Amazon Literature Category:  Spirituality ISBN-10:  0967600707 Type: Fiction Pages: 345 Copyright: May, 1999 “A story of hope - Mikayla Josephs, an unassuming middle-aged woman, a smoker, and occasional drinker, goes about her days delivering flowers to sick children, new mothers, and the dying. This particular year, she delivers more than just the flora. Oblivious to what’s happening to and around her, she begins to deliver miracles.” The downtown traffic slow and congested, Mikayla turned the wheel of her long green delivery van and began to pull out from behind the old rust bucket in front of her. Just as her tires moved, another car, sliding up beside her, screeched to a halt. As usual, no one wanted to let her by, but she was going to take her chances. "Hey, do you mind?" she yelled as she leaned out the window, her long blond hair falling with her movements. "Fuck you, lady!" the 20ish male driver screamed back in retaliation. "If you were even remotely cute, which you aren't, buddy, I might consider it," Mickie flipped back as she continued to jerk her van out and move on to her work. "No one gives any respect to anyone. Idiots," she grumbled to herself. Her youthful, 49-year-old eyes squinted with anger. It wasn't a good day. The February air was chilly enough, but any day when the traffic was this bad was not a good day for a person to deliver the cheer of floral arrangements. Still, off she went amid the honking horns, blaring stereos and cursing drivers. It was a normal day at pre-rush hour. With her expertise of driving and one to know the winding and misleading streets in her city, Mickie moved along in and out of the spots the slower cars missed and slipped over to the shortcuts that very few knew about. This way, she could get to her listed destinatitons a little sooner than late. Lighting a cigarette with one hand, while the other went back and forth on the steering wheel, Mickie thought back to the time when it was a pleasure to drive around here. When courtesy was common and smiles lit the faces of the drivers. Now, they all looked like maniacs and drove like sociopaths. So much had changed since she was a kid. So much. Violent death lay around each corner, hate on each doorstep and fear everywhere. It gave her a headache to think about it all. It was bad enough what she had to endure each day during her working hours, but it was the other times that would make her shake her head. To read the newspaper or to watch the television news was agony. Always the same. Murder, rape, wars, violence..kids getting blown up, maimed and killed, women beaten and murdered, old people being strangled to death in their own homes, shootings every day of the week, and nature being destroyed. "Where the hell is Jesus during all this?" she would ask herself over and over again. "When we need him the most? Where?" And this was not her sentiment alone. All over the world, small groups of people protested, held meetings and tried to stave off the violence in their cities and towns by working together. Nothing slowed it. Nothing. It was as if the devil himself was running the entire show with a free hand. With wrongs unrighted, innocent people jailed, drugs consuming the children, the governments more corrupt than ever, those who believed in God had only one other alternative to their own human powers..to pray. And they did. Where was God? LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA A young Hispanic man, looking tired and worn, sat on the stoop of one of the many prefabricated, now shabby, homes, and watched the police rigorously round up some of the local warring gang members, as he thought to himself. "God, why do you let this happen? Why can't we have peace between us? We all bleed the same blood, don't we? Then, why can't you make them see what they do to each other? To us? What kind of life is this?" Sadly, he shrugged his shoulders, put his head down onto his kneese and cried. "Oh, what's the use?" SOWETO, SOUTH AFRICA "Please, God, don't let them kill my father. He is not a criminal. He has gone by your word and tried to help his people. How can this happen?", he whispered as he knelt on the soft dirt before the cement-blocked jail. His blue-black skin glistened with the beads of perspiration, and he whispered hoarsely in his pain. "Let him be free. Let him live!" With the injustice that he had seen, he realized that it was hopeless. So, slowly standing, his young eyes looked up at the golden sunset, a tear sliding down his smooth cheek, and he began his journey back, to his little village, away from the barracks but turning just for a moment to get one last glimpse of the soldiers. To remember the faces of the ones that would execute his father and the many other protesters of peace that overcrowded the cells of this compound. He knew that he was being watched as he quietly walked away, his head hung down. But, still with pride and love, he forced the arm that held the flax-woven shield of his father's family into the air. The eyes on him knew that he would, someday, come back for revenge. BELFAST, NORTHERN IRELAND The funeral procession was a long one, and the dank, raw, gray wind blew at the black dresses of the many women that slowly paced behind. Their faces were covered by veils of pain and anguish as the train of the seven plain wooden caskets moved before them, passing the rows and rows of poor and sympathetic residents that lined up along the old, broken road that led to the cemetery. One little boy, all of about five, led by his grieving mother's hand, bravely held back his tears as he raised the small placard in his little fingers. It had only three large letters on it, written in a dark red color. IRA. OUTSIDE ACCRA, GHANA The full congregation in the small church, built of straw and wood, stood up as the short, stout elderly Bishop, in his black cassock and white collar, led them into prayer. Their eyes were tired and their bodies weak from the intense, burning heat. Still, their souls rejoiced as they lifted up their hearts and sang joyful praises to God. And with their voices in unison, the melodic energy renewed them, flowing with the stagnant air while the priest spoke in between their rhythms. "Lord..God in heaven, please help us, your children. Help us to feed the hungry, to quench their thirst and heal their sickness. And, please, Lord, please, give us one of your miracles and stop the killing of all those innocent men, women and children in Rwanda. They die simply..because they live." Singing and slowly swaying, fanning the heat away from their faces, they prayed and prayed some more. TOKYO, JAPAN In the huge, beautiful and intricately decorated Asian temple, the circle of monks waved their incense of devotion while they knelt and prayed before the many photographs of those who were senselessly killed when a man calmly decided to blow up their local subway station during the morning work hours. The families of the slain wailed and prayed with them, preparing for the massive funeral that would soon take place. ROXBURY, MASSACHUSETTS "Then I saw another angel flying in midair," the dark-skinned preacher bellowed out. The words bounced off the tall beige ceilings and followed the walls enclosing the saddened crowd. The bereaved, a mix of colors and ages, looked upon the small casket of little Tiffany Moreland, her tiny, angelic face looking like she was only asleep, and they sobbed. "..and he had the eternal Gospel to proclaim to those that live on earth..to every nation, tribe, language and people. And in a loud voice he said, fear God and give him his glory, because the hour of his judgment has come," he cried loudly and proudly and with great pain. "Satan is here and he has done this! And he'll keep on doing it until we do give God his glory! Do I hear an Amen?" Reverend Tull got a tearful and weak answer, but he wasn't going to give up on his flock. Not now. "Do I hear an Amen?!" he screamed, knowing that he had to get them back into life and prayer. This time they responded loudly, and the choir, as if to lift their sagging souls, broke out into song. The music and voices shook the entire building, singing vibrantly, sweetly and heart rendingly. So much so, that all the neighborhood heard them. Many who were just walking by, stopped to listen and, for that singular moment, pay their respects to the innocent child caught in the middle of the drug war. She was shot to death as she quietly played with her dolls. For two hours they wailed, sang and danced, praying for Jesus to stop the killing of the children. Giving God his glory. And God was listening. Excerpt "Time is relative to those of us on earth, who are bound to it by magnetics, plasmic forces, hydrogen, oxygen, nitrogen and many other gases and elements that cause us to conceive that one life time is a very long time. But it is true only to us, those of us embodied in flesh and bone and living upon this small planet. It is not for those in heaven and of spirit. For them, time is everlasting and one minute above is as one hundred years on earth. And humankind, being civilized and intelligent for many thousands of planetary years, has yet to extinguish the need for bloodshed. To conquer, to overpower and to control one another. Every nation has fallen and every nation has risen, and, in the middle of all the want, the inner need for this power, were the innocent. Pushed, shoved, trodden upon, raped, tortured, ripped apart, murdered, and tossed aside like a spent rag. The very young and the very old, the very pure of heart. And even after the education of hundreds of centuries, the warmongers who think that they are self-made, the seekers of power, have not learned. Spear to spear, sword to sword, gun to gun, greed upon greed...the victors sang, the losers wept, and the myriads of innocent cried out. Why?" "And I saw an angel coming down out of heaven, having the key to the Abyss and holding in his hand a great chain. He seized the dragon, that ancient serpent, who is the devil, or Satan, and bound him for a thousand years. He threw him into the Abyss and locked and sealed it over him, to keep him from deceiving the nations anymore until a thousand years were ended. After that, he must be set free for a short time." John-20:15 In the Book of Revelation

