Tuesday, December 24, 2019

#145 Backstory of the Poem "Reservoir" by Andrea Rexilius



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*** The CRC Blog welcomes submissions from published and unpublished poets for BACKSTORY OF THE POEM series.  Contact CRC Blog via email at caccoop@aol.com or personal Facebook messaging at https://www.facebook.com/car.cooper.7

***This is #145 in a never-ending series called BACKSTORY OF THE POEM where the Chris Rice Cooper Blog (CRC) focuses on one specific poem and how the poet wrote that specific poem.  All BACKSTORY OF THE POEM links are at the end of this piece. 

#145 Backstory of the Poem
“Reservoir”
by Andrea Rexilius

Can you go through the step-by-step process of writing this poem from the moment the idea was first conceived in your brain until final form? The poem “Reservoir “from the book Sister Urn was written in response to the editorial notes given to me by Sidebrow Press when we were prepping the book for publication.  I originally had another piece in the book that was titled “Cistern.” The editors asked me to revise to deepen the specific emotional context of that poem. I spent a few days attempting to write into the space of that poem before I decided to scrap it altogether and rethink what else might need to be accomplished in the book in its place. 

          The only thing tying the two pieces together is in the thread of their titles, the move from a cistern to a reservoir.
 Emotionally, I was thinking 
about water and drowning in this book. Drowning in relation to substance abuse, to grief and crying. Memories of walking in the rain with my sister, of being drenched (literally, spiritually, metaphorically). 


Where were you when you started to actually write the poem? And please describe the place in great detail. I wrote “Reservoir” in Denver about a year after my sister passed away. I almost always write on my laptop in a chair in the living room surrounded by bookshelves, with my cat (Marigold) on my lap. I like complete silence when I write. When I’m stuck, I thumb through the books surrounding me.
What month and year did you start writing this poem? November, 2018.

How many drafts of this poem did you write before going to the final? This is hard to say. I try not to be too precious with my drafts and tend to revise on my laptop. I do recall clarifying many of the sentences, but I didn’t keep track of exactly what shifted in them. 

Were there any lines in any of your rough drafts of this poem that were not in the final version? And can you share them with us? This is from the cut poem, “Cistern.”  A completely different telling than “Reservoir,” but still a kind of “draft.”

I mean for it to resound slightly erotic.
For it to singe our edges.
For it to burn.
What do you want readers of this poem to take from this poem?  A “reservoir” is defined as a supply or source of something” and as “a place where fluid collects, especially in rock strata or in the body.” I wanted this poem to both anchor the narrative of the first section of Sister Urn and also to get at some of the emotional nuances of having a family member who is addicted to heroin and prescription pills.  I was thinking about my sister, an immigrant from Hungary, and the ways in which our society fails, not just immigrants, but people with mental illnesses, people in need of rehab, health insurance, surgery, therapy, etc. The resources my sister needed were always slightly out of reach, either financially or because the versions of them that she could afford were poor substitutes for actual assistance. In short, I suppose I wanted to convey a sense, not just of personal grief, but of institutional, societal grieving for the ways in which so many of us are left bearing demons, night terrors, corruption, and loss of breath. The relationship between body and capital.   


Which part of the poem was the most emotional of you to write and why? The line, “Did you know you were dying?” is written in direct address to my sister in this poem. It’s both literal and rhetorical. It also just comes down to the simple fact that I’d like to talk to her again. To ask her some of the things I never asked when she was alive. To remind her of where we converge, to give her hope, to tell her how she gives me hope (or strength or light or breath), to meet her in the cistern.

Has this poem been published before? And if so where? Sister Urn (Sidebrow Books, 2019). https://www.sidebrow.net/books/sister-urn-andrea-rexilius

