We are all told to Watch the Water, yet here in Arizona on the weekend President Trump comes for a rally, floods, storms, flash floods, even tornados?, when we barely get any rain whatsoever the whole rest of the year?

In this ever increasingly chaotic world of hidden agendas, dark spiritual plots hiding under our beds or lurking from the deep dark recesses of those infinitely diabolical closets, that we know must reside one or another white-faced clown, some plastic Chucky doll, some pathetic article of a dried-up Hillary turd, or worse yet the skinny armed little Woody Doll with the Tom Hanks voice looking for the next baby to snatch, just hiding there, its head ready to swivel, torment, unleashing at any moment as the inevitable results and undeniably monstrous fear of some doomsday curse thought up in the minds of one or another Nazi doctor, the perpetrated by the stumbling spasms of mindless zombies marching forward by the orders of these witches they seem to be subject to, we all know there must a way to obtain higher ground, an elevated level of perspective, perhaps a higher state of vibration, where we can then see clearly that these pontifications or no more than the ramblings of some plastic headed shit stuffed puppet waiting obediently until their string is pulled once again?

Here again, we are told to “Watch the Water!”

As we have discussed in the last blog and subsequent video that followed, watching the water especially when said water event is from God, has a distinct differential of perspective as well as expected outcome dependent on which team we happen to be following, arm-chairing in your weekend rah-rah support, or if you happen to actually be one of those fighting on the front lines in this End Times War between Good and evil, if you believe such a thing, regardless of for which side the physical ramifications are always intensified by the spiritual energies that drive them good or bad, and when we realize this our own rising above them, regardless of the intensity of said storms, attacks, or curses, becomes a dance of Illumination where everything looks small, inconsequential, and basically harmless especially when viewed from orbit!

But how do we get there, to this lofty, and apparently peaceful vantage point? That’s the million-dollar question, the one everyone seems to be pointing at, pointing the fingers at the dark ominous funnel cloud forming off in the distance without giving some sound advice of what beanstalk will allow you to climb high above the clouds, and safe from the ravishing effects of the swirling winds down in the cornfield we happen to be lost in? 

Again here we are, as many who have read my blogs or happen to glanced at a chapter or two of the books I have written, would tell you I commonly reveal when I don’t know something or understand especially the more subtle nuances of the spiritual side of things, I will go to the source of spiritual illumination and Revelations, asking God. You said; “We have not because we ask not?” so I’m asking; When we are told to watch the water, how exactly are we supposed to do this?

Then I sit quietly in the solitude of this most recent prayer, waiting softly in what I have come to know as my own “green pasture,” or “still waters,” and usually if I actually take the time to do these most important tasks, or at least try to, He will usually give one or another image, sign, word, or bulletin casually dropped into my awareness like the subtlety of any baseball landing on the top of my head as I casually sit and really not watch the game paying more attention to the beauty next to me or the popcorn and bear I am so desperately and I may say ungracefully, trying to toss into my mouth, down my shirt, and all over the floor of the bleachers I am sitting in.

But in this particular day, all of the distractions mentioned above as well as the impending visit from my dear friend Nino, were placed on a short hiatus, allowing me more of a truly relaxed and reflective meditation, one any truly heartfelt prayer deserves, and in usual fashion, The Father did not delay in depositing immediately a solid and very vivid image into my head answering in one simple swoop, all the questions I have been asking for quite a while, about the water watching assignment?

I say image because that is actually how it seems to come to me more often than not. People who know me, know I have always been artistic at in the drawing or painting arena, but unless I am able to see the image in my head when I don’t have it sitting right before my eyes frozen still so I can take the time to reproduce it onto the blank canvas, I cannot produce merely out of my imagination. 

It is not much different in the written word, I get these images in my head, weather stories, people medical issues they bring to me, or situations, images, sometimes words, and then just write down as best as I can what I see, call it intuition or some vibration emanating from a rock or the center of the galaxy, I like belief it actually comes from God, most of the time because in many cases it is not something I have heard before, seen, or experienced, and when it comes to real solutions or insights, well I’m just not that smart, or I certainly wouldn’t have done as many “boneheads” as I had in the past? 

