Ophelia S. Lewis's Blog, page 55
February 8, 2018
Red cross opened full emergency shelter at the east
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To sign steen 2018 is older $56M
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December 3, 2017
Me and Fifty-6
This year I told my children what I was getting myself for my birthday, not what I wanted for my birthday. There’s also this story I shared with them; how I’d always wanted a red convertible for my 55th birthday, or my dream car, a Toyota Land Cruiser. At fifty-five I could afford neither. But then again, I don’t know too many, or any, writer who’s driving around in an $85,000 car. That’s why it’s a dream car. However, I wasn’t going to turn fifty-six without getting a new ride. Realistically, I wasn’t even close to getting a red convertible, and make or model didn’t matter, or even a Toyota Yaris. But I wanted something special.
Then, as I was writing something for my BeEncouraged blog, the perfect idea came to mind. With good ole Google’s help, I went shopping for a birthday present; a bicycle. I’d started walking the trails at the beginning of summer, and it seems a good idea to add biking. With my decision finalized, I did extensive research on bikes; manufactures, make, models, types, etc. Satisfied with my statistics, a beach cruiser it was, something simple. I’d only be using the bike trails close by, so it didn’t have to be mechanically impressive. Mind you, I had not ridden a bike since I was a teenager.
I texted, emailed or messaged my children with the picture of the white, Huffy Nel Lusso I’d decided to get. Everyone was excited, each sending me compliments that would send my spirits high. Blissful with their approval, I ordered my bike, requesting that it is assembled when I pick up. I also ordered some accessories, a lock, an extra large helmet to accommodate my dreadlocks, and a cute mini license plate with my logo and Ophie2020 written on it. Like a five-year-old on Christmas morning, I sent a picture of that to my children. Everybody loved it, and their compliments were just what I needed at the time.
It was love at first sight, to say the least when I picked up my new ride.
Cold weather during this Fall would not permit me to ride Fifty-6 until four weeks later. Yes, I named her Fifty-6. Finally, on December 2nd I took my new best friend for our first ride. It was a sunny and pleasant day, and I was geared up. I mounted Fifty-6 and hit the bike trail wearing my helmet, a pair of comfortable Croc sneakers, set the GPS on my phone to map the route, as well as set my bike computer to record data of my trip; distance, time, speed… everything. All was well until I reached the 1.5-mile mark and heard quacking ducks in a near distance. The trail snakes near a pond. Ten feet from the pond were a million ducks, quacking loud and proud. Ok, maybe about sixty.
I pressed my coaster brakes slightly, came to a complete stop, and quietly dismounted. I looked up, and there they were, more ducks flying in, landing from all directions.
“Ok, Ophie,” I said to myself, “What’s it going to be? Ride… hide… run… or walk?”
By now my legs were too tired to out-run a bunch of flying ducks,—they looked larger than life, up close—plus, Fifty-6 is a beach cruiser, not a BMX race bike. The decision would be easy, of course; legs, not pedals. In the main time, sixty or more ducks quacked on. Above my head more flew in, now landing closer to where I was.
Standing beside Fifty-6, holding onto her handlebars, I made sure all sixty or more ducks were at a standstill and quietly made a U-turn. I marched away, almost a hundred feet with Fifty-6 by my side, before mounting her. We rode away so bravely, Fifty-6 and I, leaving the loud quacking ducks to enjoy their beautiful day at the pond.
Fate put aside, some unseen force draws each person toward the lesson needs to be learned, or the life that needs to be lived, or the fulfillment that needs to be achieved. Neither a red convertible car nor a Toyota Land Cruiser would have given me the experience I enjoy that day. God’s willing; I pray there would be many more beautiful experiences I will have with Fifty-6 to share with you. And, no matter what you are facing, be encouraged; perhaps the ultimate happiness comes when the disappointments are your greatest blessings. Such is the pattern of life. Find your fun after fifty.
The post Me and Fifty-6 appeared first on Ophelia S. Lewis.
Me and Fifty-6

This year I told my children what I was getting me for my birthday, not what I wanted for my birthday. There’s also this story I shared with them; how I’d always wanted a red convertible for my 55th birthday, or my dream car, a Toyota Land Cruiser. At fifty-five I could afford neither. But then again, I don’t know too many, or any, writer who’s driving around in an $85,000 car. That’s why it’s a dream car. However, I wasn’t going to turn fifty-six without getting a new ride. Realistically, I wasn’t even close to getting a red convertible, make or model didn’t matter, or even a Toyota Yaris. But I wanted something special.
