Camel's Hair and Locusts: An Open Letter to George Zimmerman



Camel's Hair and Locusts: An Open Letter to George Zimmerman

Catholics Incarcerated/FAITH
P.O. Box 102
Alma, MI 48801

August 1, 2013

George Zimmerman
Sanford, Florida

Dear George,

Please forgive me for beginning this letter in such a familiar way. I realize that you don't know me, but over the past 16 months or so, the whole nation has gotten to know you. Or at least this is the self perception of many if not most. I know from reading your biographical information on line that we share the brotherhood of Jesus Christ in our glorious Catholic faith, and so I use your Christian name without hesitation or reservation. I want to state at the outset that my purpose in writing to you is to be beneficial to you in a way that I hope is constructive and conducive to your well being. So, let me begin by offering to you the Peace of Christ: Peace be with you.

My name is Phil Ropp and I am lay chaplain for a correspondence based prison ministry called Catholics Incarcerated/FAITH. This is one ministry that has two areas of emphasis. Catholics Incarcerated seeks to instruct men in prison in the deeper, more introspective and more profoundly healing aspects of the Catholic faith, and FAITH (which is an acronym for "Faith Alliance Initiative for Transitional Healing") seeks to build upon this by helping men released from prison establish a faith based life in the world through active participation in local parish life. The truth of this is simple: men who come to truly know Jesus Christ in the Catholic faith come home from prison healthy in mind and spirit, and those who participate fully in the sacramental life of the Catholic Church don't go back.

I know your circumstances are different and that you are not incarcerated. This is very unusual for me, since I have been involved in prison ministry since 2006, and you are the first man I have encountered who was acquitted on a homicide charge. This really doesn't happen often. I was Catholic Chaplain at the Saginaw County Jail for two years, and, during this time, I knew some men who, to be frank, I thought had better cases than yours. They all ended up convicted. My purpose here isn't to get into the whys and wherefores of all of that, and there are many others who will do so at a much higher level of expertise than what I possess. And I am not decrying the injustice of your acquittal, and the streets seem to be full of those anxious to do that at the moment. However, these circumstances you find yourself in do pose some hidden and not so hidden dangers that concern your spiritual and overall well being, and I do want to address this. And if you have not realized it long before now, you are certainly learning that your spiritual well being also is involved with that of Trayvon Martin and his family and, by extension, those who find themselves polarized to his side or to yours. And I wish to address this as well.

Let's begin with a quick review of the facts, as we know them, concerning what happened on the night you shot Trayvon. On the evening of February 26, 2012, you were driving through Twin Lakes, the gated townhouse community where you lived in Sanford, Florida, shortly after 7 PM. You were on an undefined "personal errand" when you noticed Trayvon, a young black man of 17, walking through Twin Lakes after visiting the local Seven Eleven and purchasing Skittles and iced tea. Trayvon was a guest at the townhouse of his mother's fiancĂ©, but to you he was a stranger and you were suspicious and were always on the alert for those who didn't belong in the community because you were the Neighborhood Watch Coordinator for Twin Lakes, and Twin Lakes has a considerable crime problem for a gated community. 

At 7:09, you called the Sanford Police Department to report a young black man acting in a suspicious manner. You told the police you were following him and they advised that they didn't need you to do that. Your call to the police ended at 7:15 and an officer arrived on scene at 7:17. In the ensuing two minutes, you left your vehicle, Trayvon challenged you, and an argument ensued followed by a scuffle in which Trayvon reportedly ended up on top of you, bloodying your lip and opening gashes on the back of your head by pounding it into the pavement. You called out for help and somehow drew the pistol you were legally licensed to carry. Trayvon struggled to gain control of the weapon, and in the midst of this you got off one shot at close range that struck him in the chest and killed him almost instantly. 

George, I have lived in Florida at three different times and in three different places over the past 30 years. Florida is a strange place and has some issues and problems that are pretty much unique to the Sunshine State, and so life there is often misunderstood in far away places to the north and west, and by those who know it as little else than a vacation destination in the cold weather months. 

In its heart and soul, Florida remains a state very much of the Deep South. Grits and sweet tea, ham in your green beans, biscuits and sausage gravy for breakfast. But it is also a place of tremendous diversity, with a population greatly swelled over the past half century or so by retired and transplanted northerners, Cubanos seeking to escape the oppression of Castro, and more recently by Latinos from the Caribbean basin and other places, and folks of all stripes from all over the country and the world, drawn by an economy that boomed like no other until the economic crisis of the early 21st century robbed even Florida of her previously unbridled growth and prosperity.

