Poetry Lost?

My brilliant sister Leslie Garcia has always been a great poet. Here’s a link to her poetry book, “Always the Moon,” which has a perfect 5-Star rating; https://www.amazon.com/Always-Moon-Leslie-P-Garcia-ebook/dp/B0196OK5AK/ref=sr_1_14 .

Because I have now written 51 Christian Cozy Mysteries (number 51 will be released soon), people often ask me if I write poetry. I did write poetry once. While I was still in school I used to carry a folder around with me that contained all my poems. They were typed on a manual “Royal” typewriter that had such stiff keys that typing on it strained my fingers. Over the years I’ve lost the poems—but I retain the memory of sore fingers!

While I was sorting through paperwork preparing for Alan’s memorial service, I found two poems I had written for him in 2010. I probably haven’t written poetry since then. I share them in memory of my late husband, Alan Thomson McKean.

The Grand Prize

I’ve never found a treasure chest at the bottom of the sea,

Never found a pot of gold at the rainbow’s end—

Yet with your love, I’m richer in the end.

I’ve never won a contest or claimed the grand prize,

Never been the best at anything I’ve tried.

I’ve never won a million dollars or a fancy new car—

Yet with your love, I’m richer by far.

Give someone else the millions, the car, the grand prize—

All I want in life is the love reflected in your eyes.

Let someone else follow the rainbows, find gold and stake a claim—

Your love is more precious than riches or fame.

What I See in You

What do I see in you?

I see all the wonder of the world in the framework of the person God created in you.

You are apple blossoms going from spring promise to autumn fulfillment.

You are the crystal rushing waters of a mountain spring feeding a thirsty river. You are a gold nugget nestled in a gold-flecked sandbar with mindless green and blue-spangled waters splashing patterns over your bed—yet the shadows of the water cannot hide your shine.

You are a cloudless blue sky. You are the warm wonder of the sun. You are a storm cloud sweeping over the face of the mountain to feed the grassy meadows and rioting wildflowers with gentle rain.

There is moonlight in your eyes, the soft touch of love in your smile. You are a walking poem, a love song, a living, walking promise of joy and happiness.

You are my life.

Poems end. Life continues in a different pattern. As long as God is in it, nothing is ever truly lost. Everything we see—or write—is temporal, even poetry. God alone is eternal.

“For the things which are seen are temporary, but the things which are not seen are eternal. 2 Corinthians 4:18

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From Messed to Blessed

Walking past the corner where blackberries grow I glanced at them and stopped in surprise. They were a mess. They looked terrible—all the lovely white flowers gone. Merely tangled green vegetation left.

Messed to Blessed. Because soon the tiny green mangled mess will turn into red, then black juicy berries.

Isn’t that the same with our lives?

My childhood was a mess. I was a mess. Sexual abuse messed me up so badly that I felt alone, lonely, dirty—and unable to make friends. And I failed math.

My teen years were a mess. I was a mess. Continued sexual abuse. The perpetrator had no medical training. He performed two abortions on me to hide his crime. The abortions sent me to the hospital in intensive care. I nearly died both times. And I failed math.

College was a mess. I was a mess. I discovered I wasn’t really an artist. I was majoring in art. I quit college before I failed math.

My first marriage was a mess. Marrying an abusive alcoholic to get away from home. I married the first guy who asked me for a date. He was twice divorced and had been in prison for Driving While Intoxicated.

Messed up. Bad decisions. Lots of messes. But, oh, the blessings. The biggest blessing in my life—meeting Jesus and discovering that Jesus loved me—even me—even in spite of my messes and being messed up. Learning that I had value as a friend. Learning that I didn’t need to pass math to do life right or to get into heaven.

Second biggest blessing in my life—having a son. A son like Luke (later U.S. Marine Corps Major Luke Parker). A son who kept me smiling, kept me laughing, kept me learning; a son who made me proud every day of his life. Saying goodbye to him was the hardest thing I’ve ever done in life. Returning my biggest blessing to God who gave it.

Fifty blessings in the form of the books I’ve written—most of them Christian Cozy Mysteries. Books written to bless others. Books woven out of the messes and blessings in my life.

May everyone reading this be blessed in spite of the messes. May each mess turn into a blessing.