Then, as I was writing something for my BeEncouraged blog, the perfect idea came to mind. With good ole Google’s help, I went shopping for a birthday present; a bicycle. I’d started walking the trails at the beginning of summer, and it seems a good idea to add biking. My decision finalized, I did extensive research on bikes; manufactures, make, models, types, etc. Satisfied with my statistics, a beach cruiser it was, something simple. I’d only be using the bike trails close by, so it didn’t have to be mechanically impressive. Mind you, I had not ridden a bike since I was a teenager. Then in my thirty’s, I did once or twice.
I texted, emailed or messaged my children with the picture of the white, Huffy Nel Lusso I’d decided to get. Everyone was excited, each sending me compliments that would send my spirits high. Blissful with their approval, I ordered my bike, requesting that it is assembled when I pick up. I also ordered some accessories, a lock, an extra large helmet to accommodate my dreadlocks, and a cute mini license plate with my logo and Ophie2020 written on it. Like a five-year-old on Christmas morning, I sent a picture of that to my children. Everybody loved it, and their compliments were just what I needed at the time. It was love at first sight, to say the least when I picked up my new ride.

Fairweather during this Fall would not permit me to ride Fifty-6 until four weeks later. Yes, I named her Fifty-6. Finally, on December 2nd I took my new best friend for our first ride. It was a sunny and pleasant day, and I was geared up. I mounted Fifty-6 and hit the bike trail wearing my helmet, a pair of comfortable Croc sneakers, set the GPS to map the route, as well as my bike computer to record data of my trip; distance, time, speed… everything. All was well until I reached the 1.5-mile mark and heard quaking ducks in a near distance. The trail snakes near a pond. Ten feet from the pond were a million ducks, quaking loud and proud. Ok, maybe about sixty.
I press my coaster brakes slightly, came to a complete stop, and quietly dismounted. When I looked up, more ducks were flying in, landing from all directions.
“Ok, Ophie,” I said to myself, “What’s it going to be? Ride, hide, run, or walk?”
By now my legs were too tired to out-run a bunch of flying ducks, and Fifty-6 is a beach cruiser. The decision would be easy, of course; legs or pedals. In the main time, sixty or more ducks quaked on. Above my head more ducks flew in, now landing closer to where I was.
Standing beside Fifty-6, holding onto her handlebars, I made sure all sixty or more ducks were at a standstill and quietly made a U-turn. I marched away, almost a hundred feet with Fifty-6 by my side, before mounting her. We rode away so bravely, Fifty-6 and I, leaving the loud quaking ducks to enjoy their beautiful day at the pond.
Fate put aside, some unseen force draws each person toward the lesson needs to be learned, or the life that needs to be lived, or the fulfillment that needs to be achieved. Neither a red convertible nor a Toyota Land Cruiser would have given me the experience I enjoyed that day. God’s willing; I pray there would be many more beautiful experiences I’d have with Fifty-6 to share with you. And, no matter what you are facing, be encouraged; perhaps the ultimate happiness comes when the disappointments are your greatest blessings. Such is the pattern of life. Find your fun after fifty.
October 25, 2017
Theory of Decadence in Liberia

We have a lot to say about a cultural mix that’s not really mixed, about the management of our African country, and about the misuse of precious natural resources. This is by far the hardest piece of writing I’ve ever had to craft; the plausible theory of decadence in our beloved Liberia while we are in need of healing, both body and spirit. How can you share the root of our problem with someone who is content with the lies they believe? Is there a way to help break past our acceptance of the status quo and truly examine what we believe? Do we wonder how we got to the point where morals and truth don’t seem important? Did it happen overnight or was it a gradual process? What happened to our sense of shame?
The overturn of selling Africans in the slave trade have stood vigil over Liberia like a corkscrew willow tree since the first settlers met the natives that first day sometime in 1822. It is with caution, that I try NOT to do the right thing in the wrong way.
Selflessness – ditch the crab-syndrome because hate will only keep hauling Liberia into hell. To quote Alexander Hamilton, “Men often oppose a thing merely because they have had no agency in planning it, or because it may have been planned by those whom they dislike.” It’s wrong to celebrate the breaking of any life. Ebola forced us to care and take care of one another. This, I hope, will lead Liberia to increased prosperity. What will make Liberia great is working together, what makes us weak is failing to work together.
