Pictures from the Leftover Generation a journal by kris kemp 2002 - 2003 A true story, my story, about living in a giant warehouse known as the Unarmed Underground Art Centre--502 Kanuga Drive, West Palm Beach, FL 33401, inside the belly of a beached whale, among orphaned artists, emotional cripples, misfit musicians, paranoid poets, unapologetic slackers ... sharing space within the walls of a giant magnet that can only attract what it does not destroy ... sending prayers, diving dumpsters, writing secret poems and songs, playing hooky from the real world, jumping trains with sidewalk prophets, lending an ear to the unacknowledged, accumulating stray kisses from mysterious strangers, connecting the dots to form a picture, becoming absorbed into a kind of surrogate family, all of us participants of the Leftover Generation. - kris kemp, march 7, 2003, 2:32 pm note: The third hand store is a euphemism for dumpster. The word was coined by Ryan Mark Johnson, a Christian friend, Refuge volunteer, witnesser, and dumpster diver partner. The second hand store is store where you pay for used goods. The third hand store is a free, used goods store--the dumpster. The fourth hand store would be the redistribution of goods from the dumpster. You get the picture. :-) Feb. 17, 2002, 4:28 pm, Sunday Introduction This book will serve as my fourth diary. The first, "bicycle days", consisted of a loose collection of scribbles, frantic thoughts--half cracked eggs hiding curious chicks. The second diary, titled "dreams are the flashlight; time is the battery" tells the story of my involvement with Rock Church and two friends who I lived with in downtown West Palm Beach, FL. The third diary, titled "dumpster earth" shows a brief picture of my life living at the Unarmed Underground Art Centre, a dilapidated warehouse congregated by a revolving door of artists/musicians/poets/slackers in downtown West Palm Beach, FL. This one, the fourth one, is yet to be titled. But usually, by the time I've completed half the journal, a title emerges that ties everything together. Feb. 17, 2002, 4:28 pm, Sunday Bread of Life After church, in my room, I looked into the fridge, eyed the nut butter and looked for bread. None there. The nut butter was culled from an overwhelmingly blessed food pickup yesterday. Every Saturday, between 10 and 11am, I drive over to Wild Oats, a health food store, and pick up food--stuff that's near expiration or stuff that's surplus. As far as I'm concerned, the expiration date is the day it goes in your mouth. Hah! Still, the problem at hand was that I needed bread. Should I wait until Wild Oats is closed, then hit their dumpster? Or should I ask God for bread and see what happens? I chose the latter. Grabbing a $20 dollar bill from beneath my scanner, where a small amount ($60 - $80) of cash resides, I slung my backpack over my shoulder, hopped on my bicycle and navigated among the orphaned furniture toward the open doors of the east bay. I've been living in this warehouse on Kanuga Drive,just west of the railroad tracks, for a little over a year. It's interesting living, an ordeal, but an environment that slowly grows on you, absorbing you into an orbit that's hard to leave. This warehouse, called Flamingo Art Studios, and also known as the Unarmed Underground Art Centre, an industrial live/work facility for an eclectic group of artists, poets, musicians, writers, is a planet. Some people crash land here, make the most of the cheap rent while they repair their rocket ship dreams, then board their spaceship and disappear into the atmosphere. Others get sucked into this orbit, build makeshift living spaces from found woodscraps, and quietly determine to spend their lives living within the ribs of this rusting, beached whale. Eventually, Alan Patrusevich, the owner/gallery director who runs an antique restoration business in the west bay, a business whose revenue sustains the inconsistent rent payments, pushes tenants from the nest, or they leave on their own. Sometimes the ones who love living here, as it offers a respite from expensive rents and restrictions common to apartment life, refuse to leave. But once Alan becomes annoyed with the tenant, no matter how comfortable they are in this surrogate womb, he delivers them from it, snipping the umbilical cord as they kick and scream and float into the orbit of the real world. Some return to visit. Others are never heard from again. Living in a community changes you. When I first moved into the Unarmed Underground Art Centre (UUAC), I kept out of view of the other residents. The whole lot of them--Thomas "Rooster" Bazinet, an artist who used a chainsaw to sculpt trees into tiki dolls and glued shells to his Winnebago, Ana Torlin, the abstract painter whose big eyes and round Owl-like glasses made her look like Harry Potter's twin sister, Jack Barry, the painter who mixed plaster and earth-colored paints to make modern day petroglyphs, Alan Patrusevich, the gallery director who wrote poetry, painted, and had a play in the works, Beatta, the reggae-loving hippie from Poland, and an entire zoo load of others, many travellers, recovering addicts, middleaged children chasing epiphanies that only they can see--would congregate around the kitchen table in the middle bay, tossing back bottles of beer, smoking, and talking loudly about current events, both locally and nationally. For the first few months, I would wait until they dispersed before scurrying into the kitchen to make a cucumber and tomato sandwich, or some other dumpstered snack. Over time, I made friends, listened, and learned that there's a whole world that exists beneath the mainstream. If you're willing to set your fears aside and break the surface of the water, you'll find it. If you're willing to look hard enough, you'll notice that a whole subculture lives a little off the beaten path, subsisting by their wits, and a faith that any dream, no matter how far fetched, remains in reach. Living here, I would come to understand two things. Life is to be lived. Life is not an apology. Every day is beautiful when you ride your bicycle. The spinning wheels beneath you, your legs pumping the pedals, the warmth of the sun against your skin, the wind swirling around you. Driving is overrated. Give a man a bicycle and he will ride for a few days (until he gets a flat). Teach a man how to find and fix a bicycle that's left in the trash and you teach him how to ride for life. If everyone who drives cars had to ride bicycles for an entire month, the need for shrinks would plummet. Riding a bike keeps you grounded, in more ways than one. My destination was Entemann's Bakery Outlet, a store that sells surplus bread, pies, cakes, pastries for a reduced price. The shop is located about a mile south of Belvedere Road, on the west side of Dixie Boulevard. Further south of the store is Antique Row, a dense collection of roadside antique stores broken up by the occasional tea house, coffeeshop, thrift store, or Cuban cafe. Pedaling toward the bakery outlet, I stayed on the west side of the road, riding with the traffic. Riding on sidewalks canbe hazardous, as cars often pull out of intersections with little regard for the bicyclists that happen to have the rightaway. I've been hit more than twice. On one ocassion, I was thrown off of my bicycle in Palm Beach by a car that backed up onto the sidewalk. Apparently, the lady driver hadn't looked both ways. I fell off my bike onto the grass. She left her car idling, opened her door, and jogged toward me. "Are you alright?" She asked. "Yeah. I don't know about my bike, though." My bike suffered a bent rim, so bent that "trueing" (straightening the rim by adjusting the spokes) would fail to fix the wheel. We exchanged phone numbers. When I told her that I would need to replace my back wheel, that the cost for a back wheel runs from $80 to $100 dollars, she dismissed my request as irrelevant. "I talked to my lawyer and he said that I had the rightaway," she droned nasally. "Whatever," I hung up. Arriving at Entemann's, I notice the Sunday hours sign (open 'til 3) and another sign on the window: Closed. The fence toward the back, a cement yard where the loading trucks docked, was open. Hesitantly, I pedaled through the open gate, heading toward the dumpster at the back fence. To my right, a semi-truck was parked, it's back to the loading dock. If you look like you mean business, no one will bother you. So, I tried to put on a professional face as I slowed the bike to a stop. My left foot engaged the kick stand and I dismounted the wheeled steed. Then I peered inside the dumpster. The inside of dumpsters hides great treasure. You would be suprised. Within its walls, boxes of pastries and bags of Lenders Egg Bagels cried out for rescue. Hang on, I communicated telepathically. I will be there shortly. Soon you will enjoy of the comfort of belonging from within my worn backpack. My backpack has been the temporary home for many dumpstered foods. Teach a man how to buy food and he'll buy food until he runs out of money. Teach a man how to dumpster dive and he won't have to buy food. Every dumpster's an opportunity. Cautiously, I turned to look at the truck. A bulky black man was checking the tires. I leaned over the dumpster and pulled myself inside, crouching to remain out of view of the truck driver. (As long as I'm rescuing someone or something, I'm home. For me, codependency knows no bounds. Hello, my name is Kris. And I'm codependent with dumpsters.) The dumpster was 10% filled. I grabbed the boxes ... cookies, cinammon buns smothered in white goo ... and shoved them into the backpack. I reached for the bages, six or seven or eight bags--Hallelujah!