“For we are His workmanship, created in Christ Jesus for good works, which God prepared beforehand that we should walk in them.” Ephesians 2:10

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A Calamity of Errors

The eight-book series featuring Texas Miz Mike was a blast to write—partly because Miz Mike was an adventure-seeking klutz. My protagonist did the ridiculous things I do: shut my nose in the refrigerator; trip over the dog bed and break a toe; lean over to find the seatbelt clasp because it’s fallen to the bottom of the car and tumble out into the parking lot; open the car trunk only partially to keep the pouring rain out and straighten up under the trunk latch, and etc., etc., etc.

A calamity of errors can be funny. The 1953 Technicolor Western musical featuring Doris Day is proof of that. Highly recommended for anyone who hasn’t seen it.

My newest book, “Body in a Bush Murder” features a different brand of calamity of errors. The protagonist moves to Scotland from Georgia, and hates it because of the cool, rainy climate, and nearly constant rain. The differences between driving in the U.S. versus Scotland; the differences in food, language and the pronunciation and spelling of words, and the difference in accommodations—after the chaotic life she left behind her in the U.S. and then finding a child’s skeleton in her garden—who could blame Skye for finding solace in alcohol?

Attractive neighbor Gareth blames her. He not only encourages her to quit drinking before she can’t, but then adds to her stress by bringing her a “baby” Great Dane dog—a baby who weighs 155 pounds and loves to fly.

Errors continue to build as Skye searches for the identity of the child killer and seeks to make peace with her new country. And new love? Except Gareth hates alcohol and—to use a great Scottish word—is “scunnered” by Skye’s drinking. Skye refuses to acknowledge that she has a drinking problem. She can control it, can’t she? In spite of Gareth’s assistance that making friends with alcohol is like keeping a pet rattlesnake in a box and trusting it not to bite.

While Skye’s continued drinking push them apart, their search for the child’s killer brings them together.

Body in the Bush Murder – Kindle edition by McKean, Stephanie Parker, Potter, Victoria M. Mystery, Thriller & Suspense Kindle eBooks @ Amazon.com.

The Teenager in Our House

We never planned to take a teen into our house at our ages—mid-seventies. Alan is preparing to leave this earth for heaven, and all I want to do is…write books.

Still, we have a teen in our house and it’s my fault. I love children, I really do. Even teens. And I love rough collies and always have since childhood, a love that probably sprang from “Lassie” films.

What I forgot when we introduced rough collie Savannah into our home and heart is that to successfully train a dog—one must be smarter than the dog. That gets me every time with every collie. Training is completed—in me. I become well-trained. The collie…not so much.

What happened with Savannah this morning made me recognize the teen status of our dog. She reminds me of a foster child I once took into our home. Terri was stubborn and determined. When she came out of the bedroom dressed for school in a mini-skirt that a friend loaned her, I made her change. Her tears and protests rode with us all the way from our house to the school. Thus I was suspicious the next day when she meekly donned the knee-length skirt I had purchased for her. When I visited the school later in the day for an appointment with one of Terri’s teachers I saw why Terri hadn’t protested. She breezed into the office with her skirt rolled up at the top displaying her legs all the way up to her butt. Terri was good at circumventing the rules. So is Savannah.

Savannah loves our veterinary clinic. She loves the staff. She seems to believe that they are there solely for her. When she plans the schedule for the day it begins with a walk to the vet clinic to visit her friends. Once when Savannah needed treatment as a puppy, the clinic’s owner told me, “Your dog is stubborn. I’ve never seen a more stubborn dog.” Savannah apparently failed to be offended by the criticism

The vet’s office is enclosed in a fence with two gates at opposite ends. When the office is closed over the weekend, Savannah insists on trying both gates even after I explain to her that it’s closed. When I say, “Savannah, we’re not going to the vet clinic today, it’s closed,” Savannah will lead me around the grocery store to approach the vet clinic from the back. She refuses to continue her walk until she has checked both gates.

This morning I was in a hurry to get back home. I had people to meet and things to do. I parked at a different store, one further away from the vet’s clinic, and told Savannah we weren’t going there. We weren’t—but Savannah was. She tried leading me along the shortest route to the clinic. I stopped her. She tugged on the leash, whined, and complained, but she finally complied with my demand. At least, I thought she complied.

