Category: Memoir Publisher: Mia DiDio
Type: Non-Fiction
Pages: 104
Copyright: Mar 30, 2012
There's no more wondering if Heaven and hell are real.
Archangels caution: "Be careful for what you cannot see."
THY KINGDOM COME tells the true story of a paranormal researcher, working with voices of the dead that became voices of the Angels.
In 2009, a dark entity gained entrance to my life; seeped in from the ghost world I explored. I knew it was there for I'd heard the battle ~ against my spiritual family. But prayers went unrequited. God delivered a message instead: "Call them!"
And I knew.
Only Warrior Archangels could triumph against the heinous Dark One.
Yet conviction of revelation, that I, a mere mortal, had been gifted to hear such divinity, inside the Sacred Realm of Heaven, was a battle unto itself.
Who hears angels!!??
Yes indeed, angels responded. Just as God commanded, they proved their certainty. Though terror and wonder consumed me, their leadership through the invisible chambers behind the Sacred Veil crossed thresholds I did not want to go for I too had to battle the Dark One.
All in God's plan.
While I clung to the valiant wings of His High Angels and the shear threads of the Lord's garment itself, that His purpose was mine to inherit, THY KINGDOME COME had truly come for us all; all to be the witness.
Excerpt
I’m praying, I’m praying, I’m praying my heart out.
“Please God, please do not forsake me for I know not what I’ve done.
“Heavenly Father, I pray for your mercy and your everlasting Love -- please do not forsake me in my darkest hour of need. I am your daughter. I am a child of your Light. I am so truly sorry for the trespass I have created and now, before Your Almighty Glory, I pray for your protection.
“Please Lord, please remove these demons from my space and well being. Cast them to whence they have come. I have made a grave mistake as a mere human and pray ever so deeply for your salvation. I pray to you in utter despair, Heavenly Father, for I am afraid; a fear so deep into my bones that I know it to be my soul. Please Father, hear my prayers.
“Though I have not been a sterling child of your flock, I know I don’t deserve the punishment and torture I now find myself in. My eyes are open to the utter and true reality of light and dark, and dark shall not be my fate. Please God, please come to my side and show these beasts who their messing with. Let’s show them this is a day of reckoning and battle, and that I shall prevail. That we shall prevail against their wicked evilness -- that the Light of God is more powerful than the depths of Hell. Please my Heavenly Father, please hear my prayers, for I have sinned.”
There, I said it. I knew I had to. I used it in prayer and dropped it like it was normal for me to do so for I had expected so much from him. Yes, I expected my bedroom to rumble and shake from His mighty fist. I expected him to come to his calling daughter and if, just maybe, if I had given him the one word I refused in my life, would finally saying it bring him? Sin is the word I denied forever and a day.
That word so against my determination in life that if ever I pronounced it, hadn’t it always come forth disdainfully? In joking? As are similar idioms associated with terror religions like “struck down by the hand of God”; a notion to me, a fallacy created by good Catholics and other organized religions of the world. Sin: An argumentative word long ago buried in my youth that cemented my stance between mistake and intentional offense. Saturday afternoons spent confessing for sins to the priest behind the screen, time and time again I defied the entire ceremony with acrimony.
To my mother, I objected. To the perpetually suffering image on the cross, I resented. Pity the dishonorable priests for the disrespect shown from my own church to exploit such a crime against this one human being, to Jesus Christ himself. No. To only God I confess, not to a mere nosy mortal draped in black assuming robes that smelled like musty attics and, even at times, urine, perched behind a deceiving shield of woven screen, robed or not, priest would not be my documentarian. The shielded window, referred to as sacred, festered the lie in and of itself. No, not to him would I reveal my truth. My commune had always been to God, the true receiver of my human error if He hasn’t watched them himself.
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