--and slowly peeked over the dumpster ledge. Good. I didn't see the driver. Usually, when I'm dumpster diving, I bring someone along and we take turns as a spotter. I hopped out, bagels in one hand, while my other hand propelled me over the dumpster ledge. My backpack was overstuffed, straining at the weak areas of fabric. Hopping on my bike, I pedaled away from the big steel box. I approached the truck, on my left hand side, and the loading dock to my right. As I was about to cross over into freedom, past the fence that guarded the back yard, I heard the voice that every dumpster diver hears, at least once, during their expeditions. "Hey!!" Turning my head toward the bark, I spotted the truck driver sitting in his cab. He waved me over. Feeling sheepish, slightly reluctant, and embarassed to be calling myself a 33 year old man (hah! :-)), I steered the bicycle toward his rig. I was about to apologize. Stepping down from the truck, he said: "Hang on. Let me get some bread for you." Stunned, I replied: "Really? Wow, thanks." He walked to the side door, unlocked it, and stepped inside. "Wait here," he cautioned. He returned with six loaves of Arnold brand, 7-grain bread. "Wow. Thanks a lot," I repeated. "That's very kind of you." He nodded, then broke into a spiel of how he liked to help people. I listened. When he ended his talk, I asked him: "Do you know Jesus Christ?" Without so much as a pause, he looked at me soberly and said: "You know, I'm glad you asked that because I would like to, but I don't. I would call myself a Christian except I don't understand how Christians can go to church and be with God, and then look down on a brother on the street, or a homeless guy. I know that not all Christians are like that, but I think that I try to help people, give them some food or help them." I nodded. "That's understandable." He continued talking, explaining that that he tries to help people whenver he can. "Would you like to become a Christian, to give your life to Jesus Christ?" I asked him. Without any reflection, he said: "Yes, I would." Hallelujah! I'm shouting in my mind. I quote Romans 3:23 and Romans 6:23 and ask him if he understands. "Yes." He says. Then I lead him, as he repeats after me, in the sinner's prayer. Praise The Lord Jesus Christ! Hosanna to The King of Kings! Let all creation sing! "You know," he began. "I saw you in that dumpster and I said to myself, 'That's not right. I can give him something.'" His name is David, a name fit for a king no less. Thank you, Lord Jesus, for David. Help him to grow in The Saving Faith of You!!! Thank you for the bread, bagels and pastries. Most importantly, Lord Jesus, thank you for bringing David to faith in The Lord Jesus Christ, and for nudging me to ask him if he knew You. May I never be ashamed to ask people if they know you! Continue to use me, Lord, as a humble and lowly servant, full of corruption and sin that struggles for dominance within the fragile walls of my body. Thank You Jesus for your obedience unto death. Thank You Jesus for your resurrection. Allow me the priviledge to share in the suffering for You. Praise Your Holy Name ... The Lord Jesus Christ, The Son of God. Hallelujah! "You know," David remarked. "I saw you in that dumpster and I said to myself, 'That's not right. I can give him something.'" David gave me something. But God gave David something so much more, The Bread of Life-- Eternal Life through The Lord Jesus Christ! :-) Feb. 17, 2002, 10:12 pm, Sunday Night Diving Praise God for His many blessings. I have been praying for bread, specifically 7-grain organic loafs from Wild Oats. Tonight, shopping at the 'third hand store', I discovered three brown shopping bags full of bread. Two contained loaves Renaissance brand baked bread, and one contained two loaves of 7-grain organic bread. The two bags with Renaissance bread contained different varieties: Sourdough, Focassia, Rosemary. God heard my prayers, and answered them. Isn't that awesome?! Sure, I had to crawl into a dumpster to retrieve the blessings, night shopping with a flashlight, but the bread--the exact bread I had