From: http://www.calvarytemplemiracles.org/suicide-deliverance-hope/

Part Two of her testimony on my previous post, which may be found at http://www.calvarytemplemiracles.org/drug-addiction-depression-suicide-hope/

I don’t think I really wanted to die. I needed hope.

I was desperate to get people to see how badly I was hurting. I wanted them to change, and in turn my life would change. I wanted love, peace and hope.  I wanted to live. All the things I had used to fill my emptiness were either gone or had lost their effect.  Popularity from my looks, the attention I got from guys, drugs, partying, relationships, none of it satisfied me and none of it was lasting.  I was trapped in despair and I came to a place of hopelessness that I had never known before.  I was sick of living.

I started making a real suicide plan.  One that would get the job done.

The only thing holding me back was the fear of dying. I thought maybe a new start was what I needed.  So, I moved down to Atlanta to live with my mom.  I met new people to party with and was able to distract myself for a while from the terrible ache in my heart. I was still trying to read the devotional books my aunt had given me over the years, so I would wake up, make my coffee, roll a joint and have my devotional time.

To continue reading, please click here:  http://www.calvarytemplemiracles.org/suicide-deliverance-hope/



Excerpt from:

Click the above link to read the entire story.

The following is a testimony of deliverance and hope after multiple attempts to commit suicide:

I first heard about Jesus in Sunday School at 5 years old.

The teacher stood at a felt board with a cross and a heart.  She shared the simple story of how God sent his son Jesus to die on the cross for our sins. If we asked him into our heart, he would come in and he would save us and forgive us, and we could be in heaven with him when we died. I remember feeling like I was different from the other children.  I felt like I was dirty, and they all seemed so wholesome.  It became real to me that morning that Jesus loved me. That was the first of many times I would ask Jesus to come into my heart and save me.

I was not a happy care free child, always sad and anxious. I spent many sleepless nights crying and full of anxiety, praying to the Jesus I’d heard about at my grandparents’ church. Please keep my mom safe, and send me to live with her one day. And I would ask him to come into my heart and save me over and over.

By the time I was nineteen I would have tried to commit suicide three times.  As a teenager, I started drinking and smoking pot very heavily. There was not a day that went by that I didn’t get high. I got high when I woke up, I got high on the way to school. I would walk out of school during the day to get high, I got high after school, and I got high into the evening. My friends started calling me Cannabis. Most of them partied on the weekend just for fun, but I got high to survive the sadness and anger over my childhood. Getting high was an escape from all the bad feelings inside of me.

My life was going downhill and becoming more reckless.

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Waiters and waitresses (hereafter called “servers”) depend upon perquisites (tips) to make up for unconscionable wages and make their labors worthwhile. This creates a bit of a problem. You see, Management does not want, ever, to fire a server except for such flagrant behavior as would be provably illegal and let them, Management, off the hook for the state-imposed penalties for adding, even temporarily, to the unemployment rolls. Ergo, it matters little if you tell the dining room manager that your server smells, gets the order wrong, or simply is inefficient beyond belief.

The only way you are going to “correct” that server is to make the tip small enough to ensure they know you didn’t err, but wanted to send a message–to them.

You dare not write, as I used to, a note indicating the source of your displeasure, or any possible remedy they might apply to correct it. Surely, should you do this, you will find your note posted on every social media app, and you will then be harangued for your act of cruelty by hoards who believe the server is entitled to the tip. (They are not,  by the way; that is why it is called a tip or perquisite. It is, in effect, a reward for having left you as pleased as Punch about your dining experience–their part in it, anyway.)

Now, having upset you “entitlement” folks, I shall proceed while you wipe the spittle from your screens.

The biggest problem with servers (the ones I am talking about, not the ones who get it) is that they don’t think of you as patrons but as “you guys.” They will fit you in to their way of doing things. It is your job, now, to be understanding and patient…and patient…and patient…

They asked you if you wanted anything else, but you were supposed to say no. So, you asked, in ignorance, for some ketchup for your fries. “Certainly,” they reply, then wipe it from their mind. Next, your cup/glass is empty; the bottom has dried out while you hoped you’d be asked if you wanted a refill. Finally you’re asked. But instead of them going to fulfill your request, they take three orders, input them into the station, fetch bread and beverages for those diners, then pass back by, asking if everything is okay– while not slowing to hear any response.