So, using my more formal artistic liberties, I then try not only to speak of the primary focussed subject but strive to describe all aspects of the issues or image at hand, which will include the background images or aspects, surrounding seemingly unrelated factors which might yet play a role in the entire composition, high lights, low lights, focal points and even the specific directions this such as the Light may be emanating from and then how these play into perspectives allowing the then observer to witness for themselves what I see? 

Well, that’s how it works at least for me, if you asked my wife you would come to find out that God speaks to her in a slightly different and often more exciting way; signs, colors, images that themselves translate into other meanings due to the information she had realized are associated with these signs and the specific meanings behind them even if only rudimentary, yet always vivid as well, specific, and constant. I think God talks to each of us in our own and unique way, it is up to us to take time out of our busy schedules, look to Him, recognizing Him in these energetic vibrational experiences, listen or watch, and then act upon the signs in a way that is pleasing to Him who gave us the information in the first place.

So here we have it, a simple question about watching the water, “How and What” and your inquisitive new not so young, bald friend getting an answer or at least the image of an answer that will in no doubt need to be placed to pen before the full and masterful painting has any chance of appearing.

An image of Jesus, and perhaps someone of less saintly attire of the then Fisherman Peter walking on the water, standing above the waves and churning dark seas, unconcerned, and unencumbered by what is going on below their feet. It is then I hear or just know as a clear and resolute voice appears in my head like the after rumblings of thunder just following the lightning strike of the neighbor’s tree, only feet from the now shaking house I happen to be sleeping in, weathering out the storm in what I know must surely be a safe secure, location.

“I showed you this first before anything else, do you remember?” The voice seems to ask without actually seeming to expect an answer. And while all I seem to muster as a response is “of course I do” very quickly the rest of the image plays across my mind like a Kaleidoscope, dancing image after image after flowing image, with so much action it would put any End Game battle seen to serious shame in comparison trying even with most childish eyes to make corresponding connections to all of it let alone remember it all. 

That being said, here you go my dear friends, readers, fellow fox hole dwellers, and would-be water walkers. Images appear high above storms suddenly as massive as the greatest hurricanes even cyclones but the massive clouds when seen from this vantage point the winds which I know must be in the high one hundred or even two hundred miles an hour range, hardly seem to be moving in the least, and lightning strikes happening all over the area of the great storm merely look like small flashes of light hardly brighter than those made by the “fireflies” of my youth I enjoyed looking at outside in our yard on a gentle or soft summers eve. Even the power of the great tornado, when observed high above the storms that fuel them leaves the observer with absolute assurance that raging destructive force below has absolutely no chance of even touching them as they watch out the storm and watch from above. 

Then suddenly I am hoisted up onto the mountain top where I can see my own dear city Phoenix below and the tell-tail fog-smog line that often rests upon the city especially on days when the overall heat seems to press this pollution down into the valley below coupled with the eerie stillness of no breeze a layer of darkness rests so thick only the tops of the buildings or few peaks in the center of town is all that poke sits gasping heads out struggling almost choking-ly for a breath of somewhat fresher air. How strange it is when you are living in it, the frog slowly being cooked in the water, you hardly notice this reduced almost dismal hue around you, the only factor is the steady increase in pulmonary irritation and the increased allergies to just about everything? Ahh, why not blame it on the Gluten! 

So must it be with any and all storms, attacks, poisons, pollutants, diseases, if you can’t even see the streets of the ground below the haze how can you possibly have any chance of seeing the hordes of attacking demon troops marching on the people below in the valley? Interestingly enough when you are flying directly over, as with an airplane or in a hot air balloon you can clearly see below quite clearly and everything going down there now suddenly looks no more threatening or significant for that matter than watching little ants moving about the patio below gathering their little crumbs or going about their own tasks they themselves deem essential literally unaware of the observer above, but more importantly have absolutely no chance to elicit even the vaguest influence on the now “Sky Walkers” purpose. 

So there you have it, simple as it might seem all we have to do is, rise above it, walk on the water when in the storm, climb out of the valley before the pollution sucks us into its dark black maw? 

Walk on water… now that sounds easy, what one guy in history managed it other than Jesus, and he needed to lock eyeballs with Him to do it. 

But there again did the Man Himself say; “Even greater things than those you saw Me do, you will do, because I am with My Father in heaven.” Another have not, because you ask not; question?