prayed for--was found, neatly within a brown paper bag. No coffeegrounds either! Someone at Refuge Coffeehouse, a Christian coffeehouse I run out of the warehouse where I live, said that when we pray, we should pray specifically for things. Isn't that awesome?! Thus my prayer for 7-grain organic loaves of bread. Isn't God awesome?! He answered my prayer, and added two addittional bags of bread as well. Praise The Lord! When you live a life that's based on trusting God, you present opportunities for Him to show his mercy and goodness. If more people depended less on credit cards and more on God, they would see the hand of God move in a real way. So many people limit their understanding of God by refusing to believe that He can still perform miracles. They tend to place God within a box, within the four walls of the church, or within the four walls of their understanding of Him. God, however, is not limited by our understanding of Him. Until we live radically and boldly for The One (Jesus The Christ) Who died (and rose again) for us, we live half lives, happy with the thimble sized container of blessings we receive. I climbed from the dumpster and eyed my goods--three bags, and a computer monitor. There was too much to carry, so I left one bag and the monitor in the dumpster, then biked to Amoco, on the northeast corner of Forest Hill and Georgia, to call the warehouse for a ride. "I can't, cuz I don't have my truck here," said Lewis, "but I'll ask Yurri. His truck is here." Yurri is a new arrival to the warehouse. He's an artist from Brazil who's renting a space in the west bay, toward the back. Ten minutes later, Yurri turned his truck into the gas station. Sitting shotgun was Lewis. "Jump in the back." A pickup truck to help me load the dumpster food. Praise The Lord! :-) I lay my bike in the back. Yurri steps from his truck, a broad grin on his face and his eyes lit up, "hey howya doin?" "Thanks for coming to get me," I smile. We shake hands, then he helps me tie down the bicycle. I find a corner in the back of the truck toward the front, huddle down, and Yurri drives to Wild Oats, about a half mile away. There, we load the remaining goodies--the monitor and a bag of bread--into the cab. "Have you eaten?" Yurri asks from the front of the truck. "No." "Okay, we go eat." He steers into the Winn Dixie plaza on the southeast corner of Georgia and Belvedere. We park at "El Guerro's", this Mexican restaurant, then amble inside. The place is packed to capacity. In fact, we don't see any empty seats. Nearly all of the patrons fit the same description: short, dark haired, dark eyed Mexicans wearing dark blue denim jeans, button up shirts, boots, and cowboy hats. I've been hear before with my former girlfriend and current friend Carrie Cutlip. The food is authentic, good without trying too hard if you know what I mean. "Order whatever you want," quips Yurri. "It's on me." "Are you sure?" He smiles. "Yes," he winks. Since Lewis and Yurri speak Spanish fluently, I let Lewis order for me. "You like fish, right?" Lewis asks. "I love fish." We chat about current politics at the warehouse--who's moving in, upcoming art shows, future events--while munching on the complimentary chips and salsa, and drinking bottles of soda. The meal arrives. A steaming plate of fish and rice is set before me. Wow, this looks good. An entire fish, deep fried, amist refried beans and a mountain of rice, garnished with a lime, carrot, and radish. The food was delicious. We ate and talked. Sitting there, I felt like I belonged, as an artist, in an emerging arts scene. It was a good feeling, a comfortable sense of familiarity with little room for worry. A good meal with caring friends goes a long way. I was humbled by the fact that I had only met Yurri earlier that day at the warehouse, when Alan Patrusevich, gallery director and owner, had shown him my studio. "I could tell you were a nice guy, just from meeting you today," Yurri smiled. "I'm serious. I can tell. You're a good guy. You're my friend." "Thanks Yurri," I smiled. "You're my friend, too." I nodded. Yurri asks me about Ana Torlin, an artist in residence at the the warehouse. Ana's a quiet girl who paints abstract designs on canvas. "You like Ana," I tease. Yurri smiled, his twinkling eyes expressing the answer better than words. Dinner was great--deep fried fish, steaming rice, refried beans. The dumpster yield was great--bagged bread, a computer monitor, miscelaneous vegetables. The earlier dive behind Entemann's was a blessing from The Lord Jesus Christ. Praise The Lord for David, the truck drivers, salvation. Thank