Okay. You’ve given up. You’ve eaten your fries, cold, with no ketchup. You ask for a box for the leftovers, and the check. Now, this is the time for them to deduce that 1. you are ready to leave, and 2. that they should expedite this process so the table can be repopulated. Too much to hope for. Okay. Eventually, you get the box (after three attempts) and the check. You’re anxious to get going (you know the dog is at home with its legs crossed, needing to pee), so you have the credit card at the ready! “Here…” you say to their back. Nope, not getting it done. They’re gone again. You have the card in the holder, which you keep moving about, hoping someone will take it. E-ven-tu-al-ly, it’s taken, but it was too much to hope that they’d simply go directly to and from the register so you could be on your way. Minutes pass. (Now, this is where I begin the tip countdown from whatever I was willing to part with. Dollar a minute after the first one. That way, I have the meager satisfaction that I am exacting something in return for being made to wait yet again.)

That server isn’t going anywhere. Chances are, if you deign to enter that establishment again, that they or their clone (for they will have trained minions) will be “serving” you again. We have the “entitlement” folks to thank for this.

Oh, well. Happy dining!

Most of today’s “scientists,” who tout the “big lie” of Evolution, for instance, do not follow the Scientific Method; they instead accept only “proofs” which support their theories…even if they prove nothing.



Most of us can’t even pronounce 700,000,000,000,000,000,000, much less count there.  For people who aren’t math geniuses, it’s 700 Quintillion.  According to recent research in Sweden, that’s the number of planets in the cosmos.  But the scientific team learned something else from their epic research project: amid those 700 quintillion planets, the Earth is one of a kind!

Astrophysicist Erik Zackrissen and his team developed a massive computer model to simulate the development of the universe.  They entered everything we know about exoplanets and then programmed in the laws of physics. They recreated 13.8 billion years of history.  The results demonstrate that life on earth defies all the odds.  Here’s how the article sums it up:  “His research indicates that, from a purely statistical standpoint, Earth perhaps shouldn’t exist.”

The writer for Discover concludes that “Earth appears to have been dealt a fairly lucky hand.”  That’s funny!  Three Aces and…

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Well-made movie, with great cinematography.  Educational, with loads of facts, illustrations, and locales.

Whether you’re a believer or not, this film tells a lot about how the scientific left (my term) rules “science.” Actual science starts with an idea, then seeks to test whether or not that premise is true. For hundreds of years, the “scientific” elite have instead begun with a philosophy, and any theory which does not match their view is ridiculed, and its proponents banished from the public eye. In much the same way Galileo was persecuted by the religious for his theories, today those who posit that (still unproven, by the way) Evolution makes no scientific sense and has no proofs are ridiculed and persecuted.

That said, this film is not going to convince an unbeliever to cross the road to belief. That takes an epiphany, a Saul-of-Tarsus moment, which is spiritual in nature, not logical and based on proofs.

Watch on Netflix

There were lots of actors, but few “stars.”  Some of the best actors and actresses never achieved fame outside their peers, yet were some of the most-needed folks on set: character actors.  A few, like George “Gabby” Hayes or Pat Brady, to name a couple, garnered a following, but for the most part they “just” supported the stars who, without them as foils, would have been “just actors.”  That, today, anyone who gets more than a couple of lines is called a “movie star” is balderdash. Piffle. Twaddle.

When I began watching football back in the sixties, the idea that “There is no ‘I’ in ‘TEAM'” was pretty much true.  Even more, teams were comprised of individuals who mostly thought, “Wait. You mean I can play this game I love and you’ll pay me too?”  Most had to have off-season “careers,” even if it was slopping the hogs back on the farm.

Both the NFL and Hollywood seem to think that they have become integral to our society – but they have not.  While America entertains itself to death, the pedestals upon which we, collectively, have placed these idols are wearing away, and these images we have erected are proving to be, upon closer examination, hollow and tarnished, rusting, having been made from material with elemental impurities that has not once passed through the crucible of life to be refined.

It is this conferring of star status (and the accompanying mindless contracts), not the current hullabaloo, which had already caused me to eschew most movies and professional sports.

Part-time Christians

Part-time Christians.

We wouldn’t call ourselves that, surely, but how true is it of us?

Not only are we born into this world, but with each succeeding generation, there is “more world” to be born into.  Our dependency upon the technologies from our workaday worlds — sometimes a fascination with the technology itself, sometimes simply a means to an end — often replaces what should be time given to introspection, family, and to quietly seeking God (to give ourselves the benefit of the doubt) with more works: “doing stuff for God.”

Indeed, if others are to be brought into and sustained in the Kingdom of God, we should be “doing something” toward that end, but are we?  To borrow from Pastor Forbe Carlson, “Just enough is not enough.”

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