Reservoir        

Your mother told me you suffered from night terrors and that’s one of the reasons you took so many pills, an entire bottle in a week. Followed by withdrawal (seizures, nausea, anxiety, insomnia, agoraphobia). I told her she was enabling you. She said she wouldn’t put you out on the street. Her mother and father long dead. Her brothers somewhere in Hungary. I saw how the math stacked against you. Did you know you were dying? I stopped visiting after the Christmas you were strung out and set your sweater on fire reaching across a candle. You called your doctor a drug dealer. You’d pay a few hundred and he’d ask if you wanted pills. Yes. And he’d give them to you. Despite the heart palpitations. Despite your arms. Despite your face. Your boyfriend thought you were possessed by a demon. After you died, he wouldn’t leave your mother’s house. She called the police to have him removed. Your night terrors entered her and I was afraid they would enter me too. In her dream she is naked, chasing you down a narrow street in Budapest, trying to grab your hand before you disappear around a corner with a man in a dark cloak. The night she found you, you were hunched over in the sink. Your face pressed to the mirror. She could see you were no longer breathing

          Andrea Rexilius is the author of Sister Urn (Sidebrow, Spring 2019),  New Organism: Essais (Letter Machine, 2014)Half of What They Carried Flew Away (Letter Machine, 2012), and To Be Human Is To Be A Conversation (Rescue Press, 2011),  as well as the chapbooks, Séance (Coconut Books, 2014), and To Be Human (Horseless Press, 2010)
          Her creative and critical writing is featured in the following anthologies: Anne Carson: Ecstatic Lyre (U of Michigan P), The Volta Book of Poets (Sidebrow Books), Sixty Morning Talks: Serial Interviews with Contemporary Authors (Ugly Duckling Press), and Letter Machine Book of Interviews(Letter Machine Editions). She is Core Faculty in Poetry, and Program Coordinator, for the Mile-High MFA in Creative Writing at Regis University.


