. So we said, “Let us make man in our own image,” and we did.

And as man came onto the scene it was very good but my begotten son and I, knowing such joy of love and togetherness with our own eternal companions, thought it best that man should not be alone either, so we made woman to be joined with them; one for each in their own image.

Surveying my handiwork throughout the limitless boundaries of a universe that will never match my boundless love, I then gave this command to those made in my image, “Be fruitful and multiply.” Subdue and fill all of these worlds I have provided, each one according to the qualities and characteristics bestowed you, unique yet apart from one another. You will be different, yet the same, male and female, soul-mated forever, with a portion of my mind and goodness. Unlike the lesser beasts who know nothing else but to love me, you shall receive another special gift that shall never diminish. It is free will. I choose whatever pleases me and I choose that man and woman, as my mighty sons of heaven, freely choose to love me.

My purpose was now complete, my being satisfied. As long as I could create, I would find happiness. I tried to put aside that part of me that knows everything to soften the blow that the coming fall would bring to my heart. And it was coming. My eldest son, my brightest child was going to break my heart and short of destroying him, I couldn’t stop it. Free will is a gift I refuse to turn away from.

Presently, there are trillions of angels plus sons and daughters I’ve made, all living the dream of an eternal, pain free life I had planned all along for them in the countless planets near my homeland heaven. While bearing my physical and spiritual being and essence, they are all as colors of the endless rainbows in my brain. I keep coming up with different ones! But I like to do things different. Like my love, this too, never changes. Creation and love are what I am made of.

Tragedy took place here in heaven that wrought feelings even I wasn’t aware of till I felt them myself. That’s how I was able to fashion you, my child. I first felt the anguish of heartache, pain and suffering long before you did. But I felt the joy of sheer ecstasy first too, such as when I created the galaxies, the wonderful lower living things, my angelic sons and begotten ones, and then each and every one of you.

The untold story of events that disrupted peace and happiness in the universe and how it affects everyone is long and detailed. Although everything is recorded in heaven, much information has been withheld from my children on earth till a time I felt you could better understand. You’ve shared my image from the beginning. Now, it pleases me that you also share my knowledge of high truths. I have waited a long time to do this. I hope you are ready.

To prepare for this special time in history, I relayed to one of my prophets of old a message regarding such deep matters in the book of Deuteronomy 29:29. Through him I said, “There are secrets the Lord your God has not revealed.”

That was a long time ago. Now is the time to reveal them.

It’s time you hear the truth, not parables, behind my mysteries kept hidden on purpose for ages. I always knew this time was coming.

Be open. My grace is with you.

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The preceding is how Genesis, the first book of the Bible might read if God had decided to include in scripture His highest truths, secrets and mysteries of creation from the very beginning.

Over the ages, it has been our Creator’s wisdom and choice that He work and even speak through ordinary people thus His documented Word as we know it.

You are about to embark on the greatest journey ever.
You are about to enter God’s Secrets Revealed.

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I N T R O D U C T I O N

Messenger from Another World

I am a lucky girl. You could say I was born with a silver spoon in my mouth if we had such an expression here like they do on earth for I will never be alone. Not only is God always present, I also have another very special friend. He was born with me! We even look alike, same eye color and hair. I guess we were a lot of trouble at first. Poor mother and father; I mean, there was two of us! Even though we have many pairs of older brothers and sisters, our parents still had to get used to us, their newest set of twins.

All day long we play, holding hands, riding unicorns and watching the three suns of our planet rise and set. Shadd teases me constantly and makes me giggle because of the things he says. I can even read his mind and I blush because it’s hard to believe that someday, it’ll be our turn to be united. He and I have been to lots of weddings, especially for our own siblings. It’s the closest I’ve been to archangels and one time, I got to touch the Lord Jesus for real! He is more beautiful than anything I’ve ever seen and Shadd is second to that. God meant it to be that way.

You see, it’s different here than on earth. Because we are shared of souls, Shadd and I belong with each other. We always have a playmate. We’re never bored. There’s always something fun to do. About the only time we ever fight is when he wants to go to the freezing cold planet because he likes to ski. Burrr! He calls me a sissy and the next thing you know, he dares me and I follow; because I love a challenge. Just because he’s my soul mate doesn’t mean he’s better than me!

