REVIEW (February 2023)

This book is "raw and real, emotional and honest but beautifully written, like poetry. Captivating."

(Jamey Thomson. Perth. Western Australia.)

Excerpt 1 (page 6)

The muddy, pooled footprints sporadically scattered throughout this trodden, barren earth, mirror the murky darkness of the night sky and the eerie stillness is unnerving. Curious, I continue to trudge, awkwardly stumbling on the uneven ground. Though my path is somewhat lit by the moons welcome albeit dim glow, each footstep brings with it the gripping feeling of the darkest of fears— the fear of the unknown. I don’t know what I am walking towards, or even from. Confusion has taken residence within me, for I don’t know how I even came to be in this war-torn place. As I tread further, every one of my senses tells the story of a battle lost. I smell the stench of filth amidst the burned ashes that still smoulder all around me and I can taste the bitterness of defeat. My eyes, of course communicate the context best, with jagged, twisted, barbed wire, tangled all across my route and flickering residuals of all but dampened fires afar. Grenades have been thrown here. Shots have been fired and missiles aimed. Death is what I sense, a deep feeling of utter devastation. It’s in the air. Destruction. Desolation. Desertion. My ears have nothing to add to this inner narrative of ruin. Until, I hear the sound…

Excerpt 2 (page 11)

I feel incredibly alone in this crowded room and I want to. Undeserving. Unworthy. This is the song I sing to myself. As I study the carpet, watching to see if any fugitive tears actually splash on impact with its fibres, I am convinced that its actually bouncing in time with the beat of the continuous stomping and stamping from dancing feet. I look up, just a little, and glance sidewards towards the majority of the crowd on the other side of the aisle beside me. Surprisingly, even the usually shy ones seem to have emerged from their turtle shells to unreservedly prance for their “Risen King.” I assume they must have all had a very wonderful start to their morning, to match their equally wonderful life. I look back at the ground. I have had a terrible morning, I have had a terrible life.

Excerpt 3 (page 36)

Sheepishly, I tilt my head, smile, nod and am excitedly whisked away into an exhilarating escapade of perfect, united movements to the music. Waves of love wash over me as I am gently swayed, lovingly held and gracefully guided throughout the dance. An indescribable, unshakeable peace ripples through my body. There is a sense of innocence within my heart and feeling somewhat like a little child being steered through every step, a confidence and a contentment begins to fill my being. I so willingly follow His lead and there is no doubt that should I stumble, He will most graciously correct me. I do not stumble. Every step, every twist, every twirl is perfect. There is such strength in His arms as He holds my upper back so firm and strong, His elbow positioned so perfectly straight. Yet there is softness in the hand that holds mine. Such a strong sense of security emanates from him and His unconditional love just pours out, all over me. As the music quietens, ever so tenderly, I am aided into a finishing incline and with full trust, I lean back, capturing a glistening shimmer from my beloved’s beautiful brown eyes. I encapsulate the moment like a photograph and promise myself to treasure it forever.

Excerpt 3 (page 51)

I lift my head high and gaze upon the man, to whom the voice belongs. His hair hangs, wet and matted, saturated in blood. His head, bowed. Upon it, deeply digging into his forehead is a crown made from thorny, bendable stems. Each sharp spike has clearly cut into his scalp for blood has flowed from its multiple wounds. The first stream flows from these wounds. His face is completely encrusted, glazed with blood. From the depths of my core, a sudden outcry involuntarily escapes from my covered mouth. A deep groan of anguish. I look upon his feet. They are almost within reach, should I desire to touch them. My hands shake. I daren’t. A very thick, large nail has been hammered right through both of his tender, naked feet, securing them together. The spike going right through, to the wood behind. His lifeblood seeps. The second stream. I watch as it cascades out and down onto the covering of the map underneath. A third stream pours from his left side. I examine the man’s upper body. Several deep gouges, oozing gashes, and multiple bleeding stripes, perhaps markings from a swift whip are strewn over the entirety of his torso. Glazed, wet, red, raw. His side appears to have been pierced deeply by something very sharp. It is as though he has been stabbed with a sword or a spear. I sob loudly now, at the contemplation of this man’s suffering of such a cruel and brutal beating. Empathy emerges from way down deep inside and groans make their way up and out. The sound bellowing in unison with the steady flow of my tears. The remaining two torrents can be seen gushing from each of his hands, which are also wounded by thick nails, piercing all the way through, just like his feet. I suddenly remember. I have traced those wounds, with my very own fingers...