You, Jesus, for your blessings in my life. I thank you, Lord Jesus, and give You all The Glory. I am awed and continually amazed!! :-) Feb. 18, 9pm, 2002, Monday I worked at Marty Franks Packing & Shipping / Michelletti Antique Services today. He's a short, chubby, Korean war veteran and biker who dates his co-worker, Marsha He's quick with a joke, firm but understanding, and knows how to turn a buck. Appearancewise, he would be a near perfect cupid in a school play: He's about five feet tall, stocky with a round face, bulging brown eyes, and a shock of white hair resembling an abused, bleached brillo pad. My job is pretty easy, mentally at least. Basically, I load antiques, blanket wrap them, then deliver them or return them to the warehouse for later delivery to somewhere else. My co-workers are Alonzo, a muscular black guy, and Andy, a neurotic Irish fellow who Alonzo calls Redbeard. Andy's a trip. Everytime he becomes frustrated, he smacks his hand against the side of his head and yells: "Aaarrrgggg!" Today, we dropped boxes to two stores on Worth Avenue, in Palm Beach. First, we delivered to Zara's, then we made a stop at Pricci's shop. For lunch, Alonzo and I stopped at the Publix deli in City Place, downtowns new outdoor shopping center. We ordered foot-long subs and at outside on the patio. Alonzo is nice to work with, mellow, good with directions, and strong as an ox--all the good qualities you want when moving furniture. Only bad quality is his smoking habit, so I ask him to hold the cigarette near the window when we're driving, and he does. About an hour ago, I dived Erneston's Produce dumpster, on a street that runs south of Belvedere, just west of I-95. Shopping there, I left with a plethora of green peppers, bunches of parsley, heads of bok choy lettuce (used for stir fry), some bruised tomatoes, ginger root.. Thank God for dumpsters! I'm eating the stuff right now. Yes, I washed it, diced it, and made a decent salad. If you have never tried dumpster diving, you may want to start. All you need is a flashlight, and a desire to succeed--ha, ha, ha. Seriously. Dumpsters are a 24-7 free-food source. No one needs to go hungry, but so many Americans do because they don't know any better. If people only knew. Personally, I know of enough dumpster food resources to feed ten people every day--breakfast, lunch, dinner, and snacks, probably for a lifetime. How? Follow my dive schedule below. Hallelujah! street (dumpster) food Wild Oats various bottles of Samantha's fruit juices, organic eggs from cage free chickens, soymilk, rice milk, romaine lettuce, parsley, oranges, tomatoes, leaf lettuce, kale, peppers, yellow squash, zucchini, bread ($5.99 a loaf kind, multiple varieties), vitamins, pills Entemann's Bakery Outlet bagels, bread, pastries, cookies, cakes, donuts Dunkin Donuts bagels, muffins, donuts, coffee grounds ha, ha :-) Erneston's Produce green & yellow peppers, ginger, bokchoy lettuce, tomatoes, parsley Hoffman's Chocolates chocolate covered pretzels (milk chocolate and white chocolate), 8 pounds of milk chocolate in a fractured block wrapped in wax paper, assorted wrapped candies, free dived chocolate treats Nutrition Smart tester pills - pills that are free-to-try samples, so the cap is broken, but they are resealed and, usually, 3/4 full of general vitamins. We (Scott Thourot, Ann Powell, and I) found chewable vitamin C tabs, 2 or 3 bottles. What else? Energy bars (at the Palm Beach Gardens Nutrition Smart). Scott and I found about 30. We couldn't stop laughing. I had about three, then felt sick, as each one is like a full meal or something. Well, I'm gonna finish my dumpster salad. :-) Feb. 20, Wednesday, 2002, 8:04 pm I just got off the phone with dad. He's dying. He has ALS, amyotrophic lateral sclerosis. Amyotrophic - wasting of the nerve cells controlling muscles. Lateral - at the side of the spinal cord. Sclerosis - scarring. He said he would call me back. He's eating. I'm trying to help him by researching sources for possible treatments, specifically cures for ALS. So, I've been sniffing around the internet. A few websites seem pretty promising. Each one has been created by a person who has had ALS, treated himself, and either cured himself or put his deteriorating condition into remission. Sometimes, though, I don't know why I bother. I'm not even sure if Michael Kemp wants to be cured. For one thing, he's receiving attention, especially from me and Helana, his Polish wife. (Helana has a lot of attractive qualities. She dresses stylish. She is an amazing cook. She is attractive and has a great figure. And the fact