Then she led me eagerly toward the curved bridge over the burn (Scottish for little stream). There is a nice patch of grass on the other side that she loves to sniff. After we crossed it, however, I realized that her destination was not the grass patch—it was the loop around to the vet’s office on the back side. When I pulled her back this time, she sat down and turned such a pathetic look on me that I could see the conversation bubbles over her head. “Mom, I have to go see my friends. They’re waiting for me. I can’t disappoint them. They’re my friends, Mom. You have to let me go see my friends. All the other dogs are going.”

At that point, it might as well have been Terri in her mini-skirt with tears in her eyes saying, “Mom, let me wear this skirt. All my friends wear short skirts like this.
They will be disappointed, Mom. I can’t let them down.”

And that’s when I realized…we have a teen in the house.

“These words you shall teach diligently to your children.” Deuteronomy 6:6.

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CRAMP!

Because I was a strong swimmer as a child I was always amazed when I heard someone say, “The swimmer got a cramp and drowned.”

Without realizing it, and without intention, I would judge the person who had a cramp and drowned. Really? How could a little old cramp drown someone?

Then I got a CRAMP! No “little old” cramp. A nighttime throw-you-out-of-bed to the floor, roll you around in agony—a cramp that made me shout and rendered me totally unable to stand, walk, or limp—and a cramp that wouldn’t release. Frequent cramps that started after my hip replacement and the resultant three-month hospital stay when it became infected. I wrote and published two books during the three months which was good, but I came home with a tendency to get CRAMPS.

The difficult part of living with a hip injury or a worn out hip is that the hip controls every part of the body by its placement. Sitting, you sit on the hip. Standing puts pressure on the hip. Walking depends on the hip and becomes nearly impossible. Even prone on the bed puts stress on the hip. So, I am thankful daily for the hip surgery that restored my mobility—but I became frightened to go to bed at night and allow a cramp to wake me up and throw me to the floor.

To the rescue—my sister, the editor of my books, and my not-a-doctor sister Vicky who is my medical go-to. She told me blood pressure medicine robs the body of potassium and recommended taking a potassium supplement. Thank you, Vicky. Good riddance to CRAMPS…mostly.

Now that they are less severe I can be thankful for the occasional return of a cramp because it reminds me… Not. To. Judge. The last several of my soon-to-be 50 books contain a non-judgmental theme. I remember me as a child scoffing about reported drowning from a cramp because I thought that if someone was a good swimmer they couldn’t possibly drown from a cramp. What unkind thinking. Shame on me. I image that if I were out in the ocean and got one of the cramps I’ve been experiencing since my hip replacement I would thrash so wildly that I would attract a shark or other hungry predator.

Overt judgments are easy to recognize; a person’s size, color, dress, language, ethnicity, customs, body adornments. We can police ourselves and avoid those. But human judgment is a slithery, elusive critter. What about judging someone’s work ethics, health, personal choices, or finances? “Surely they aren’t that poor.” “Her headache can’t be that bad.” “I’ve seen hound dogs under porches that have more energy than that.” “My mother wouldn’t let me out of the house wearing that.”

It’s human nature to judge others, perhaps because if they miss the mark we think they should hit it makes us feel more powerful and successful. Recognizing this human tendency, God filled the Bible with verses warning us not to judge others. Jesus Himself said, “Judge not, that you be not judged. For with what judgment you judge, you will be judged, and with the measure you use, it will be measured back to you.” Matthew 7:1.

“For in whatever you judge another you condemn yourself.” Romans 2:1

Not everyone who judges others will experience CRAMPS…but why take a chance?

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Toss the Cheetos

My mother was a stickler for purchasing only what was needed for cooking healthy meals. Her idea of a snack was fruit. On rare occasions, she would bring out non-chocolate, non-sugary treats like vanilla wafers or graham crackers, neither of which aroused my taste buds. But, oh, the next-door neighbor’s kids…

The next-door neighbor’s kids had Cheetos. Our yard was separated from theirs by a chain link fence, and they were kind enough to share Cheetos through the links. We were too young to walk to the neighborhood grocery store by ourselves, but we walked with Mom. I was four, my sister Leslie was two, and my brother Greg hadn’t arrived yet.

I couldn’t read and I didn’t know the name of those magical long, crunchy cheese treats that the neighbors shared—but I recognized the bag. I begged Mom to buy them for us, but she refused, so when her back was turned, I snatched a bag and hid it under my coat. Let me tell you—you don’t have to be an adult in love to have a pounding heart. My heart boomed like a loose exhaust system on a souped-up race car. I was scared to the point of shakiness on the walk home thinking that my mother would hear my heart and realize what I had done. I skipped ahead of her all the way home.