I wrote about a related topic quite a while ago placing it in my Quantum Ascension book but I think it might be appropriate for this time today to bring out and read; called “The Descended.”

A father, a brother, a son is going about his business, he has heard the commotion, people talking about the show at the temple, but people always talk, maybe he should see for himself? There are fish to catch, he has his children to feed. Not that he has a difficult life, although work can be hard, with good hard work comes good rewards. Seeing the faces of his children as they smile at the dinner table, a meal provided by the strength of his arm, the commitment of his work, and the love of a father who knows the lives that have been placed in his care, are worth every physical discomfort the efforts may produce, making it all worthwhile.

The father walks not far from his house contemplating as he goes the spectacle the show of the temple has become, recalling to himself thoughts veiled whispers of vague memories of his life in front of him; “I’ve heard what they say, the dancing, the music, people go in, and then don’t come back for hours at a time.”

My wife says that it has gotten out of hand, people lose themselves there, like slaves or addicts, “I don’t see how that could possibly be?” he says silently to himself. All I know it seems to scare her what she has heard, a darker side to what others merely call entertainment. Her words of warning softly echo in his head; “Stay away from there, nothing good will come from that place!”

Ridiculous as it may seem, ghosts stories, monsters under the bed, witches dancing in the groves up in the hills, these fairy tales never seemed to scare him even as a youth, perhaps that was one benefit of being borne with a strong arm, completely confident he could take care of himself. Plus curiosity has always been a weakness of his not necessarily limited to the comings and goings of cats.

The beautiful sparkling eyes of his children he can’t help but notice as his son walk’s along at his feet, how he loves playing on the ground playing with him, or picking up his daughter, holding his children close to his chest, how beautiful they are. It is so easy to see his wife’s eyes in them, the purity of the child’s smile tickles his memory for the days of his youth, the sweet smile of his wife on their wedding day, each day is another nugget of gold so bountiful God has given him every single day of his adult life.

Thoughts cascade with each step in a moment through years of life highlights as he strokes the path along this ever seemingly darkening road. There is an air of restlessness ahead, voices even screams, seeming sirens on the wind; “is that pleasure or pain he hears?” dancing among the many busy thoroughfares he passes these days.

His earlier years were less complicated those days, the pressures of responsibility were only just beginning to shine their light through the morning trees. A man only had to think of himself in those early hours, care for himself, work enough to feed himself, but the joy of a wife does bring their own comforts, contemplations, and added tasks.

Work for food, build a house, raise enough for the harvest, fish enough with the nets one has, carve and sand enough wood for another, save to maybe buy a boat, all to take care of the family we both wanted. Funny how life will change one step at a time, a brick here, a table there, a baby’s bottle, children’s clothes, bedding, shoes, food, oh but it is so worth it, to watch my beautiful children eat and grow.

A man wonders to himself if everyone feels this way, but I certainly have seen the pleasures of my labors, the gift of love given him by an adoring wife, and loving children that count on us to provide all they need, place them on the right path in this life. But who really gave them these gifts, for only within the source of such perfection could a masterpiece of such magnificence spring?

These precious lives kept in our care, brought under the responsibility of my wife’s and my protection, until they are old enough to make decisions for themselves. It is a great responsibility, their lives, growth, even health is determined by the choices we make, the work the very ground a man tills until they come to the day of accountability.

He remembers his own ceremony that wonderful Bar Mitzvah, how he so looked forward to it as a child himself. The thought of finally being old enough to make his own decisions, be responsible for himself, it seemed so freeing of thought then, how little did he know that moving into adulthood brought with it not only the accountability of self but the responsibility of everyone else who comes under your care?

“I just don’t see what’s all the excitement about watching the priests and priestesses carrying on.” He suddenly finishes saying to himself as he walks up closer to the building now clearly displaying everything out on the steps and even into the streets, open for all to see.

The temple he was speaking of, is the newly built temple to molech, and while he had heard of this religion, if you could call it that, has been around for centuries, it is only recently that these structures have come into sight. The kings today seem more tolerant to such practices than in the past, even seem to be encouraging this carrying-on otherwise why would they build so many temples?