that she can put up with Michael Kemp may qualify her for sainthood, or something close. Secondly, Michael is stubborn. Even though he has changed his diet and tries what I recommend, I have this nagging feeling, like a half-starved bird waiting to be fed in the cage of my mind, that his quiet determination to avoid subjection to others may get the best, or worst, of him. Will I help him? Yes. Will I spend whatever I can afford to do so? Yes. Do I love him? Yes. What if effort, love, commitment, and money still result in a prognosis that shows little, or no, improvement? This question begs an answer which, in turn, is another question. What is the pricetag of hope? If nothing else, I have bought--by dedicating hours of research, money earned from straining beneath the weight of heavy antique wardrobes, time spent on my knees in prayer--some hope, some time, some promise, some light in the darkness, at least for the moment. All I can do is try. Anything less would result in guilt, regret. And those two monsters I cannot afford to feed. Sigh. Feb. 22, Friday, 11:13pm, 2002 I biked home. Today at work, I loaded a truck with Alonzo, my co-worker and the main driver for Michelletti Antique Services. Tomorrow, he's leaving for Boston, delivering furniture to points inbetween along the east coast. But most of the load is going to Boston. We started around 9am and just finished around 7pm, so that's about 10 hours of heavy lifting. I like my job, though. It's a five step process. One, carry out the furniture. Two, blanket wrap it. Three, load it onto the truck. Four, find a place for it on the truck. Five, strap it in. Another reason I like my job is that I can listen to music, driving around, we listen to music. Loading the truck, I turn on this beat up, dumpster dived radio. We dance around and load furniture all day. I get paid $11 bucks an hour and money gets taken out for taxes, but I sleep well at night. Sometimes I wonder how all the people that we deliver furniture for, with their small empires of decorators, landscape architects, and personal assistants, make their money. When I heard, though the decorator, that one of them makes megacash in an import/export business that uses slave labor in China, I felt disgusted--angry and depressed at the same time. They may have riches in this world ... Earlier, around 8'ish, I bicycled to Entemann's dumpster, parked behind the steel box, and watched to make sure none of the bread loaders were looking. Then, I lifted the hatch, climbed in, closed the hatch, and turned on my flashlight, exposing a pile of gold playing charades as a plethora of Thomas English Muffins and bagels. Praise The Lord Jesus Christ! Hallelujah for the blessings wild beyond compare! Praise God! I was hoping for breakfast supplies for Rock Church this Sunday. What a faithful witness of God's everlasting kindness and mercy! Biking home, I praised Jesus. With headphones on, I sang along with the song "Agnus Dei" by the music project "City on a Hill". Even though my backpack was pregnant with baked goods, I wanted to visit Carrie Cutlip, my former girlfriend and best buddy who lived between the warehouse and Entemann's Bakery. Carrie's a terrific girl, someone who I still love so much that I can barely express it in words. Even though we don't see each other that often, I keep her in prayer and know that God has an awesome plan for her life. Cautiously, I pedaled toward her cottage apartment and stopped the bike. At first I was hesitant, then decided to knock. Opening it slowly, she peeked her head out. "Kristopher," she smiled. Her eyes were all shiny and beautiful, like copper pennys glowing beneath the water of a fountain. "I'm glad you came over. I'm expecting a call from my grandparent whose about to be taken off life support." "Awwww, Carrie." I returned softly. "I'm sorry." I gave her a hug. "You stink," she laughed, pulling away. "Sorry." We watched a part of a movie that neither of us liked. Carrie made popcorn (delicious) and served me a slice of keylime pie (also delicious). "I'm going to bed, but you can stay here and watch TV if you like. Just lock the door before you go." For a few minutes, I watched TV, but decided I'd rather watch Carrie sleep. I turned the TV off, walked outside and unlocked my bike, then returned inside. Gingerly, I placed the keys on her table, wrote a love and thank you note to her, then quietly walked in her room to watch her sleep. What a gorgeous site. Her hair is so pretty. She looks like a little kid, like Shirley Temple. Come to think of it, they're probably related, since Carrie's a mix of