Once home, I hid in the closet to eat my heavenly snack. Either my generosity or my fear gave me away. Leslie found me in the closet with the Cheetos and wanted some. I can’t remember if I gave her some to be nice—or if I gave them to her so she wouldn’t tattle. The outcome was the same. She ran to Mom and showed her the Cheetos.

The Cheetos were confiscated. I got spanked and sent to bed without supper. The worst part of the punishment was what happened the next day. Mom marched me back to the store to confess to the shopkeeper and pay for the Cheetos.

I’m sure some who experienced a similar episode in their childhoods would never want to eat the offending food again—but not me. I still love Cheetos. Here in our part of Scotland I’ve discovered the UK version of Cheetos—and these with the added attraction of “spicy.” Considering that Bandera, Texas, home of my heart is a place with Mexican food restaurants and cowboys cooking breakfast tacos over an open fire in front of the courthouse on Main Street—spicy Cheetos want-to-bes captured me. Two problems. I can eat the entire bag in one day. I haven’t dared to look at the calorie count—but common sense says that eating an entire bag of “junk food” in one day is not good. And, when I was in the hospital for three months after a hip replacement that became infected and was on drip antibiotics that entire time, I developed diabetes. Never having had a problem with eating any food or dessert and in any quantity before in my life, this illness has taken some stringent self-training to control. After consuming a bag of the want-to-bes in one day, I tested my blood sugar and found that it was up.

As a general rule, I never throw away food. We didn’t get to pick and choose what we wanted to eat when we were kids. We ate whatever was served or went hungry. We sat at the table until we cleaned our plates. I don’t think food from our table ever found its way into a bin. Once in a while one of the Great Dane dogs might have rated a treat—but even that was rare.

When Alan and I first got married, I think he was a bit shocked. If he left something on his plate—I ate it. I did not throw out food. I still don’t. However, I broke that rule yesterday and threw out a bag of want-to-bes that was not completely empty. I tested and found my blood sugar up. The cheesy dream snack had to go. I wasn’t tossing food—I was tossing temptation.

“God is faithful, who will not allow you to be tempted beyond what you are able, but with the temptation will also make the way of escape, that you may be able to bear it.” 1 Corinthians 10:13.

Tossing the bag of Cheetos was my escape. If only other temptations were that easy to toss.

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The Terror Tree

I’ve always loved trees. I’ve always loved Joyce Kilmer’s poem, “Trees.”

I think that I shall never see
A poem lovely as a tree.
A tree whose hungry mouth is prest
Against the earth’s sweet flowing breast;
A tree that looks at God all day,
And lifts her leafy arms to pray;
A tree that may in summer wear
A nest of robins in her hair;
Upon whose bosom snow has lain,
Who intimately lives with rain.
Poems are made by fools like me,
But only God can make a tree.

I love trees. Walking in the woods always drains stress and puts a lower, more manageable perspective on whatever big problem I face. But across the street from our house is a tree that I dislike. It scares me. I call it the “terror tree,” because I envision it crashing down destroying the rock fence next to it and whatever vehicles are parked under it.

The funny thing about the terror tree is that we’ve lived in this location now for eight years and the tree has never fallen. Gale force winds strip leaves and scatter broken limbs along the sidewalk, but the tree remains stalwart. Or, at least, it hides whatever weakness may be silently stealing its strength at its core.

There must be a hidden weakness because the tree is the last in the neighborhood to graduate to spring’s awakening and clothe itself with leaves, and the leaves—when they finally come—are sparse and sickly-looking. Yet, the tree continues to stand.

Whenever heavy equipment visits our neighborhood near the terror tree I always hope it is there to take that tree down. Yet, the tree remains.

Even if the tree falls it is unlikely to damage our house and car. It’s probably the tallest tree in our neighborhood, but it is slightly cattycorner from us. If it falls it is unlikely to impact us—save sending a scattering of limbs and a shower of leaves our way. My dislike of that tree is unfounded and unreasonable. Yet, the tree bothers me. I do not like that tree.

Isn’t that the same as with people? Unfounded distrust and dislike because we look at the outward appearance and expect interior weaknesses? We don’t see the hidden strengths. Judgmental attitudes cause us to expect the worst even when the worst hasn’t happened yet and may never happen.