People come and stare for hours at the performances, a spectacle for all to see. Priests engaged in all sorts of shows, demonstrating even participating themselves in every act of vile, vice, war mimicking dances, or death acts imaginable, many things only years ago would not have been tolerated, are now being seen now on display to a docile and cheering crowd. 

Priestesses, the most beautiful of the land, voluptuous beyond belief openly flaunt nudity with lust-filled eyes. Calling out to other men and women, luring them with their gestures, they are all adorned with strange symbols, pictures painted on their skin, or jewelry dangling from pierced faces, markings that seem to sinisterly resonate with dark meanings of their own just beyond the limit of one’s awareness.

Men of strength and stature, display themselves with smirks across their faces clearly displaying the pride they have for themselves as they taunt others with their sweat-drenched gestures. Performances that mimic violence and war, aggression, even fighting displays with such ferocity it is difficult to see if it is real or merely an act?  

Eunuchs whose exact original sex not exactly clear to determine, engaged in all manner of sexual perversion with each other, the more flamboyant the better, desperate to bring attention to themselves.

They even engage in horrible acts with animals, the horrified imprisoned creatures stare back at them in terror, understanding somewhere in their beings the evil that seems to reside here. 

Many even dance against cold stone statues that seem in themselves lingering on the edge of some possible supernatural movement. The more shocking and degrading, the more blood involved, the more the people’s gaze mesmerized in wonder, stare, gawk, and cheer.

In the center is the huge bronze demonic statue image of molech or is it baal, it seems to be called many different things by different people? A tall bronze creature with a horned cow’s head and what appears to be a human body, a rectangular cut out in its’ belly revealing the constant hungry of the fire that sits within. It is a large grotesque figure of envious imagery, a beastly image with a hateful look on its face, not quite cow-like almost devilish, cow-eyed as clearly lacks any life or soul only lingers in the lifeless stare, the black slits around the eyes reflecting only the darkness that no-doubt dwells inside. Who does it hate? Seemingly everyone and everything, maybe even itself? Interestingly many of its events have the same ring in their nose and their faces even seem to all begin to mimic the images they worship?

Hands stretched out reaching, wanting, evermore unsatisfied, grasping for something anything to quench the ever-present hunger that burns within. The large rectangle cut out of his stomach is the place they throw various sacrifices, priest’s and priestesses cast various elements of precious wealth into the blazing chasm, screaming in a combination of ecstasy and pain, searing pain from the burning tentacles that reach out and touch any and all that come near. 

The priest must fling the treasure into the hot belly because getting too close already had caused a few to spontaneously erupt in flame as their clothes, hair, or ornamental dressing catch fire sending the unfortunate into a crumbling blaze of fire and screaming. This only seems to cause the other attendants to laugh and dance more feverishly.

The gaping maw in the belly is never satisfied, the fires cause the statue’s skin to burn deeper red and hotter with every sacrifice. The tormented destruction of everything that is thrown in is evident from the gasps and radiating stares on the faces of all that stand and watch. Shadowy reflections of the flames dance across the faces of the onlookers like small menacing spirits in an endless chaotic rhythm across cheeks, eyes, and mouths. Many of the onlookers wear masks over their mouths, as do the more subservient attendants, they are clearly not leading but following the procession.

The ever-growing and constant fire within that is heating the creature to a point of almost white-hot, glowing even pulsating along the now almost moving edges seems to ripple with a life of its own. Gyrating figures all around enticing more and more onlookers, some sprint into the crowds of onlookers only to pull reluctant participants before the statue, mostly these are young children or young women that are pulled out of the crowd, alone nobody helps them as they are pulled away in grasping horror, many tossed in horror and screams into the burning blaze a few sliced open first to draw out their blood before the now dead body is tossed into the chasm or worse yet sliced and devoured by the leaders of this performance. 

The majority of them their screaming and crying drowned by the chanting tones of all the onlookers, in resistance fades from ear as they are drug across the square by the priestesses, even pushes by others in the crowd. People of all ages and status, standing, sitting, kneeling even bowing low in front of the image, watching in a sort of trans, maybe trans-human staring for hours upon end, waiting for yet again another tingle in their emotional base to spark, most of them on all fours, it is truly the earth that has them in its grip. One would say trans-human because their spirits especially at the front can in no way only be their own?