BACKSTORY OF THE POEM LINKS

001  December 29, 2017
Margo Berdeshevksy’s “12-24”

002  January 08, 2018
Alexis Rhone Fancher’s “82 Miles From the Beach, We Order The Lobster At Clear Lake Café”

003 January 12, 2018
Barbara Crooker’s “Orange”

004 January 22, 2018
Sonia Saikaley’s “Modern Matsushima”

005 January 29, 2018
Ellen Foos’s “Side Yard”

006 February 03, 2018
Susan Sundwall’s “The Ringmaster”

007 February 09, 2018
Leslea Newman’s “That Night”

008 February 17, 2018
Alexis Rhone Fancher “June Fairchild Isn’t Dead”

009 February 24, 2018
Charles Clifford Brooks III “The Gift of the Year With Granny”

010 March 03, 2018
Scott Thomas Outlar’s “The Natural Reflection of Your Palms”

011 March 10, 2018
Anya Francesca Jenkins’s “After Diane Beatty’s Photograph “History Abandoned”

012  March 17, 2018
Angela Narciso Torres’s “What I Learned This Week”

013 March 24, 2018
Jan Steckel’s “Holiday On ICE”

014 March 31, 2018
Ibrahim Honjo’s “Colors”

015 April 14, 2018
Marilyn Kallett’s “Ode to Disappointment”

016  April 27, 2018
Beth Copeland’s “Reliquary”

017  May 12, 2018
Marlon L Fick’s “The Swallows of Barcelona”

018  May 25, 2018
Juliet Cook’s “ARTERIAL DISCOMBOBULATION”

019  June 09, 2018
Alexis Rhone Fancher’s “Stiletto Killer. . . A Surmise”

020 June 16, 2018
Charles Rammelkamp’s “At Last I Can Start Suffering”

021  July 05, 2018
Marla Shaw O’Neill’s “Wind Chimes”

022 July 13, 2018
Julia Gordon-Bramer’s “Studying Ariel”

023 July 20, 2018
Bill Yarrow’s “Jesus Zombie”

024  July 27, 2018
Telaina Eriksen’s “Brag 2016”

025  August 01, 2018
Seth Berg’s “It is only Yourself that Bends – so Wake up!”

026  August 07, 2018
David Herrle’s “Devil In the Details”

027  August 13, 2018
Gloria Mindock’s “Carmen Polo, Lady Necklaces, 2017”

028  August 21, 2018
Connie Post’s “Two Deaths”

029  August 30, 2018
Mary Harwell Sayler’s “Faces in a Crowd”

030 September 16, 2018
Larry Jaffe’s “The Risking Point”

031  September 24, 2018
Mark Lee Webb’s “After We Drove”

032  October 04, 2018
Melissa Studdard’s “Astral”

033 October 13, 2018
Robert Craven’s “I Have A Bass Guitar Called Vanessa”

034  October 17, 2018
David Sullivan’s “Paper Mache Peaches of Heaven”

035 October 23, 2018
Timothy Gager’s “Sobriety”

036  October 30, 2018
Gary Glauber’s “The Second Breakfast”

037  November 04, 2018
Heather Forbes-McKeon’s “Melania’s Deaf Tone Jacket”

038 November 11, 2018
Andrena Zawinski’s “Women of the Fields”

039  November 00, 2018
Gordon Hilger’s “Poe”

040 November 16, 2018
Rita Quillen’s “My Children Question Me About Poetry” and “Deathbed Dreams”

041 November 20, 2018
Jonathan Kevin Rice’s “Dog Sitting”

042 November 22, 2018
Haroldo Barbosa Filho’s “Mountain”

043  November 27, 2018
Megan Merchant’s “Grief Flowers”

044 November 30, 2018
Jonathan P Taylor’s “This poem is too neat”

045  December 03, 2018
Ian Haight’s “Sungmyo for our Dead Father-in-Law”

046 December 06, 2018
Nancy Dafoe’s “Poem in the Throat”

047 December 11, 2018
Jeffrey Pearson’s “Memorial Day”

048  December 14, 2018
Frank Paino’s “Laika”

049  December 15, 2018
Jennifer Martelli’s “Anniversary”

O50  December 19, 2018
Joseph Ross’s For Gilberto Ramos, 15, Who Died in the Texas Desert, June 2014”

051 December 23, 2018
“The Persistence of Music”
by Anatoly Molotkov

052  December 27, 2018
“Under Surveillance”
by Michael Farry

053  December 28, 2018
“Grand Finale”
by Renuka Raghavan

054  December 29, 2018
“Aftermath”
by Gene Barry

055 January 2, 2019
“&”
by Larissa Shmailo

056  January 7, 2019
“The Seamstress:
by Len Kuntz

057  January 10, 2019
"Natural History"
by Camille T Dungy


058  January 11, 2019
“BLOCKADE”
by Brian Burmeister

059  January 12, 2019
“Lost”
by Clint Margrave

060 January 14, 2019
“Menopause”
by Pat Durmon

061 January 19, 2019
“Neptune’s Choir”
by Linda Imbler

062  January 22, 2019
“Views From the Driveway”
by Amy Barone

063  January 25, 2019
“The heron leaves her haunts in the marsh”
by Gail Wronsky

064  January 30, 2019
“Shiprock”
by Terry Lucas

065 February 02, 2019
“Summer 1970, The University of Virginia Opens to Women in the Fall”
by Alarie Tennille

066 February 05, 2019
“At School They Learn Nouns”
by Patrick Bizzaro

067  February 06, 2019
“I Must Not Breathe”
by Angela Jackson-Brown

068 February 11, 2019
“Lunch on City Island, Early June”
by Christine Potter

069 February 12, 2019
“Singing”
by Andrew McFadyen-Ketchum

070 February 14, 2019
“Daily Commute”
by Christopher P. Locke

071 February 18, 2019
“How Silent The Trees”
by Wyn Cooper


072 February 20, 2019
“A New Psalm of Montreal”
by Sheenagh Pugh

073 February 23, 2019
“Make Me A Butterfly”
by Amy Barbera

074 February 26, 2019
“Anthem”
by Sandy Coomer

075 March 4, 2019
“Shape of a Violin”
by Kelly Powell

076 March 5, 2019
“Inward Oracle”
by J.P. Dancing Bear

077 March 7, 2019
“I Broke My Bust Of Jesus”
by Susan Sundwall

078 March 9, 2019
“My Mother at 19”
by John Guzlowski

079 March 10, 2019
“Paddling”
by Chera Hammons Miller

080 March 12, 2019
“Of Water and Echo”
by Gillian Cummings

081   082   083    March 14, 2019
“Little Political Sense”   “Crossing Kansas with Jim
Morrison”  “The Land of Sky and Blue Waters”
by Dr. Lindsey Martin-Bowen