Those we leave behind, our children, is really our future that we keep behind. What do we expect our future to look like if we don’t prepare for our old age? How will Liberia function among other nations when our children are left behind?
Patriots of the fifteen counties, WE ARE NOT. If our loyalty is only to one out of fifteen, all lights, including the one you are loyal to, will burn out soon enough. If you are not your brother’s keeper, who keeps you? Patriotism, zealous support of one’s country, keep that light burning, that flag flying and tears swell your eyes when the national anthem is heard. We need loyalty for all fifteen counties rather than one. What have an effect on those beyond county borders affects within county borders. Have we not realized, neither the civil war nor the Ebola virus could be contained outside of any border?
Every life is equally important and worth fighting for, regardless of gender, age, tribular inheritance, or status—social, economic or otherwise. Every living thing is a part to play in God’s purpose.
Who to vote for? Here’s an idea. Put into office those who have shown community service in the past, certainly not those who killed our citizens. “You kill my Ma, you kill my Pa, but I will vote for you” is absurd. We shouldn’t vote for anyone who misuse the country resources, much more murder our citizens. You are only putting your life in the hands of criminals. It’s like tying your most expensive piece of jewelry on a long string and then drag it behind you. Warlord-turn-politicians beg you to take them into your hearts only to rob you of your basic human rights.
Give the power back to the people and make politicians earn the votes of Liberian citizens, but never through intimidation. I’d like to believe dictatorship in Liberia started in the forties, when the sitting president (William V.S. Tubman) remained in office after his second term as the constitutions clearly state that presidential term of office is limited to two. Seven terms? That’s absurd.
Service beyond self; give beyond your means to others.
Leave hate behind, you no longer have to fight each other for 43k-square miles of land, it belongs to everyone. The flag, seal and national anthem all have meaning, learn them—not just mumble words that resemble the actual words. Accept what the rest of the world acknowledges our country by so that we move forward together into prosperity.
Ignorance (lack of knowledge) is more deadly than Ebola. Education, no matter where or how acquired, is the most important ingredient in the life of any society. Not every citizen can be, or needs to be, institutionally educated, but every citizen ought to learn logic by which society basic human rights are honored. The voice of ignorance may be loud, but the voice of reasoning is louder. According to the great philosopher, Socrates, virtue (general moral excellence) is based on knowledge (awareness).
Sanitation is as absolute as breathing; and this can never be stressed enough. As news video recording of bushmeat being sold in the market was shown during the Ebola crises, flies covered the meat. Ebola is not going away as long as it wins. These are living organism as we are. God put us (man) in charge of all living things. Like human beings, all living thing fight to live… survive, including microorganisms.
Get off the most corrupt country list, there’s no pride being number one. Integrity ought to be a living and breathing principal that should come natural. During the Ebola crises, the lack of integrity provide an understanding of the mistrust that Liberian citizens harbor. I pray after this nation will embrace a change, radical and reasonable, on anyone, including ANY person holding government office, that ALL laws are aggressively enforced against corruption at EVERY level of status. On matters of corruption, we ought to be frank. It would be extreme to say we are a nation of cowards when the fact that the power has been stolen from the people gradually by leaders encouraging eye service and flattery. Do we want to get off the most corrupt country list or be first? There will always be people who will try to discredit change. The fact remains, if we don’t end corruption, corruption will end Liberia. Simple as that.
Finally, our goal should be to define Liberia as a capable, modern nation deserving of international respect while preserving its own power.
Liberians have been tested, not once, but twice; the loss of what is old is an opportunity to discover something new. We were tested by slavery, civil war, coups, hardship and poverty, yet we do not realize that weakness is the result of our gross selfishness. With all its wearing, heart-felt pain, can the Ebola crisis be the means to priceless gain for Liberia? God may have allowed the Ebola crises to get us to give up bad habits or learn new virtues. Bitter experiences are often used to make us better. Have we examined ourselves to see whether we have failed each other? Unless, indeed, we have not failed the test, I pray to God that we have met the test and from here on, do what is right. Let us aim for unity and agree with one another in the restoration of basic human rights for every Liberian. May the gracious God of love continue to bless Liberia, and a new law and order for Liberia be the companionship of unity that will overpower us all.