The most popular and beautiful are solicited into service as priests and priestesses, this service is not without compensation or costs, they receive the highest pay of the land, nearly rivaling the kings, they’re every want and desires are fulfilled, power, pleasure, and even prestige given them by the bronze statue or so they think. But to the costs; they pay with their servitude, it is a service for life, a blood contract for their very soul once signed, they no longer have access to, only death can separate them from service once they have entered. Every bit of purity, beauty, and strength is slowly sucked out of them until only a dried-up husk of a shell remains.

All of their symbols, the demonstrations, even the words being uttered are not their own, everyone seems to know the true source of the chanting, and as a result, their every movement seems watched and scrutinized by the leaders, for they must always conform to the behavior dictated by the temple or their position will be eliminated, outcast, or worse yet find themselves on the sacrificial table, a sacrifice for sexual mutilation for the visual pleasure of the gawking crowd. They, of course, must perform as they are instructed whether they believe in the ritual or not. They have paid with their soul, it is no longer theirs to choose, for they must bow down, and confess with their mouths the lies that the head priests instruct.

The priests and priestesses give all of their bodies, hearts, and minds to this image, the very acts they eroticize are designed to draw the onlookers in with every sight, sound, and movement. The rituals and potions that they must ingest have the severest consequence on these young beautiful bodies, marking them forever inside and out. Age and stress wear them before their time, and only when the beauty of youth seems to have left, are they discarded, penniless, without concern or ceremony.

The growing crowds of onlookers who worship them with their eyes, ears, hearts, and time, long to engage them, mimic them, even but touch one of them for the lusts and acts they impress into the audience’s souls. There seems to be a repeated rhythm to the show presented, the underlying negative message hidden deep within symbolism passed in front of the eyes of the onlookers, messages hidden that repeatedly create almost undetectable small scars in the memories of everyone watching. People have no idea they are being manipulated, memories and images locked away within the deepest chambers of their minds recesses, hidden doors to secret rooms that the priests can later use when the time is right.

A priestess rushes into the crowd to pull a screaming baby from the clutches of its horrified mother. Others in the crowd now hold mother back as the priestess brings the now flailing and desperately horrified child up towards the now red hot outstretched hands of the statue. She holds the infant up between the glowing hands clearly burning herself in the process.

A man stand’s off to the side gripping his small child’s hand, while part of him is pulling to rush in rescue the child from the witch’s grip, yet the other part remains fast as the fear for his own child keeps him from acting.

As the screams of the child, so desperate also the mother in the crowd, as well as many of the onlookers, reach a crescendo, the priestess turns and places the now dying child onto the burning hand of the demon. The very act seems to take the remaining strength from the priestess as she collapses between the searing hands of the idol, no-one steps forward to help her as she also begins to smolder igniting into flame from the heat.

A man turns to leave, his stomach already convulsing at the sight he just witnessed, suddenly jerked to a stop as he feels his own young son is being pulled back out of his grip by another priestess. A second and even a third priestess now grab the now screaming child and pull as the man thrashes, desperately gripping the hand of his child only with his one hand, because the rest of his body is being restrained by the multitude of onlookers around him not allowing him even to hardly turn or free his other arm to help.

Even as he feels his child’s hand slip from his own now sweat-drenched grip, so does his thoughts fade slowly into insanity as darkness descends its veil upon the mind of our man and the devastating realization of what is coming, fear, and dread constrict upon themselves somewhere in his chest, everything fades too black.

Two thousand, and twenty years later a simple man sits at his desk, and has a vision of this similar man to himself, working through his daily tasks, unabated by the constant drum of everything around him. He glances up at the TV, mesmerized by the beauty and eroticism displayed there, unaware of the symbols dangling from the ears or displayed on the gowns because his attention is not on the patterns of the dress but on the skin lying just below. 

Images of actors engaged in all sorts of shows, demonstrating every act of vile, vice, war, and death imaginable. Actresses, the most beautiful of the beautiful, voluptuous beyond belief, with men of strength and stature, engaged in all manner of sexual perversion, men who look like women and women doctored to look like men all speak in tones or emotions that seem to just make him feel uncomfortable. The more shocking and degrading, the more the people around him, the unseen audience, gaze in wonder, stare, gawk, and cheer.