084 March 15, 2019
“A Tune To Remember”
by Anna Evans

085 March 19, 2019
“At the End of Time (Wish You Were Here)
by Jeannine Hall Gailey

086 March 20, 2019
“Garden of Gethsemane”
by Marletta Hemphill

087 March 21, 2019
“Letters From a War”
by Chelsea Dingman

088 March 26, 2019
“HAT”
by Bob Heman

089 March 27, 2019
“Clay for the Potter”
by Belinda Bourgeois

#090 March 30, 2019
“The Pose”
by John Hicks

#091 April 2, 2019
“Last Night at the Wursthaus”
by Doug Holder

#092 April 4, 2019
“Original Sin”
by Diane Lockward

#093 April 5, 2019
“A Father Calls to his child on liveleak”
by Stephen Byrne

#094 April 8, 2019
“XX”
by Marc Zegans

#095 April 12, 2019
“Landscape and Still Life”
by Marjorie Maddox

#096 April 16, 2019
“Strawberries Have Been Growing Here for Hundreds of
Years”
by Mary Ellen Lough

#097 April 17, 2019
“The New Science of Slippery Surfaces”
by Donna Spruijt-Metz

#098 April 19, 2019
“Tennessee Epithalamium”
by Alyse Knorr

#099 April 20, 2019
“Mermaid, 1969”
by Tameca L. Coleman

#100 April 21, 2019
“How Do You Know?”
by Stephanie

#101 April 23, 2019
“Rare Book and Reader”
by Ned Balbo

#102 April 26, 2019
“THUNDER”
by Jefferson Carter

#103 May 01, 2019
“The sight of a million angels”
by Jenneth Graser

#104 May 09, 2019
“How to tell my dog I’m dying”
by Richard Fox

#105 May 17, 2019
“Promises Had Been Made”
by Sarah Sarai

#106 June 01, 2019
“i sold your car today”
by Pamela Twining

#107 June 02, 2019
“Abandoned Stable”
by Nancy Susanna Breen

#108 June 05, 2019
“Cupcake”
by Julene Tripp Weaver

#109 June 6, 2019
“Bobby’s Story”
by Jimmy Pappas

#110 June 10, 2019
“When You Ask Me to Tell You About My Father”
by Pauletta Hansel

#111 Backstory of the Poem’s
“Cemetery Mailbox”
by Jennifer Horne

#112 Backstory of the Poem’s
“Relics”
by Kate Peper

#113 Backstory of the Poem’s
“Q”
by Jennifer Johnson

#114 Backstory of the Poem’s
“Brushing My Hair”
by Tammika Dorsey Jones

#115 Backstory of the Poem
“Because the Birds Will Survive, Too”
by Katherine Riegel

#116 Backstory of the Poem
“DIVORCE”
by Joan Barasovska

#117 Backstory of the Poem
“NEW YEAR”S EVE 2016”
by Michael Meyerhofer

#118 Backstory of the Poem
“Dear the estranged,”
by Gina Tron

#119 Backstory of the Poem
“In Remembrance of Them”
by Janet Renee Cryer

#120 Backstory of the Poem
“Horse Fly Grade Card, Doesn’t Play Well With Others”
by David L. Harrison

#121 Backstory of the Poem
“My Mother’s Cookbook”
by Rachael Ikins

#122 Backstory of the Poem
“Cousins I Never Met”
by Maureen Kadish Sherbondy

#123 Backstory of the Poem
“To Those Who Were Our First Gods”
by Nickole Brown

#124 Backstory of the Poem
“Looking For Sunsets (In the Early Morning)”
by Paul Levinson

#125 Backstory of the Poem
“Tracy”
by Tiff Holland

#126 Backstory of the Poem
“Legs”
by Cindy Hochman

#127 Backstory of the Poem
“Anathema”
by Natasha Saje

#128 Backstory of the Poem
“How to Explain Fertility When an Acquaintance Asks Casually”
by Allison Blevins

#129 Backstory of the Poem
“The Art of Meditation In Tennessee”
by Linda Parsons

#130 Backstory of the Poem
“Schooling High, In Beslan”
by Satabdi Saha

#131 Backstory of the Poem
“Baby Jacob survives the Oso Landslide, 2014”
by Amie Zimmerman