September 6, 2017
Beyond the Loss
My sister, Veronica’s words landed in my heart with a thump, “They just took Mom to the hospital.” Then, the screech of outburst followed by, “Mom is gone!”
In shock, I watched her shoulders make sudden spasmodic motions while she sobbed bitterly. This was only three hours after we had ended our Tuesday night family Bible study via conference call. Mom had gone over by an hour and a half, and we smirked about it. I was anxious to get back to my computer to continue work.
The fear of one day losing my mother has always terrified me; not just me, but my two brothers, four sisters, and our children. My brother, Jenkins, who had predeceased Mom, one day, told me that he would never be able to deal with it. “Moc, they would see a grown man cry worse than a baby,” he said, “And I won’t even care.” Spared of this ordeal, on January 14, 2009, Mom and my sister, Marie, sang and prayed over Jenkins while he took his last breath. He had been terminally ill for six months.
No one has an endless life here on earth, and this is beyond our control. Like most people, that never crossed my mind. Mom had told us early on, “God will be with you in everything you face, as long as you place your confidence in Him. Trust God to be your strength.”
Well, it happened; my Dad, in a car accident, and Mom, an apparent heart attack. Both unexpected, and boy, does it hurt. There’s nothing worse than that. You would not expect anything worse than that. When that time came, little did we know Gog and his Magogs would attack us at their right moment. My father died during a time of unrest in Liberia, and my family was attacked by soldiers who did not know us personally. We were very young and only Mom would be our guard. Thirty-six years later when my mother died, the man she had been married to for merely twenty-seven years, with his three daughters and their followers, attacked us though they knew us personally. Beyond the loss came the attacks. Again, our process of grieving was arrested.
Hours after my mother had taken her last breath; still on the hospital bed; my sisters Marie, Joann, Akitee and niece, Lem, crying with heavy hearts and in shock; my brother, Aaron, lost in grief; M.I. started his attack after he’d made about twenty or more calls announcing, “I’m standing near my dead wife.” He ended his last call, turned to my brother and said, “I’m taking her to Wages & Sons funeral home.” To which Aaron replied, “Now is not the time to discuss that.”
Consulted by his daughter, his comeback was, “I’m next of kin, so I’ve decided. That’s where I’m taking her.”
And the drama began…. Like wild fire, the verbal headline appeared: THE OLD MAN HAD JUST LOST HIS WIFE, NOW HE WAS BEING ATTACKED BY HER CHILDREN.
This was his story, his outcry, his plea to the community; anyone who would listen and pay attention. However, no one knew he had called his daughters before dialing 911; and he had made the first call to any of her children (Akitee) at 12:19 A.M. and (Joann) at 12:22 A.M. By the time Akitee arrived at their apartment—from Lawrenceville to Norcross—the ambulance was just leaving to take Mom to the hospital. Mind you, these calls are important because he claimed that my beloved Jeanette passed out around 10:45 P.M. He would later explain to their former church member, that he’d prayed over her when she passed out. The man’s response, “You call the ambulance when someone passes out before you pray over them.”
Only the Devil would do that. So I call this godless pastor, M.I., Gog, a person who shares similar characteristics of Satan; referred to as the devil. His true characteristics reveal a rascal and a liar, who uses his age, 94 years old, and the State of Georgia next-of-Kin law to punish my family when we had lost our matriarch, my beloved Jeanette. I’ve known my mother for fifty-six years, while he bragged about being married to her for 27 years. At his age (94 years) most people brag about seventy-plus years of marriage. I’ve owned things longer than his marriage to my mother.
Is it not bad enough that he did not dial 911 when my mother passed out between 10:30 P.M. to 11:00 P.M. (his timeline to the police) but rather after midnight; it isn’t bad enough that he denied her children any participation in their mother’s final arrangements or funeral; he even said ‘No’ to the funeral director’s request when we needed her ‘death statement’ to send to individual’s employees for reason of absence from work. He said ‘no’ to everything, unless—and we were encouraged by his followers, especially church members—that we beg and ‘hold’ his foot. HOLD HIS FOOT! I would have gladly chewed on broken glass before doing that. I would have never begged a man who pretends to have loved his ‘wife’ who he never took with him on invited trips; like Konola reunions. The godless pastor never took her with him, but she was happy to take him along; including a trip to Barbados, an 80th birthday present from her grandchildren just last year. He was there, on the beach, in the water, happily splashing around. He was always ready and willing to share her spotlight but NEVER included her in his.