One time, while gliding along the silvery slopes of Adromia, he made me laugh and then, we collided! Only, I like running into Shadd. His skin and body feel very much like mine. But that’s as far as it gets, that is to say, until we’re ready. Where we live, everybody knows and obeys God’s laws. In fact, no one even wishes to question them. Besides, there’s no such thing as time here. Shadd and I know we’ll be together forever, not like on earth where everyone has to search for their true love, so we’re not in a hurry. We have eternity. What more could we want?

That was a long time ago. Shadd and I now have many sets of soul- mated children of our own. There have since been some very serious problems in our once peaceful universe. Consequently, God asked Shadd and me to go to earth on assignment again. It’s because He also loves His children there very much and felt my soul mate and I could serve as qualified teachers. We understand God’s special love for those on earth and how dearly He wants them to have the same kind of life His children in the other worlds enjoy. It’s His plan.

When we agreed to lend our skills, we learned there were also many others from around our neighborhood, including other galaxies that would make the trip at different times and to different places, in order to help. As usual, we left the details up to our Heavenly Father. Like always, He would lead us.

Well, here I am according to my word and it’s not as easy as I thought when I was back home even though I’ve been missioned to earth several times before. But I am still a lucky girl for the message I bear is wonderful.

All I want to do is tell every one of all ages, cultures, languages and races, that no matter your pain, trials and tribulations, our Creator will walk with you and lead you into the knowledge and reality of paradise, a place that exists even now as I speak. It’s home to all and God’s greatest wish is that everyone be reunited to that perfect place of happiness with Him. There, families and loved ones await us! There is no death or tears and soul mates like the pair I’ve described, joyfully flourish with their extended families in unexplainable beauty that never ends.

Imagine the earth itself renewed, wondrous as a fairy tale, patterned after those of the universe, for this is exactly what God will do.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

God’s Secrets Revealed
(Additional Details)

“In the beginning, God made the heavens. Earth didn’t come along till much later…

“In the beginning, everything was terrific. No one ever got tired or sick. No one was lonesome or sad. There was no such thing as crime, abuse of power or corruption; no such thing as pain.

“In the beginning, people didn’t ask questions like, Where did I come from or where am I going? (afterlife) because there was no such thing as death! The stars and planets were still objects of wonder to them because that’s where their friends and neighbors live.

“In the beginning, all babies were soul-mated from birth, male and female, paired like twins. As they grew, they didn’t have to search for their true love because they came into life holding hands with that person. Likewise, children didn’t have to grow up too fast. In fact, God had given them hundreds of years to reach maturity and adulthood. They still went to school, but when you live forever there’s a lot to learn!

“In the beginning, everybody saw and communicated with celestial beings such as angels. People could actually see God and the Lord Jesus! Additionally, mind projection, telepathy and highly advanced space travel were all a part of everyday living. With distances that defy comprehension, God ingeniously devised miraculous methods for everyone living in galaxies trillions of light years apart to not only be able to visit one another at a moments notice, but to get to church on time, of course!

“In the beginning, things were just as God planned for all humanity; a perfect existence absent of suffering. No one had to work too hard or go hungry. Moreover, no one is richer or poorer because there’s no such thing as money! All had everything they needed to be happy and healthy.

And for the longest time, no one even knew what tears were or the sound of crying. But then, something very serious happened that changed everything; everything, that is, except the love of God, which never changes no matter what. Afterward, inclined by His boundless love and mercy, earth was fashioned.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The preceding is how Genesis, the first book of the Bible might read if God had decided to include His highest mysteries, secrets and truths of creation into scripture from the very beginning.

Over the ages, it has been our Creator’s wisdom and choice that He work and even speak through ordinary people, thus His documented Word as we know it.

Deuteronomy 29:29 says, “There are secrets the Lord your God has not revealed.”

That was a long time ago. Now is the time to reveal them.

The untold story of events that disrupted peace in the universe and what this means for you personally is long and detailed. God has been saving this high knowledge for just the right time in history when He felt people would be more apt to listen, understand and believe.
If you’re a truth seeker, your search is over.

This is His

new yet timeless message in the twenty-first century.