#132 Backstory of the Poem
“Our Age of Anxiety”
by Henry Israeli

#133 Backstory of the Poem
“Earth Cries; Heaven Smiles”
by Ken Allan Dronsfield

#134  Backstory of the Poem
“Eons”
by Janine Canan

#135 Backstory of the Poem
“Sworn”
by Catherine Zickgraf

#136 Backstory of the Poem
“Bushwick Blue”
by Susana H. Case

#137 Backstory of the Poem
“Then She Was Forever”
by Paula Persoleo

#138 Backstory of the Poem
“Enough”
by Kris Bigalk

#139 Backstory of the Poem
“From Ghosts of the Upper Floor”
by Tony Trigilio

#140 Backstory of the Poem
“Cloud Audience”
by Wanita Zumbrunnen

#141 Backstory of the Poem
“Condition Center”
by Matthew Freeman

#142 Backstory of the Poem
“Adventuresome Woman”
by Cheryl Suchors

#143 Backstory of the Poem
“The Way Back”
by Robert Walicki

#144 Backstory of the Poem
“If I Had Three Lives”
by Sarah Russell

#145 Backstory of the Poem
“Reservoir”
by Andrea Rexilius

Monday, December 23, 2019

Guest Blog Post By Pastor Christopher Visagie From Durban, South Africa



*The images in this specific piece are granted copyright privilege by:  Public Domain, CCSAL, GNU Free Documentation Licenses, Fair Use Under The United States Copyright Law, or given copyright privilege by the copyright holder which is identified beneath the individual photo.

**Some of the links will have to be copied and then posted in your search engine in order to pull up properly

***The CRC Blog welcomes submissions from individuals of all different faiths and philosophies to share their own stories.  Contact CRC Blog via email at caccoop@aol.com or personal Facebook messaging at https://www.facebook.com/car.cooper.7

Guest Blog Post by Pastor Christopher Visagie from Durban, South Africa
“My Testimony”