Even beyond our loss, M.I. became addicted to his spiteful hyper-stimulation of poisonous lies, and forgot about the title, “Pastor” he cherishes, and what was expected of him. His constant barrage of propaganda dominated people’s empathy for us, suddenly losing our mother; even those who knew us well, including relatives and long-time friends. That created an environment of judgment that became increasingly difficult to grieve our mother’s passing. We prayed, as my beloved Jeanette had taught us since we were very young; and we were to always look out for each other. We remembered, God is an ever-present help in time of trouble, especially at a time when the world had turned on us, and many family and friends had turned their backs. A handful of family members traveled far distances to come and be with us; small in number, but giants in size. We were able to shift our focus from M.I.’s turmoil to God’s peace through these giants. We will forever be grateful to relatives and friends who comforted us by many phone calls. M.I.’s chaotic world did not shake us; we continue to find quietness and strength in love; God’s and those few relatives and friends.
Gog continues, yet, beyond our loss. My beloved Jeanette was called home on June 14, 2017, and now it’s September 6th, and M.I. has yet to ‘allow’ us access to my mother’s personal items. Other than his three daughters looting my mother’s personal things merely hours after her passing, what would a 94-year-old man do with female clothing: church hats, dresses, handbags, etc? Jeanette left to mourn her five daughters, eight granddaughters, and three great-granddaughters. Gog would not let us touch them, and for what? His ungodly spirit is what prevents this godless pastor from doing the least humane thing.
Love ones and friends continue to encourage us by saying, “Y’all leave it to God.” But grieving in disbelief, how do I forgive M.I. his wickedness; when the ungodly 94-yr-old pastor who had preached God’s love yet does not open his heart with love to others, my siblings and I, and our children. Like the Devil, Gog is not capable of showing love. But here’s the thing; God’s joy will always replace Gog’s anguish.
By the way, whoever chose that dress my mother was laid to rest in, ought to be beaten with it—beaded, lace-like garnished dress only they would wear. My beloved Jeanette was definitely a diva, and wouldn’t have looked at that dress, nor touched it. This explains why his three daughters looted my mother’s things; a charitable case perhaps… they need shoes, dresses, hats, handbags, perfume, etc.
#OpheliaLewisWrites, #iAmTheQuietStorm, #ThePenIsMightierThanTheSword #MIisGog, #MyBelovedJeanette #ILoveMyMother
The post Beyond the Loss appeared first on Ophelia S. Lewis.
Beyond the Loss

My sister, Veronica’s words landed in my heart with a thump, “They just took Mom to the hospital.” Then, the screech of outburst followed by, “Mom is gone!”
In shock, I watched her shoulders make sudden spasmodic motions while she sobbed bitterly. This was only three hours after we had ended our Tuesday night family Bible study via conference call. Mom had gone over by an hour and a half, and we smirked about it. I was anxious to get back to my computer to continue work.
The fear of one day losing my mother has always terrified me; not just me, but my two brothers, four sisters, and our children. My brother, Jenkins, who had predeceased Mom, one day, told me that he would never be able to deal with it. “Moc, they would see a grown man cry worse than a baby,” he said, “And I won’t even care.” Spared of this ordeal, on January 14, 2009, Mom and my sister, Marie, sang and prayed over Jenkins while he took his last breath. He had been terminally ill for six months.
No one has an endless life here on earth, and this is beyond our control. Like most people, that never crossed my mind. Mom had told us early on, “God will be with you in everything you face, as long as you place your confidence in Him. Trust God to be your strength.”
Well, it happened; my Dad, in a car accident, and Mom, an apparent heart attack. Both unexpected, and boy, does it hurt. There’s nothing worse than that. You would not expect anything worse than that. When that time came, little did we know Gog and his Magogs would attack us at their right moment. My father died during a time of unrest in Liberia, and my family was attacked by soldiers who did not know us personally. We were very young and only Mom would be our guard. Thirty-six years later when my mother died, the man she had been married to for merely twenty-seven years, with his three daughters and their followers, attacked us though they knew us personally. Beyond the loss came the attacks. Again, our process of grieving was arrested.