About the Author
(Excerpts from the Book)

Unworthy as I am, I chose, before I was born, to be a messenger through which our Creator could present explanations to some of His divine secrets and mysteries that have been hidden on purpose for ages.
~*~*~*~
In the spring of 1989, I learned it was time for me to actively begin my mission for this particular lifetime. I couldn’t see it coming. If I had, I might’ve made a run for it. No use running from the Lord. He remembers the promises you made before you were born even if you don’t! And He will see to it that you live up to them! But this is also what we wanted as well. God will not force us to obey Him. Soon after, I discovered that I, Cynthia Anne Dahm, was named Shannon during my first lifetime on earth as a teacher of God’s laws in the temples of Atlantis, dating approximately 40,000 years B.C.
~*~*~*~
For God’s Secrets Revealed, it was a process of rediscovering ancient familiar knowledge through various life-experiences, inwardly opening my searching heart in order to receive again on the earth plane, downloaded information from the heavenly computer by means of the Holy Spirit to the three stages of mental processing: superconscious, subconscious, and finally, the conscious mind; that part of my brain which allows me to put into words the material given. Having taken years to get to this point, I don’t block this information because I already “knew” it.

Read more about GOD’S SECRETS REVEALED and Cynthia Anne Dahm HERE.

Copyright 2010 Cynthia Anne Dahm. 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, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

Excerpt

Mike Montgomery once lived the American dream. Gainfully employed, beautiful home, and a wonderful loving wife. Growing up in a loving family whose faith was unbreakable was his source of strength. Mike’s faith would one day be shaken after losing the love of his life in an unexpected tragedy. Mike thought he would never love again until he meets Sheila Lawson. Everything about Sheila made him want to love again. Could he risk his heart again?

Sheila Lawson, a woman’€™s health advocate was strong and independent, yet something was missing in her life. Immersing herself in her work, she vowed off any relationships. Sheila would find her self-made decree shaken when she meets tall, dark, and handsome Mike Montgomery. There is an evil lurking in the shadows. Mike and Sheila will have to unite to overcome evil forces trying to keep them apart. Will their love be enough to see them through the testing of their faith?

Copyright 2010 Vanessa Richardson. All right reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

Excerpt

Chapter 3: A Gift You Can Use

Paul was pleased to see that Tim not only had arrived, but was on time and seemed to be in a reasonable mood for their Monday lunch meeting. Shaking Tim’s hand, Paul said, “I won’t ask you how it’s going. Instead, I’ll simply say thanks for coming! I’m glad to see you and can’t wait to get your take on my session for the managers ’summit meeting.’”

“I’ll need to make this quick, because I have a conference call at one o’clock.”

Paul nodded. “Not a problem. This shouldn’t take long as it’s really more of a story or maybe even a parable than a presentation.”

Tim and Paul ordered their food and drinks and after their server left their table, Paul said to Tim, “I have a free gift for you. It’s a gift you can use, if you choose to accept it.”

Tim looked somewhat apprehensively across the table at Paul and said a long, cautious,”Okay…”

Paul reached into his shirt pocket and tossed across the table to Tim a white book of cardboard matches with red words printed on it.

Somewhat surprised, Tim looked at the book of matches and with a touch of sarcasm said, “Ah, thanks Paul, this is just what I needed. I’ve been considering some life changes lately. Maybe taking up smoking is the answer or better yet, perhaps a little arson could put an end to my overflowing inbasket and to-do list.”

Read more about Life Matches: Fire Up Your Life! and Andrew Dix HERE.

Copyright 2010 Andrew Dix. 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, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