In the midst of all of this dizzying growth, and as a side effect of all the seemingly easy money that came with it, crime of all kinds and at all levels grew in proportion. From land fraud created by the greedy and unscrupulous speculators and developers, to con games and swindles aimed at the gullible and trusting elderly, to drugs flowing in freely from points south and the ensuing breathtaking rise in street crime, to crimes of passion and perversion, to the more recent rise of a new poverty that has spawned a sharp increase in domestic instability and crimes of desperation, Florida has seen it all. 

Yet in the midst of this, Florida has demonstrated a tremendous resilience and an ability to adapt and change with the times while somehow maintaining an identity based on the best of her "Old Florida" past. A large part of this identity is due to what most of the rest of the country views with a certain disdain as the "phenomenon" of the southern Bible Belt. Sanford is in that more central part of Florida where this melds into a strong Hispanic Catholic heritage that can be traced back to the Spanish conquistadors, and which has been enlarged and strengthened by an influx of Latinos from Cuba, Mexico and other Latin American countries, and by Italian and Irish Americans from the northeast, as well as Catholics of various ethnic and social backgrounds who have migrated from the mid-west and other parts of the United States, Canada, and the world. You yourself are of a multi-ethnic and multi-racial background and a transplant to Florida from the state of Virginia. I know from my own experience, when you pass the peace at Mass in a central Florida city like Sanford, you are doing so with Catholic brothers and sisters who are racially and ethnically diverse, and in an atmosphere where the truth of the equality of all as God's children is routinely taught as eternal truth.

Those who eschew the conservative Protestant Christianity that has such deep roots in the south do so while failing to see that, as the Civil Rights movement of Dr. King and the other black leaders of the 1960's was fostered and fomented in the black churches and through the Southern Christian Leadership Conference, so the meaningful response to it which truly transformed southern culture came from within the white churches. And the more the evil of racism was denounced from pulpits both black and white, the more the perception of race changed in the south until late in his life, even such an ardent segregationist as George Wallace would publicly renounce his ways and embrace the truth of racial equality, and encourage a society of equal opportunity for all. And while the south is not perfect by any means, the days when the likes of Bull Connor would loose the dogs and turn the fire hoses on black protestors are gone forever, and the vast majority of white southern folk think this is truly a good and just thing. Like the rest of us, they look back at the injustices of Jim Crow times in disgust, and with an even greater sense of shame that such things existed in their own backyard. 

My point is that those in the mainstream media who are spinning this situation out of control as an example of a racially motivated hate crime, and who are using the verdict in your case as an example of the reality of a racist mentality that no longer exists in the south in general, and is laughable in central Florida in particular, are brewing a polarizing tempest in our national teapot that is disturbing and which is cause for no little grave concern. And those protesters who are demanding the United States Department of Justice get involved by filing a civil rights suit are essentially demanding your lynching in a higher court in a way that denies the sovereign right of the Florida criminal justice system to make the final determination in your case, and this harkens back not to the civil rights issues of the 1960's, but to the states' rights issues of the 1860's.

The grand hypocrisy in this sense of regional superiority directed towards the modern south can be seen in the fact that, having lived in both regions of the country, the racism encountered in troubled Michigan cities like Detroit, Flint and Saginaw is much more virulent than anything I ever encountered living in Florida. In the courts here, black defendants are routinely handed stiffer sentences for the same offenses than what whites receive. And when Saginaw police shot to death a mentally ill and homeless black man named Milton Hall, on July 1, 2012, the story barely gained its 15 minutes of fame nationally, while the officers involved were restored to duty with minimal disciplinary action that one prominent black Saginaw pastor referred to as a "wrist slap." All of this is a far cry from the ceaseless media attention your case received. And if it may be said that Trayvon's death would have been less likely to have occurred at your hands here, it is only because it is more likely that he would have been incarcerated in Saginaw for his past behavior, rather than receiving a certain measure of grace in the courts in Florida.