I was raised in a place called Wentworth which is one of the suburbs in Durban, South Africa. I’m the eldest of four siblings. We are three brothers and one sister. My dad was a postman working for the General post office and my mom was a housewife. We lived in a block of flats with six apartments, having two apartments on each level. Those flats were designed with the front doors of the apartments on each level facing each other. My father’s family lived in the apartment opposite ours. There was hardly any privacy because of the way these apartments were designed. Not only did the apartment doors face each other, but each flat was also close up against each other. The way they were structured was frustrating enough, let alone the fact that we were living in a so-called coloured area. Those were the days of the apartheid regime.
Being a so-called coloured living in a coloured community that was known for drug abuse, alcohol abuse and violence both domestic and gang-related violence was one of the worst environments to be raised in. My father’s family already had a reputation for being violent. Listening to the stories that my mother told of the Visagie family, it was obvious that violence was passed down from generation to generation through the bloodline. It seemed inevitable that I became who I was.
Growing up in such an environment where my uncles were never a good example, encouraging me to stand up for my self. I was constantly in fight with peers from as far back as grade one. Almost every week I was taking trouble home with me. Looking back, I know now that I was being groomed by the devil.
Looking at our home environment, the abuse took its tole in awarding us with a fair share of its influence. It was strange if there were no arguments between my parents for one day. They argued every single day. At least twice a week argument turned violent. Arguments ranged from a crease in my father’s work uniform to accusations of infidelity. When arguments turned violent, you would swear that my father hated my mother for reasons unknown. When you talk about a man possessed with a spirit of violence, my father is the first that comes to mind. We were traumatized by his behavior. It happened so often that it was normalized within our family circle and close community. In those days family violence wasn’t as sensitive as it is today.
While growing up, there was a certain experience that seemed to play over and over in my mind. It was a violent experience without any specified detail. All I could remember was my mother screaming and I was pushed up into a corner behind her. On a certain day, she was talking to someone and this story surfaced. She was explaining how ant the age of two I hit my father with my little hands in an attempt to protect her. Without a second thought, my father who was supposed to protect me booted me. In those days the type of footwear that my father wore to work had a metal toe-cap. After he booted me, my mother grabbed me, backed me up in the corner to protect me and received every blow from her violent abuser. My mother is a tiny woman. Image a tiny woman bracing herself in a corner, protecting her two-year-old baby who felt it right to attempt to protect his mom from her violent abuser. That mental trauma of that experience haunted me for a long time. That devil that possessed my father wanted me dead.
Years later, my father managed to get a government subsidy to purchase a house. We changed locations, but those devils moved in with us. When we thought things would get better, things quickly deteriorated. My mother took up the courage to protect herself from the abuse by taking up a weapon. Every time he hit her she broke the bottom end of a bottle, grabbed a knife or whatever else she could get out of desperation and she used it. We were forced to grow up in such an environment. By this time I was suicidal and attempted to end my life on more than one occasion. I was full of hatred and violence to the extent that I almost killed my own father by stabbing him repeatedly. All I wanted to do was to die.
About this same period, my granny on my father’s side was exposed for using witchcraft in an attempt to break up my parent’s marriage. The logic behind it was she felt that her son should be supporting her instead of supporting his own family.  When this story surfaced, it was as though hell was let loose. Everything that could go wrong went wrong. Many nights we slept in the streets because we were kicked out of a place we called home. With all this going on, a work colleague of my father advised him to consult a witch doctor. We all had to take part in a ritual in an attempt to be cleaned of this curse that plagued us. I’m not sure how much my father paid that witch doctor, but whatever he did never worked. After a while, my mother lost her mind to witchcraft. She started hallucinating. She sat flat on the floor in the lounge corner, talking to little short men that she alone could see. Our only hope to survive was ripped away from us. I can’t explain the emotional strain that we endured as children. 
All we did was cry until the tears dried up. This went on for a few days. She was eventually taken away by her eldest sister for someone to pray for her and her sanity was restored. I have no clarity in where they took her or who prayed for her, all I remember is she was back to her senses.
Beside her episode, I’ve had many episodes where I came under the attack of devils. I was hearing things, seeing things move and feeling the presence of evil all the time. I was also becoming more and more violent as time past. I’ll never forget the day when I dared my best friend just to start a fight. When he refused to respond, I stabbed him to provoke him. The devil had me on my way to hell. 
The situation eventually deteriorated to the point that my father spent more money on alcohol than he spent on his own kids. At times we had to ask neighbors for sugar to make a glass of sugar water to relieve the dryness of the bread we ate. It came to a point where, if you got up too late that morning, you might go hungry the whole day. Living under such conditions, my mother was forced to start an illegal business. She attempted to find a job but employment was hard to come by. She started selling alcohol without a license. Doing that in an attempt to survive, it caused the situation to worsen. Now we were attracting all types of ugly people. By this time she also turned to alcohol for relief. Having one parent drinking was bad enough, but both parents drinking just escalated what we thought was bad. Things were out of control. The devil was running a racket in our home and we could do nothing about it.    
Remember that where chaos reigns, corruption rules. When corrupt people saw an opportunity to take advantage, I had to stand up and protect myself. From defending myself at the age of 14, I also started inflicting harm. Violence begets violence.