Irish, Scottish, Indian, and Polish. She's smart and she's a mean cook. Don't get in a fight with her though. Ever since dating Carrie, I have not been interested in other girls or women. Sure, I like girls, but Carrie is a smart girl with loads of insight. So many girls that I meet may have a pretty face, but seem to be lacking in the intelligence department. Carrie is cute and smart. Dear Lord Jesus, Please forgive my sins, my selfishness, my lust, my cowardness in presenting The Gospel. And Dear Lord, I thank you for Carrie Cutlip. Please protect her and bless her with a beautiful life. Please grant her the desires of her heart, and help her to draw near to You, to find her strength in You, Lord Jesus. Thank you soooooo much for bringing her into my life. Please bless her with Joy and a house of her own. Maybe I can help her find one. Thank you, Jesus! Thank You, Jesus! Amen. March 18, 2002 God gave me a song. It's called "Last Prayer (Don't you care?)". After flipping through Voice of the Martyrs magazine, and reading the stories of persecuted Christians overseas, I spent some time on my knees in prayer, laying hands on the magazine and weeping over my suffering brothers and sisters in Christ. Then I continued reading the book Jesus Freaks, a gift given to me by JR & Heather Lawson, and came upon the story called "Last Prayer", on page fifty. Last Prayer tells the story of a ten year old girl who refused to spit on a Bible. For this, she was shot in the head. After reading the story, I felt a song coming on in my head. I turned on my electric piano and started playing, alternately scribbling lyrics to the piano chords. The verse surfaced, then the bridge followed by the chorus. When I played the chorus, I started crying. I didn't know what the chords were, so I wrote down all the notes in each one. I'll have to buy a chord book and write out the chords above the lyrics. The song is not mine. It is God's song. And I hope he uses it to reach people with the message that the church is suffering, and as Christians, we have a job to do. I don't know how long I'm going to be living here. People seem to lack passion. Perhaps the ones with passion can be found in some faraway place. I hope to go there. I want to be part of my generations lust and rage for life. I want God to use me, even if by using me my life is cut short. Praise You, Lord Jesus. Thank You for Leading in the Life of Jill Karlin Butler! Hallelujah! Thank You, God! Earlier my mom, Grace, called. She teaches two Bible classes at Good Shepherd United Methodist Church, and spends a lot of time writing her Biblical based workbooks. I think she has three or four of them so far. She called to tell me that Jill Butler had confessed that she's a Christian, and has been baptized. If you know Jill Butler, you know why I am excited. This afternoon, mom lunched at Rockwell's, a restaurant on the top floor of the 'Darth Vader' building in downtown West Palm Beach. My brother Kevin and his wife Gina, my sister Kim, and Clint, a friend of the family were there as well. The waitress happened to be none other than Jill Butler, an artist and the wife of Lee Butler, a visionary architect, artist, and author. Inevitably, Grace and Jill chat as they haven't seen each other in years. Jill tells Grace that she's a Christian now, and that she attends church and knows one of Grace's students, this chap who attends her prophecy class. Isn't that awesome! Hallelujah! Thank You, The Lord Jesus Christ--You ARE AWESOME. GLORY TO GOD! HALLELUJAH!!!! My enthusiasm over Jill's conversion is well deserved. Jill Butler is a Jewish woman, an artist, who is the wife of Lee Butler, a wacky, architect from San Fransisco, California. They are both environmentalists who want to save the world, Lee through his ekosea housing idea (environmentally friendly living spaces), and Jill through her artwork. The duo used to show up at Philosophy Night, a live talk show that my mom and I organized in downtown West Palm Beach, and antagonize the Christian speakers that spoke. Even then, I used to witness to them, but they would wave me off with a smirk and continue pointing out the hypocrisy of Christians. Watching Lee and Jill, I noticed that Lee seemed to be the ringleader, and Jill, ripe for a cult, had been plucked from the tree of conventional thinking and tossed into Lee's collection of followers. Knowing them, I would have never thought that either one of them would become Christians. Jill told mom that Lee is now a Christian, too. Who would have thought? With God, all things are possible. Praise God! April 2002 Trip to Nevada