Hours after my mother had taken her last breath; still on the hospital bed; my sisters Marie, Joann, Akitee and niece, Lem, crying with heavy hearts and in shock; my brother, Aaron, lost in grief; M.I. started his attack after he’d made about twenty or more calls announcing, “I’m standing near my dead wife.” He ended his last call, turned to my brother and said, “I’m taking her to Wages & Sons funeral home.” To which Aaron replied, “Now is not the time to discuss that.”
Consulted by his daughter, his comeback was, “I’m next of kin, so I’ve decided. That’s where I’m taking her.”
And the drama began…. Like wildfire, the verbal headline appeared: THE OLD MAN HAD JUST LOST HIS WIFE, NOW HE WAS BEING ATTACKED BY HER CHILDREN.
This was his story, his outcry, his plead to the community; anyone who would listen and pay attention. However, no one knew he had called his daughters before dialing 911; and he had made the first call to any of her children (Akitee) at 12:19 A.M. and (Joann) at 12:22 A.M. By the time Akitee arrived at their apartment—from Lawrenceville to Norcross—the ambulance was just leaving to take Mom to the hospital. Mind you, these calls are important because he claimed that my beloved Jeanette passed out around 10:45 P.M. He would later explain to their former church member, that he’d prayed over her when she passed out. The man’s response, “You call the ambulance when someone passes out before you pray over them.”
Only the Devil would do that. So I call this godless pastor, M.I., Gog, a person who shares similar characteristics of Satan; referred to as the devil. His true characteristics reveal a rascal and a liar, who uses his age, 94 years old, and the State of Georgia next-of-Kin law to punish my family when we had lost our matriarch, my beloved Jeanette. I’ve known my mother for fifty-six years, while he bragged about being married to her for 27 years. At his age (94 years) most people brag about seventy-plus years of marriage. I’ve owned things longer than his marriage to my mother.
Is it not bad enough that he did not dial 911 when my mother passed out between 10:30 P.M. to 11:00 P.M. (his timeline to the police) but rather after midnight; it isn’t bad enough that he denied her children any participation in their mother’s final arrangements or funeral; he even said ‘No’ to the funeral director’s request when we needed her ‘death statement’ to send to individual’s employees for reason of absence from work. He said ‘no’ to everything, unless—and we were encouraged by his followers, especially church members—that we beg and ‘hold’ his foot. HOLD HIS FOOT! I would have gladly chewed on broken glass before doing that. I would have never begged a man who pretends to have loved his ‘wife’ who he never took with him on invited trips; like Konola reunions. The godless pastor never took her with him, but she was happy to take him along; including a trip to Barbados, an 80th birthday present from her grandchildren just last year. He was there, on the beach, in the water, happily splashing around. He was always ready and willing to share her spotlight but NEVER included her in his.
Even beyond our loss, M.I. became addicted to his spiteful hyper-stimulation of poisonous lies, and forgot about the title, “Pastor” he cherishes, and what was expected of him. His constant barrage of propaganda dominated people’s empathy for us, suddenly losing our mother; even those who knew us well, including relatives and long-time friends. That created an environment of judgment that became increasingly difficult to grieve our mother’s passing. We prayed, as my beloved Jeanette had taught us since we were very young; and we were to always look out for each other. We remembered, God is an ever-present help in time of trouble, especially at a time when the world had turned on us, and many family and friends had turned their backs. A handful of family members traveled far distances to come and be with us; small in number, but giants in size. We were able to shift our focus from M.I.’s turmoil to God’s peace through these giants. We will forever be grateful to relatives and friends who comforted us by many phone calls. M.I.’s chaotic world did not shake us; we continue to find quietness and strength in love; God’s and those few relatives and friends.
Gog continues, yet, beyond our loss. My beloved Jeanette was called home on June 14, 2017, and now it’s September 6th, and M.I. has yet to ‘allow’ us access to my mother’s personal items. Other than his three daughters looting my mother’s personal things merely hours after her passing, what would a 94-year-old man do with female clothing: church hats, dresses, handbags, etc? Jeanette left to mourn her five daughters, eight granddaughters, and three great-granddaughters. Gog would not let us touch them, and for what? His ungodly spirit is what prevents this godless pastor from doing the least humane thing.