Here's the irony. My parents were born again at one time in their lives. They backslid and attempted restoration a few times, but they failed. The God of Christianity that was introduced to me was a weak God who helps nobody. We were taught to pray, but there was no answer from a God we were told loved us. We were stuck in a situation of hopelessness, having no family or friends who offered to help remedy the situation. My parents tried pastors and social workers, but things just seemed to deteriorate. By this time, my life was a mess. At the age of fourteen, being the eldest I was helpless. Because I increased the already existing problems my mother had she kicked me out of the house. I had to grow up quickly. By this time I had already moved away from believing in the existence of God.
At the age of sixteen, I moved in with my girlfriend who is now my wife, Pastor Elaine Brenda Visagie (Below Left).  I never knew that she was backslidden when I met her. I never really bothered anyway, because I converted to atheism. I was always found debating the existence of God with friends and family. My foundations were set and I believed that nobody could change that. I collected enough evidence to discredit God who I believed was a figment of the imagination that acted as a crutch for the weak.
After a few years of dating, my girlfriend decided to go back to church. When that happened I attempted to get her into an argument to change her mindset that I thought was corrupted by religion. At this juncture of my life, I was so into what I believed, I started demonstrating the power of the mind and mind control. There’s no way that I was ready to be deceived into following a God that I thought did not exist. I was stuck and the devils thought he had me. The truth is, the devil was grooming me to serve him. While all this was going on, for some reason I started hating where I was in my life and started desiring change. I hated the person I became but had no power to change who I was. I convinced myself that I was on the right track, but could never find comfort in the part I chose. All I longed for was peace. There was a time that I broke down in tears because I was stuck, yet I was one who never cried. My heart was too hard to share tears. A war started in me. I attempted to restrain the emotional breakdown I was having. I hated that I started feeling weak.
A little while after my girlfriend started going to church, she invited me. I was dead set on not going with her. I felt that going to church was a waste of time. The first time I agreed to go was when I got up that Sunday morning with a bad hangover. The night before, I spent all the money I had on alcohol. I knew that she had money, so I asked her to buy me two beers to cure my hangover. The term we used for a hangover in those days was babilas or babi. She told me that if I wanted money for two beers, I must join her in church. She already complained previously about me not joining her. I thought to myself that it won’t hurt if I sat in church for two hours to please her, get the money, then go sit with my friends, having two beers to put on the table. I was too proud to go empty-handed.
When we got to church, I sat at the back. I refused to be a part of what’s happening because I thought that going to church was a joke. After the singing and all the theatrics, the preacher was introduced. He was a guest speaker from another church. After he preached (don’t ask me what he preached because I wasn’t listening), he started praying for people. He then stopped and said that God was speaking to a young man, in this place, but that young man is refusing to listen. He then looked at me and said that he can come right to my seat, but he wants this young man to come up on his own. When he said that, I didn’t know what conviction was at that time, but I felt the resistance in me leaving. He said it the second time and it became obvious that he was talking to me because he was looking at me. I didn’t want to look like a bad person, so I went up for prayer. That prayer never stopped the plans I had. As far as I was concerned, that experience never happened. The prayer meant nothing because I felt nothing. The strange thing is. After that experience, I felt different. I couldn’t explain it but denied giving credit to prayer. I never believed in prayer anyway. 
The second time my girlfriend invited me to church, I went because she won the argument. She told me that she goes where I desire to be, but I refuse to go where she desires to be, yet I was suppose to love her. It also became a little easier because the resistance seemed to be wearing off. Church took the same direction as the last time I was there. After the praise and worship and all the theatrics. The preacher was introduced. The preacher was a short little lady whose name was Shiela. She was from a church in Capetown. After she preached, she started praying for people as usual. She then said the same thing that the first guest speaker said. The moment I heard it, I put my head down. I thought to myself this is not going to happen the second time. After a while, things were quiet. I picked up my head to see what was going on, and noticed that she wasn’t at the pulpit All of a sudden, I felt a smack on my shoulder. I turned quickly and looked into this little lady’s face. She demanded that I get up because she was led to pray for me. She told me that God was attempting to speak to me, but I was stubborn. After she prayed for me, I went straight home, sat on the bed of out one-room outbuilding. Facing the tv set on top of a small table, I noticed the bible on top of the tv. For the first time I picked up a Bible having interest in its content because of a conviction. I asked a question, opened the Bible and miraculously found the answer on the page I opened to. I asked another question, did the same thing and found an answer again. It was a little scary because I know that it was impossible.
On the third Sunday that I went to church with my girlfriend (now wife), I experienced the same thing. There was a guest speaker set up by God who followed through with the same statements that were directed to me by the previous speakers. That caused me to practically interrogate God because of all the things I didn’t understand. At that point, I hadn’t made a commitment to God because there were still uncertainties. When God dealt with the uncertainties, I was led by my Pastor, Blake Crouch, who has gone to be with the Lord. My life took a dramatic change for the good. That day I was Born Again. I got baptized and Christ gave me the power to become a son of God.
Since the day I was Born Again, I've been ordained into Ministry. I’ve traveled to eight countries, seen thousands of miracles, had the privilege of seeing what I prophesied come to pass on many occasions, I’ve received good revelation from God, I completed seven books and published one. Presently, I’m working on publishing the next three by February next year, then another three in July.
This dramatic change in my life was unbelievable for many who knew me. They couldn’t believe that my life could change in the way it did. On two occasion I was approached by guys I associated in the world. Both guys said that they believe that there is a God because of what He did in my life. There is nothing impossible with God.