by James Rogers-SFX filmmaker-Utah
MIKAYLA, THE SECOND COMING is a thoughtful story about the life of Mikaya Josephs; a seemingly average woman growing up and living in today's society. This is how it appears to herself and most other people, at least in the beginning. As the story unfolds the reader begins to realize that Mikayla is a special person. A singular person faced with a responsibility for mankind that she could not have imagined in a million years. God has touched Mikaya and in doing so has chosen her to do his work.. This is a great book. I started reading it imagining that I was in for 344 pages of religious mumbo jumbo but discovered very quickly that nothing could have been farther from the truth. The writing style is friendly and colorful and interesting. Not since Stephen King have I read a book so richly descriptive. I felt like I knew Mikayla personally. As she experienced life's ups and downs I found myself laughing and crying with her. No book has EVER made me cry but this one did.

by Kevin Woods-So. Carolina
What a nice little gem! Mikayla: The Second Coming is a wonderfully written tale that kept me interested the whole time. Never being too preachy, the story has religious overtones (of course...after all, the title is THE SECOND COMING) but never beats you over the head with it, choosing rather to subtly tell the story and keep the reader engrossed the entire time. I highly recommend this book. I felt for the characters, and thought the climax was truly memorable.



Boston Post Gazette-Plus
Boston Post Gazette, February 16, 2001
"...it's one of the wildest stories I have ever read. This one is spectacular!'
-Dick Sinnott-

From CA;

Suppose we have it wrong-the Second Coming isn't going to be some divine being, and isn't even going to be a man. Suppose the Second Coming is a woman. A woman who doesn't know her destiny but is gradually coming to the stupendous realization that she is the chosen one. In this well-written novel, Mikayla Josephs is the woman-she's forty nine years old, a grandmother, and the perfect humane guide for ushering in the new age. She's kindly, humble, thoughtful and basically her own person. And she's going around doing her everyday chores, the mundane things of life. Every once in a while, Mikayla gives an encouraging word, or a pat, or a hug, and goes off feeling totally powerless to really help-but that sick person feels better, that soapbox orator speaks with greater vigor, that bent old woman walks straighter. The preacher announces that "the wedding of the Lamb has come, and his bride has made herself ready!!" And Mikayla wonders why she attracts the odd ones; "There must be something about her face to attract the strange ones. Whether in a bar, outside or in traffic, she'd heard from them, gave them money, or, they'd smile and tell her that they'd say a prayer in her name." Author Alexander has created a big, ripe, excitingly relevant novel, with a full awareness of scriptural prophecy and theological necessity. By turns funny and sad, Mikayla is a voyage of haunting discovery and glorious fulfillment..