Why? Why do nine men leave, assuming the Man Who just healed them wouldn’t care about a simple kindness where they tell Him “thank you”?
When? When was it time in our lives for the perspectives we draw our spirit-water from and drink deep—didn’t happen to unfortunately be war songs of humanism, religiosity, chauvinism, and all else slavery to children worldwide?
In 2012, I handed an African American man my book’s calling card. I asked him to pray for me and he did; then, he came into my home and was chill with my children; my white children. I served him living water love and Bob Jones had prayed and prophesied over him–so how confusing is that? It is very confusing. The young man could not be reached save by a rather tall justice man on November 19, 2016. But in my ministry to the black-skinned man in my own home, he refused to be called by his birth name then or thereafter–it was his choice, you see. Justice came that fateful day of November, 2016. He left. And so did I.
As to the pastor that other fateful day when Houston, Texas prayed to God with Edith, Patrick, Dad and Mom, I gave him my first book. I have so many fateful days full of coincidence. Shaboopie me, shaboopie you–let’s live in love and tie our shoes.
On my birthday in 2016, that pastor called me a mystic to my face. And one of my betrayers sat there with my mother and I looking innocent, yes he did—that Jacob. They are never going to dance again because I’m no fool. (“Careless Whisperer” by George Michael).
Mean-human-while, October 18, 2014, was the only day I sent another middle earth-name Edward my phone number–he is and was the only male I ever sent my phone number and supposedly, blood of maternal enmity courses through both our veins and arteries. Where is my dead brother? Does he white-trash live again? Yes, yes he does and I think I see Apostle Paul loving me so very much.
Water and blood; blood and water. How was Master going to cure this fodder? My white trash Murray cousin died that day; I cried for John Paul my Love Brother. And four months later to the day my Love Brother was dead while they yet live while dying. BUT how funny that Master’s Masquerade was, and is, and is to come. amen.
Prime Directive here; POA there; what domination tactics do; it was wrong and “fair”. But I live in love & God conceals matters; until Light shows light on His Perfect Time Ladder.
And on April 11, 2018, He saw me as I am while a mere man; richly guarding his selfishness like those nine always do, declared in my front doorway how it was either me or God who did this ten years to him—Destroyers that we are, regrettably.
I contended for his faith my face to his face. Go read Psalms. Destruction comes: destruction falls. Be it white trash me or naked you, it comes for whom the bell tolls. If you, oh human, are destroyed, doesn’t that make you a wicked person? Go read the Psalms. God is not mocked. And that is that.
Following will be pictures and Twitter art work while Letter to Lucy is my only consolation some days. Yes, the Bible and those who testify golden from it, are my consolation in this fallen world of love grown cold. (7:39 AM–I go now to fix breakfast and throw away the books, maybe it is just one, that I cannot look upon lest He strike them with the stones they pelted me with from September 25, 2008 through until precisely April 11, 2018 when He saw me as I am. They never know; they never knew; just how very much Cara loves you.)
The first set are primarily at our home on Crestview Drive in Garland, Texas. There is one picture in a kitchen. That is Bonanza Street where Patrick died twice. In September of 2015, I died on that street after I went to the Streams Ministries International building, rushed out in so much torment after seeing John Paul’s portrait in the entry that there are no comforts here: I left with a vision of terror of Aaron Jackson sitting on the curb I’d just stumbled across crying his eyes out in agony while I was driven in a freaking light blue Subaru to walk the street where my Patrick died the second time. I used to say there were no angels for me. They are there but it was Patrick, John Paul, and I that carried each other miraculously though John Paul never met these Beaty Siblings. There is love unspeakable and full of the glory of God here in Jesus Name amen.
There is one picture of my parents herein when we were on vacay post my brother’s death and Dad’s brother’s death ten days before in September of 1980 (Uncle Edward Kenneth Beaty)—Oh my, Jesus has wept over the burdens they carried to get this little sister here as did the entire Davis-Beaty family. Thank You Jesus.
This next set are my Davis-Beaty-Murray family at a reunion at our house on Crestview Drive in Garland, Texas, in the early 70’s.
That’s the dining room table where my daddy sat Patrick and I down with Mom and looked at us with his Bible open.
”We are going to read this book like it was written: as a letter.”
My child-heart would sink a wittle bit lol—because I would have rather played on Saturday, of course. But I learned to hear Apostle Paul’s dear, dear heart without beastly religion in the mix. Did you know? Apostle Paul carries Cara sometimes. Here lately I’ve taken dearest him to the edge of time to sit with me and Apostle John. It is so quiet there. Jesus knows.
Mom and I are here still, so to speak. My cousins are still here. Some of them. But our Wendy and Bud are not here anymore. The youngest first cousin Davis-Beaty is Uncle Ken’s son who was two when his father and my brother went above. Kenny is a testimony of something in America. It is wrong but he is faithful nonetheless. America, you kill my children. You kill the children and look away carelessly.
Mom had a Dream two nights ago. Dad was all dressed up, so handsome. I kept driving and told her she went up above in her dream. Mom didnt say anything because she knows. She knows without knowing just like me. How do you think it feels, American Christianity, to be Cara today? I have seen glorified bodies, you know?
My children are suffering, all 13 of them, and here is the truth: the sin of some fathers in my case is not passing due to the faithful love of the children in Gideon’s Case and their mother is Cara Ann Davis-Beaty. You won’t out-testify our love because Jesus is Jesus: King of kings. America would rather pretend with Cara than face the beauty here. He is here and was for ten years. While we died, Gideon and I, Jesus was here.
I cannot really cry anymore and it feels strange. For Jesus Alone with our Father I will not cry except what THEY see. It is for a season. I don’t know how long. I am bereft and fulfilled all at the same time right now. If any human henceforth sees tears on my face, they are His, you see. They are His. Why should I cry? God help me. God preserve my righteous, pure soul in hell on earth. This is my guile-less prayer for me in love with me tonight.
Here was testimony on FB tonight: What must I say? For God so loved the world that He gave His only begotten Son Who died and arose for these lives to be here in 2018. It is a mystery and I definitely speak of Christ and His Church all glory to God and in Jesus Name amen. If there is one thing, and indeed there is only one thing, I will ever be sorry for it is the suffering of I AM daily, nightly, with the plight of deepest desire and need to not be ALONE and yet the humans just keep going. God help me survive the sight of it. God I cry out! Shall I keep Hebrews 11 testifying? I don’t know. Jesus does. Amen.
9:28-29 PM 4/13/2018: “Fade Away” by Breaking Benjamin