To finish dispensing with the much trumpeted racial motivations in your actions, you certainly do not fit the stereotypical profile of a "Florida cracker." Anyone who probes into your biography in any depth at all notes quickly that you are of a mixed racial background yourself, you have a history of working in a positive way with black youth, and that this term was used in the conversation between Rachel Jeantel and Trayvon shortly before you shot him is indicative of their ignorance of you personally, and shows that Trayvon's perception of you was based not upon who you really are, but on the way he interpreted your behavior. You acted in a way that a young black man would easily interpret as cop-like and, since you were not a police officer, his perception defaulted to that of white racist. And because the truth of your self identity is that you were at that time a "cop wannabe" studying for a future career in police work, and practicing this as a Neighborhood Watch Coordinator, it is perhaps safe to assume that you would have been just as suspicious and just as arrogant and obnoxious observing a young white or Hispanic man dressed in a hoodie and cutting between the buildings at Twin Lakes as Trayvon was doing. And this is where this gets all muddied up.

Let me share a story with you: 

When my young family and I lived in San Carlos Park (a few miles south of Fort Myers) back in the early and mid 1980's, I participated in the Neighborhood Watch program, but my experience was certainly much different and more positive than yours turned out.

We lived in the Sheltering Pines Mobile Home Park, which began it's existence as a 55 and over community, but had, by the time we moved in, become open to a collection of younger and more varied residents, including young couples with small children like my wife and I were at that time in our life. Sheltering Pines consisted of a one mile oval with both single and double wide mobile homes, and when my Uncle Bill and Aunt Helen moved in here in the days when it was a retirement community, they convinced my mom and dad to buy a mobile home here. And when the economy in Michigan soured in the early 1980's, my dad convinced my wife and I to seek greener economic pastures in the growth boom that southwest Florida was enjoying at that time. So we rented a mobile home in Sheltering Pines down the way from where my folks lived. Other newer residents included a biker guy with long white hair who looked like a cross between Edgar Winter and Hulk Hogan, a lesbian couple (a real novelty in those days), my sister, Robin, and her husband, and some various Florida redneck types who added diversity to the population to be sure, but who also created a certain uneasiness among some of the older residents. 

In what must have been the summer of 1984, Sheltering Pines experienced a series of incidents in which the mobile homes of some of the winter residents were broken into and property stolen. This created no undue concern throughout the park, and no little tension, as some of the senior residents suspected that this might be the work of some of the newcomers. 

While playing shuffleboard and drinking beer with his neighbor across the street, Al Poupart, Uncle Bill came up with what he and Al were certain was the solution to the burgeoning crime problem—elect my dad Park Association President and give him a "law and order mandate." Seeing great humor in the fact that this would be the last item on my dad's agenda of things he wanted to do, Al and Uncle Bill loaded Al's golf cart with a cooler full of beer and made a whirlwind campaign trip around the Sheltering Pines oval, gaining a groundswell of support from the "good old boy" network of older residents, and essentially securing my dad's election before he was even aware that he was a candidate.

Once elected, my dad knew that his best option was to rise to the occasion and actually try to solve the crime problem. He called the Lee County Sheriff Department, explained the situation, and was connected with the deputy who was in charge of a new program called "Neighborhood Watch." The deputy explained that the Sheriff's Department would put a sign at the entrance to Sheltering Pines that would read, "This Neighborhood Protected by Neighborhood Watch." A deputy brought my dad a stack of handouts with the rules and regulations to be followed, and the basic procedures of how Neighborhood Watch worked were explained: Volunteers from within the park community would make regular patrols and keep their eyes open for any suspicious persons or activities, and when such persons or activities were spotted, they were to call the Sheriff's Department and report it, at which time a patrol car would be dispatched and an officer would be sent to investigate. Very simple, really. The first two items on the relatively short list of rules were: "Never engage or confront anyone yourself" and, "Never carry a weapon when on patrol." The deputy told my dad that he could assume the responsibilities of Neighborhood Watch Coordinator or assign it to someone on the Park Board, hold an election, etc.. The Coordinator's job was essentially to obtain and train volunteers and make sure everyone understood the purpose and procedures of the program, and serve as liaison to the Sheriff’s Department. 

Several trailers down from my folks' place there lived an older lady whose name was Mary. She lived with and cared for her grandson, who was a mentally challenged young man in his late teens who everyone called Butch. Butch was a big guy. He stood all of six foot five, had eyes that pointed in different directions, talked with a stutter, and while his mentality was that of a much younger child, he was a kind, loving and gentle soul who was both goodhearted and good natured, and everyone who bothered to get to know him, loved him and respected his solid character and sincere desire to do good. My dad especially admired Butch, and Butch thought the world of him.