I see our family man being brought to the image by his friends at first, then later just coming on his own, sitting more and more in front of the image. Staring into the rectangle of wonder, the rituals unfolding before him, he is hardly noticing the gradual deterioration of the events playing out in front of his eyes, the increasing images of fire, blood, and abuse of women and children being displayed. The programs seem to descend into deeper vile and vice every day, even the sporting contests he likes to watch are themselves becoming increasingly violent and angry.

The images continue to ever amplify in volume and intensity, brighter and more realistic, louder and longer, the same themes playing out on every channel long into the night. When did they all start dancing with each other naked, when did it become acceptable for the strong to abuse and rape the weak, when did the cursing just flow like filth through open sewer ditches of peoples mouths, when did the thief, the murderer, the child abuser, the criminal, the demon, Lucifer himself become the hero?

When animals were suddenly cruelly tormented and put to death for all to see, women brutalized to the cheer’s and ecstasy of the onlookers, children victimized at the very hands of other children, people didn’t even seem to notice the digression. When onlookers give up family, love, jobs, life, to sit there and worship, place their gold at the temple feet of these image providers, the transition was hardly noticeable.

When people start burning themselves on the white-hot hands of their god, it gives the onlookers an almost sexual feeling, while watching the pain it solicits. The audience almost erupts in orgasmic ecstasy with each ever-increasing act of human destruction. Crying for more, they will pay anything, their last coin, their pound of flesh, for one more moment of ever-increasing perversion. The most powerful of the land have become slaves to the blood as much if not more than those who perform these acts.

The priest’s, the players, the leaders, the bankers constantly call for more and more, but there is no satisfaction granted the actor’s plea because there is no quenching the hungering fire that burns within molech, or is it baal? So common is the burning of flesh, sacrificing of beauty, sexual perversion, it hardly has an effect on the onlookers any longer. 

The degradation continues, priests having sex with men, actresses with women, so common that it almost becomes the norm, almost preferred instead of the exception. Children are solicited at a gradually younger age, first against their will, and later even willfully, until the point where even babies are not safe from the clenches of the ritual. 

Actresses throwing their faces into the fire, witches wearing masks laying prostate naked in the image’s hands, convulsing in burning pain with screams of delight. Actors wearing masks sacrificing body parts even their entire body willfully against the white-hot image, knowing the flesh is destined to burn, and the only disfigurement awaits.

Finally, the high priest turns to the audience and says; “molech demands; you give us your families, no you give us your children now because the time has come and strong is he!” The priestesses are the first to place their screaming babies in the hands of the hellish demon. Men riding on the backs of the demon baal fling their crowns off their heads, and shriek in terrorizing delight.

One after another gives their own children to the clenches of the actors and priestesses as they rip them from less loving hands. There is no safety, no kindness, no compassion, just an ever-present hunger and lust to take the young lives and use them. “Put molech in every room!” the priest screams and men rush off to obey. “Lay your children in front of him!” the priestess demands, “and watch the fire devour the virgin flesh!” she screams with a witch’s shrill voice.

A wife comes to our man, pleading with him to come home, take his eyes away from the hypnosis that has gripped his mind, and come back to her family, their home that has fallen apart from lack of care. Our man no longer has time, he barely has time to function, his service to his family is in direct proportion to his interest in the events away from his gaze, and right now he is one hundred percent in front of this image as soon as possible, sit there in a euphoric coma all day, even falling asleep in front in front of it. He Worships’ it!

His children that used to play at his feet, climb on his lap, nestle against his chest, come less and less each day, because all he does is push them away. One day they stop coming altogether, and eventually, even his wife stops coming as well, never even bothering to call him to dinner.

He is not alone, many have jumped into the fray even screaming with ecstasy as they lay their babies on the burning white hands of this filthy demon. Putting them in front of the merciless hot flames, any and all purity burned from them. Screaming in pain the sweet innocent children’s cries are only drowned out by the louder insane screams of the lusting onlookers. 

One after another cast into the fiery maw of the filthy beast, now black with the soot of the many innocent victims within. Baby after innocent baby are thrown in without care or concern. The screams of the onlookers, why do they care, as long as these children don’t interfere with their fun.

So dark is the heart of molech, so crafty is the spider baal large is its web, yet all black as soot.