Love ones and friends continue to encourage us by saying, “Y’all leave it to God.” But grieving in disbelief, how do I forgive M.I. his wickedness; when the ungodly 94-yr-old pastor who had preached God’s love yet does not open his heart with love to others, my siblings and I, and our children. Like the Devil, Gog is not capable of showing love. But here’s the thing; God’s joy will always replace Gog’s anguish.
By the way, whoever chose that dress my mother was laid to rest in, ought to be beaten with it—beaded, lacelike garnished dress only they would wear. My beloved Jeanette was definitely a diva, and wouldn’t have looked at that dress, nor touched it. This explains why his three daughters looted my mother’s things; a charitable case perhaps… they need shoes, dresses, hats, handbags, perfume, etc.
#OpheliaLewisWrites, #iAmTheQuietStorm, #ThePenIsMightierThanTheSword #MIisGog, #MyBelovedJeanette #ILoveMyMother
August 25, 2017
June Three-O
June Three-O
Two weeks, two days;
A nightmare I had today;
The devil and his three daughters,
Took my Love away.
Gog and his three Magogs;
Funny, Nunny, Munny,
Vultures in disguise.
Predatory persons of the church.
Yes, they preach,
They teach,
They sing;
Even calling Jesus’ name.
And Gog, ninety and four years,
Is his time on earth,
A wolf dressed as sheep,
But he’s no man of the cloth.
The three perpetrators of Gog’s scam;
With their weak claws, lying tongue,
Greedy eyes; stealthily moochers.
They took my Love away.
“My soul ain’t studying them,”
My Love said to me.
“An empty frame they took.”
“Enjoy the memories I’ve left you with,”
“They can never touch those.”
A white bearer carried my Love,
And a trail of mourners followed;
The three soulless Magogs,
Hell-raisers, piss-poor,
Rotten performers,
Dressed in pure garments,
Took control.
As they drove by, my Love whispered,
“Enjoy my memories, dear children,
“This prisoned bird is free,
“My God has set me free.”
The post June Three-O appeared first on Ophelia S. Lewis.
August 20, 2017
Formulation of Murder
The formulation of murder,
To watch anyone; even your wife,
Passed out, helpless;
But you call an ambulance
Fifty slow minutes later.
This preacher-man’s soul
Is a dark place,
Who punishes in times of sorrow?
You denied her children
Access of any kind,
Or a closure of grief.
Was it for donation money?
Was it for her earthly things?
Was it because of envy?
Or, the spotlight you crave?
Cunningly using the law of kinship,
You, preacher-man, man of NO cloth,
An Old Oscar performer,
A manslayer you are.
Guilty! By withholding help,
Guilty! For your untimely 911 call,
You lack human kindness, preacher-man.
Guilty! Guilty! Guilty!
Formulation of murder.
Keep hiding behind your holy title,
Keep hiding behind your age,
Keep hiding your skill to deceive,
But, you cannot hide
Even behind God’s back.
Hide, preacher-man, your evidence,
Hide your deeds in poisonous lies,
Hide your guilt behind old age,
But, you can never hide from God.
This poem was written during the most painful time in my life; while we mourn our Beloved Jeanette’s passing, we were attacked in spiritual warfare with Gog, the 94-yr-old godless pastor she was married to for 27 years. One day, the world will know.
August 19, 2017
Formulation of Murder
The formulation of murder,
To watch anyone; even your wife,
Passed out, helpless;
But you call an ambulance
Fifty slow minutes later.
This preacher-man’s soul
Is a dark place,
Who punishes in times of sorrow?
You denied her children
Access of any kind,
Or a closure of grief.
Was it for donation money?
Was it for her earthly things?
Was it because of envy?
Or, the spotlight you crave?
Cunningly using the law of kinship,
You, preacher-man, man of NO cloth,
An Old Oscar performer,
A manslayer you are.
Guilty! By withholding help,
Guilty! For your untimely 911 call,
You lack human kindness, preacher-man.
Guilty! Guilty! Guilty!
Formulation of murder.
Keep hiding behind your holy title,
Keep hiding behind your age,
Keep hiding your skill to deceive,
But, you cannot hide
Even behind God’s back.
Hide, preacher-man, your evidence,
Hide your deeds in poisonous lies,
Hide your guilt behind old age,
But, you can never hide from God.
The post Formulation of Murder appeared first on Ophelia S. Lewis.