Excerpt

One of the most important things in the sexual harasser’s arsenal is the skill to make you feel small and insignificant. Their abuse tactics won’t work unless you fear their power. They prey on your insecurities, using them to violate you when you’re at your most trusting and needy. Scumbags, you say? Don’t look to me for an argument.
Keep in mind that one of the things they will and must do in order to pull off their crime(s) is to threaten you. Like with child molesters, your silence is imperative to their continuing activities.
They will inevitably tell you some version of, “If you don’t (whatever) you’ll lose your job” (or “never work in this industry again,” etc.).
To quote politician/actress Sheila James Kuehl from Screen Actor (Fall 1992):
“I often hear from men, ‘We don’t mean anything by it. It’s good-natured. It’s meant as a compliment.’ And many men believe that women receive it as complimentary behavior. But women think that men know this is creepy behavior and do it on purpose, if you don’t complain, they say, ‘See, it really doesn’t bother them.’ Of course, there is enormous pressure not to bothered, to be a ‘good sport,’ to go along and get along.’ Apparently, if you don’t tell, you are perceived to be endorsing such behavior. If you DO tell, you face a whole different set of circumstances.”
The implied (or voiced) threat, “If you tell, you’ll lose your job” or “never work in this industry again” is one that keeps many a scared sexual harassment victim quiet.
The reality is very different if you tell, THEY will never work in that industry again. They know it, that’s why they make their threats big and frightening. To keep their victims quiet. Our silence is their priority. It is also our undoing.
As an employee (AKA underling, one of the little people, etc), you have no power. You have your job, some “financial security” (if any job can be said to be secure nowadays), your insurance (if you’ve got any), but no leverage. No control. You do, however, have one more thing – rights.
Every person has the right to dignity, respect, and the right to keep whatever self-esteem they can muster (not always easy if you are, for instance, working in the mailroom (the bottom rung on all corporate ladders), waiting tables, working as a sales person behind a department store counter, or as an extra on a soundstage, etc.
We are sometimes asked to pay a high price for our careers. The “dues” are tough. They can go on for a long time and, sometimes, we get no payoff, in spite of how much we’ve paid.
But no one, NO ONE, has the right to ask you to compromise yourself the way harassers routinely do. You owe NOBODY your skin.
No one, no matter what they have or don’t have the power to do for you, has the right to ask you to perform like a porno star before they will help your career. Professionals won’t ask you to do that. Those who ARE interested in your career will ask you to do your job well, and only that.
Reciting your rights won’t impress harassers. It might make them smile, however. They’ll think they have you scared.
Standing up for your rights, on the other hand, will impress them. It will prove to them that you are strong, a person not to be toyed with. It might also engender some respect, which they didn’t have for you when they harassed you. Think about it.
Keep in mind, also, that many harassers don’t have the power they would lead you to believe they have. It’s in their best interest (if they’re going to brutalize you) to make sure you believe that they have power. And lots of it.
It’s a game, never doubt it. Play the game, if you can get good at it.
Your best play is to be strong, be ready to fight for your dignity and, if you can pull it off, you’ve got to convince them that what they (claim to) have isn’t so important to you that you’re willing to compromise yourself for it. They can’t buy you, bribe you, or scare you. When they really believe that, they’ll look for another victim who’s more easily scared.
Quoting, again, from the DGA’s sheet of Sexual Harassment guidelines (circa 1993 old but still true):
“Sexual harassment is never justified. When faced with unwanted sexual attention, one has the right to refuse such attention and the responsibility to state clearly what is acceptable. Sexual harassment is not the victim’s fault, it is the fault of the harasser. The fact that a person responded when harassed does not preclude the fact that harassment existed and he/she is still protected by the law. This is most easily proven if the other person is in a hiring/firing position in relationship to the victim’s job, but the law supports the victim regardless of what positions each person holds. It is against the law to fire someone who has made charges of sexual harassment.”
Or withhold employment to them in the future – although that is what happened to me, and others I’ve known the law notwithstanding.
Here are some actor’s rights, compliments of SAG’s Women’s Conference Committee, from the same era.
“On the set, if you need a body microphone (or other types of equipment on or near your body) you are always allowed to ask for the assistance of someone you feel comfortable with to perform the task of “miking you.” (Such as your same sex wardrobe person) ”
Performers must receive PRIOR NOTIFICATION of any interview or audition requiring nudity and shall have the absolute right to have a person of the performer’s choice present at that audition.
When you see or become a victim of sexual harassment, DON’T IGNORE IT, DON’T PRETEND IT DIDN’T HAPPEN. Every action you take against this behavior means it is less likely to be repeated (against you or anyone else).
You have a responsibility to yourself to see that you are treated with respect in the job search and the workplace.
One more thing, if you’re an actor with an agent, go to them for help. Many small agents will be reluctant to give you that kind of time or effort (”I’m not your mother!”).
I’ve worked at Wm Morris, ICM, and many others. You can bet if one of their clients calls for help, they help. Why shouldn’t you have an agent who will aid you in fending off the vultures (AKA harassers)? Aren’t you of some value to your agency? (When harassment begins to interfere with your work, that SHOULD BE their business, too)
If you discover they will not be there to steer you through the minefield, get another agent. It is not asking too much for an agent to intercede when you are being attacked in a casting office or on a set. Anyone who thinks it IS asking too much, isn’t doing his/her job in taking care of you and fighting for their client’s rights.
To quote Nina Blanchard:
“The casting couch has been around for 1,000 years and actors have to be able to come to the agent to discuss incidents of it… it’s important that agents are willing to pick up the phone to make a complaint.”
One of your rights is the right to have an agent who cares about your welfare.
And, for those readers not in the show biz industry ‘arencha glad you’re not?

Read more about How To Avoid/Handle/Litigate Over Sexual Harassment and Nance H. Parry HERE.

Copyright 2010Nance H. Parry. 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, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.