The Bible contains verses warning against judging. Jesus said, “Judge not, that you be not judged. For with what judgment you judge, you will be judged.” Matthew 7:1.

James 4:12, “There is one Lawgiver, who is able to save and destroy. Who are you to judge another?” James 4:12.

When the prophet Samuel was sent to anoint a king for Israel the Lord instructed him, “do not look at his appearance or at his physical stature…for the LORD does not see as man sees; for man looks at the outward appearance, but the LORD looks at the heart.” 1 Samuel 16:7.

Even though it isn’t a person, I will curb my dislike of the terror tree. Nothing in this world can hold terror for me unless I allow it by assigning it in my mind. I am in control of my mind—not the terror tree or anything else. And to paraphrase Joyce Kilmer’s words: Books are written by fools like me, But only God can make a tree.

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Dandelion People

Dandelions wake up the world around them with bright cheerful yellow blooms that bees and butterflies love. Yet, they are considered weeds and unappreciated by many people because they are invasive, spread aggressively, and interfere with cultivated plants.

Formal gardens eschew dandelions and gardeners work energetically to remove them even though they are rich in nutrients and useful in medicine due to their antioxidant properties. They provide food and medicine—and yet are universally despised.

Some people go through life much like dandelions; overlooked, unappreciated, and spurned by others. Here’s lifting praises to Dandelion People. Dandelion People have shaped and enriched my life and fill my 50 books (one finished but not yet published) with vivid characters and interesting to amusing incidents and events.

Many of the dandelion people I have personally known are from home of my heart, Bandera, Texas. Since they are sadly gone from this life now I feel that I can name them. My first eight books, the Miz Mike series, depend on dandelion folks for interest and humor.

Harold Jenkins was a short, twisted man whose appearance frightened children who did not know him. It was not only his limbs that were twisted—his facial features were also twisted and caused him to speak out of the side of his mouth. He could read, he could write, and he loved driving his truck. In spite of his physical challenges, Harold was a volunteer fire fighter and ambulance driver and attended church regularly.

Ross was a deaf mute. He lived on an isolated ranch and drove his tractor down his driveway to the main road where he would wait for someone to pick him up and give him a ride into town. Old timers presiding over the “Table of Knowledge” at the OST Restaurant understood him and conversed freely with him. Sadly, I was unable to decipher his strange mixture of grunts and finger gestures enough to understand him—but son Luke, who was two at the time and needed speech therapy—understood him completely. I took Ross to Kerrville one time so he could sell his wool and he and Luke talked and laughed all the way there and back.

Then there was Gerald. My first job in Bandera was working at Frontier Village with him building tables for the Bella Union Dancehall. Gerald had a low IQ and needed supervision, but he was one of the hardest workers I’ve ever known. He rode his bicycle into town everyday and waited around the OST for someone to hire him for the day. He would do anything from building fences to wrangling livestock and cleaning up after them.

History has its share of Dandelion People, too; people who live and die as unappreciated as dandelions.

Rosalind Franklin’s x-ray images of DNA revealed the molecule’s double helix structure, but she was not recognized for her work until after her death.

Ignaz Semmelweis’ pioneering work in antiseptic procedures reduced deaths from childhood fevers. Like Franklin, he was not recognized for his contributions until after his death.

Chico Mendez was a rubber tapper in Brazil. He led a fight for the preservation of the Amazon rainforest, and fought equally hard to gain rights for his fellow toppers.

Claudette Colvin, a black woman, refused to give up her seat on a Montgomery bus—and yet—it is Rosa Parks who gets celebrated in history. Probably few people have ever heard Colvin’s name or know her role in the Civil Rights movement. She was one of the Dandelion People.

Jesus has a promise for the Dandelion People—and all of us: “Your Father who sees in secret will Himself reward you openly.” Matthew 6:4.

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The Writing Life: Letting the Pain Live Again

Even in works of fiction, most writers reveal hidden parts of themselves and their lives within their creative output. Sometimes that means letting the pain live again.

Some folks have asked me why I don’t write an autobiography. The answer? There are things about my past I don’t want anyone to know.