He hardly feels it as his daughter is taken by the images she watches in the solace of her own room. The grips of many witches clasp her hand as they pull her mind into the shadowy realm of darkened spell-craft, sure they promise her popularity, beauty, even love, they know full well none of these are theirs to give. Suddenly screams are heard by parents only feet down the hall as a father is finally pulled from his stupor and dashes away from the images just to meet a closed door and demonic screams issuing from his sweet daughter’s room.

He’s a big man, made large not only from his indulgence but from the years of heavy labor he has performed. He always trusted the strength of his arms to solve any problem he might encounter. He slams against the locked door multiple times and while it should have easily yielded something more powerful than himself was barring his way. Suddenly the demonic growls cease as well as his daughter’s weeping voice and the door just easily opens before him. Both his wife and he almost stare in sudden shock as the door opens by its own will. A man steps through even while gripped from behind by his wife, and only manages to reach out a single hand to take what appears to be his daughter’s hand in his own.

She has become more of an animal than Human, sitting on the ground, eyes staring forward in some horrific trance, looking more like a Jackal than the daughter he knew only moments ago. As she tries to pull her own hand away from his own now tear-drenched hand. Her strength has become uncontrollable, the grip sliding through his own as a shadowy veil descends upon his mind, an almost constriction seems to be occurring where his heart was, and he himself slips into darkness.

Gone forever the beautiful brown eyes of his child, our poor man stares into dark foolish loneliness. So dark is our man’s heart become, black as soot.

What about him, who by her own indulgences has been left behind,

The leaves and grasses now withered and grey,

unaware of the autumn storms a lost journey may sway?

What about those whom by choice or foolishness amend,

went the wrong way and willfulness descend?

Fall into the crevasse, or into the sewers distress,

only to find themselves being carried away into dark filth, dismay, and death’s recess.

Not a death of resurrection as seen from above,

a new life of winged flight and heavenly life, light, and love.

But a death of destruction where no new life can be found,

merely the disintegration of hope,

with its reintegration into soil, they are bound.

“God I pray for all who have been deceived by the spirit of this demon, and I pray that not only will those people who have been captured into the service of this dark temple lift their heads and have their eyes open, but You will also grant them the wisdom of how they can bring the fight right into the enemies camp with an influx of Your Spirit, Your Will, and Your Actions. Let us turn from slaves to great warriors of Christ and take back the venues meant to enslave us, Your people, turning it into a great weapon in the army of Christ.”

Walking on water, climbing out of the valley, seeing an attack from elevated eyes, whether sicknesses or storms, attacks of any kind, pollutants or curses, betrayals or lies? 

These are all the same negative energies being inflicted upon created physicality’s, subtle in their changes, their ill-intended derangement’s of malevolent intentions, with their dark spiritual abilities?

For it is through seeking of truths and making them our own, that we climb one step at a time out of the valley, up the mountain, the path from even before the universe began was known. 

We can take the hard way which is so often a climb, a meandering deviating path, a crawl, but we can also fast tract, by lifting our heads up to Him, locking our eyes in his, reaching out in childlike wonder, in hope, in bliss.

And He is never too far off, too busy to hear when we call out to him with our questions, or hopes, prayers, and fear.

By Peter Colla

See more of this writers feeble visits to the Generals Tent, check out this other videos with Nino on Ninoscorner.TV and YTube;

For more writings demonstrating real life applications and stories of health and healing using Mind, Body, and Spiritual techniques as instructed in the Word of God try;

Heal Yourself; “For God’s Sake”

Available in paperback on Amazon or write us direct to order a signed copy;

posture.is.everything@paulorpeter

http://www.amazon.com/dp/1790577403

And the newest recent release

Quantum Ascension

Bringing the spiritual aspects of healing into understandable quantum realization applying it to the Ascension process of today;

http://www.amazon.com/dp/1795563907

You can also write me directly at posture.is.everything@gmail.com to purchase a signed copy of either book directly from us, or any other questions regarding spiritual based therapies and healing.

Bless You

Peter and Anna



For more information about Spiritual Therapy or other related articles please join us on the wonderful path; http://www.gems-of-health-and-wellness.com , Ninos Corner TV and/or http://www.stretcherbearers.com