Some folks have pointed out that I don’t need to include everything; I could pick and choose segments of my life. For example, childhood pets included snakes, monkeys, opossums, a skunk, a jaguarondi, a racoon, a fox—and an African lion which threw me to the ground and bit me on my stomach. There are interesting stories connected to all of the above. For example, my secret college crush who “rescued” me from the lion forever avoided me after that incident. And, the day after appearing on a TV program to explain how to tell a poisonous snake from a harmless one, I caught a snake at the pond in an attempt to identify it. The snake bit me. It was a water moccasin. I spent the rest of the day in the hospital.

But there are other incidents and events that I choose not to share.

I have now written 49 books, almost all of them Christian Cozy Mysteries. Animals grace the pages of most of them, and our grey fox Tandy inspired “Fox on the Roof Murder.” Several of our wild animal pets figured into “All the Colors of Murder.”

My newest book, however, “Hole to Hell Mystery,” opens up a part of my past that I usually keep locked away where it can’t hurt me; the extreme childhood sexual abuse I suffered from a person who should have protected me—my father. This includes the abortions he—with no medical training or expertise—performed on me to hide his crime, and my resulting close calls with bleeding to death. Sometimes, to write something meaningful, you must let the pain live again.

“Hole to Hell Mystery” is all mystery, all suspense.

From a fellow author’s review, “What resonates most is the way your portrayal of two estranged sisters is paired with a relentless, high-stakes mystery. From their fractured upbringing marked by abuse and abandonment to the dangers that confront them as they investigate their father’s murder, the work blends emotional depth with narrative tension, ensuring readers feel invested, unsettled, and deeply moved rather than merely entertained.”

From a publicist, “Two estranged sisters must confront their painful past while investigating their father’s murder only to discover that the truth may destroy them both.”

Good to get praise for the book after opening up the past to let the pain live again.

“All things work together for good to those who love the Lord.” Romans 8:28.

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The Day the Dog Drove the Car

Because my sister and I had an after-school activity, Mom let me drive us to school in our car, an old battered Cadillac, posh only in name.

The car was, in fact, dangerous. Whenever we were driving it and saw a roadblock ahead—we took a detour to avoid being stopped. The car had no safety sticker. One reason it didn’t have a safety sticker is that it had no emergency brake or parking brake.

That day when we got to school, we discovered a small, white, shivering poodle-type dog huddled against the front of the school while some of the boys threw rocks at it. Leslie and I were outraged. No one abuses animals around us. We flew into the fray, sent the boys running for cover, and took the poor little dog out to the Caddy where it would be safe until school let out for the day.

But it wasn’t safe because someone stole the car. When school let out, Les and I flew out to the parking lot to discover that…the car was gone. Les and I ran frantically around the parking lot looking for the car, but it was nowhere in sight. It was gone.

In total panic mode we rushed along asking other students if they had seen anything. Finally one student said he had. “The last time I saw your car, a little white dog was driving it.”

We were furious with him for mocking us and our predicament. This was in the days before mobile phones. We lived some five miles out of town. Our father had taken the other vehicle to work, so we had our family’s only transportation—except we didn’t have it. It was gone. Either stolen or driven off by a poodle.

The student walked with us back to where I had parked the car…then a bit further. We followed him—and there was our car. In a deep gully. The poodle was in the driver’s seat.

Because the car had no parking brake, the little dog had bounced around until it hit the shifter and knocked the car out of gear. Being on a slight incline, the car cruised down the hill to the bottom. It took a tow truck to get the Caddy out of the gully. Even though the car was not damaged—save a couple of new dents—our parents would not let us keep the little dog who could drive.

How could a blog about a little dog who drove a car be an Easter blog?

Jesus died on the cross so our sins could be forgiven and we could invite His Holy Spirit to come and live inside us to give us help and hope for every day, every situation in life. The death of Jesus on the cross is historic. People saw it. People watched.

Three days later, Jesus rose up from the cross and walked the earth again. It’s history. People saw Him. They touched the nail prints in His hands and feet and the spear wound in His side. And, yet, not everyone believes. You might as well tell them a dog drove their car.

The angel said to the women, “Do not be afraid, for I know you seek Jesus who was crucified. He is not here; for He is risen. He is risen from the dead.” Matthew 28:6.

“And truly Jesus did many other signs in the presence of His disciples, which are not written in this book; but these are written that you may believe that Jesus is the Christ; the Son of God, and that believing you may have life in His name.” John 20:30.

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