So it was a natural that my dad, upon his election, would ask Butch to be Special Assistant to the Park Association President, an honor Butch greatly cherished. Butch delivered a flyer around the park stating that there would be a meeting on the following Sunday afternoon on the sun porch at my folk's trailer for anyone interested in participating in the Neighborhood Watch program. And the concern in the Park was such that a large crowd filled the sun porch at the appointed time and the Neighborhood Watch program began. 

When one of the newest residents mentioned that she was concerned about some big man who she had seen riding a bike around the park and talking to the young children, most of the rest of us realized she meant Butch, as did Mary, who was sitting next to Butch at the back of the crowd. To defuse what had the potential to turn into an ugly confrontation, my dad took the opportunity to ask Butch to stand up, and he proceeded to introduce him as our new Neighborhood Watch Coordinator. Uncle Bill and Al snickered as he informed the somewhat stunned gathering that he and Butch would work closely together, and he laid out the program he had in mind.

Since the main recreational activity in Sheltering Pines was a daily walk or bike ride around the oval, my dad asked everyone to follow their usual routine and pay particular attention to the mobile homes that were unoccupied and look for anything out of the ordinary. He also asked everyone to wave to any neighbors they saw out in their yards, exchange greetings with any who were encountered while walking or riding, and if anyone did notice someone in the park who didn't belong, and who was acting suspiciously, they should call the Sheriff's Office and report it. Butch's role as coordinator was to make a daily patrol of the park on his bike, and the residents were instructed to flag Butch down when he went by if they had observed anything suspicious or had any concerns, and Butch, in turn, would report to my dad everyday when his patrol was done.

After the meeting, the woman who had expressed her concern about Butch at the beginning, approached my dad and accused him of making a joke and mockery of the Neighborhood Watch program by naming Butch Coordinator. My dad reassured her that he had selected Butch because he was the least confrontational person in the park and, therefore, the best man for the job. He further told her, "Don't underestimate Butch. He's just retarded, he isn't stupid."

This actually worked remarkably well, and Butch did serve admirably as my dad's eyes and ears around the park. Everyday promptly at 5 pm, Butch would stop his bike in the street and report in to my dad, who was always sitting out on the sun porch waiting for him. "Everything is f-f-fine, Irv!" he would call out. My dad would wave and call back, "Thanks, Butch! Have a good night!" 

This went on for a few weeks, and one of the unexpected benefits of the Neighborhood Watch program was that the residents learned to recognize and appreciate each other, and it was soon determined that though maybe we were all different, Sheltering Pines contained some pretty good folks who also turned out to be good neighbors. And the biker guy, who was pretty intimidating in his black t-shirts with the skulls on them and his studded leather and sleeveless denim look, and whose name I now recall was Bob, ended up being the unlikely park hero.

Where the oval came up nearest the highway on the northeast side of the park, there was a path that went through a stand of pines and then forked left to the parking lot of the ratty little motel that was still there in those days, or to the right where it ran along the highway up to the stoplight, where it was possible to cross the road to go to the Stop 'N Go or the Winn Dixie. Bob's trailer was near the curve where the path was, and he rightly figured that this would be the place where thieves would enter the park, and so his contribution to Neighborhood Watch was to sit in the dark late at night and watch this path.

Sure enough, a few nights into this, Bob noticed two young black men make their way down the path and, rather than walk down the oval, they went around the back side of the trailers and disappeared into the dark. Bob called the Sheriff's Department and, as luck would have it, they had a patrol car in the Winn Dixie parking lot, and when these young men returned to the car they had parked in front of one of the motel units, they were apprehended red handed with a TV set and some power tools they had pilfered from an unoccupied mobile home.

To celebrate, my dad re-instituted the by then neglected tradition of the Sheltering Pines Annual Park Picnic, and these well attended festivities centered around Neighborhood Watch Coordinator Butch presenting Biker Bob with a Certificate of Appreciation from the Sheltering Pines Park Association. With everyone's attention focused on this, my dad had the unobserved satisfaction of leaning around the back of my mother's chair so as to give Uncle Bill and Al the finger. And Butch was more excited than I'd ever seen him, and we were all proud when this story and a picture of Butch and Biker Bob made the front page of the Bonita Banner, our local weekly published down the road at Bonita Springs.

So what happened that made your situation turn out so tragically different, George? 

Once we pull back the media driven race card, it becomes obvious that you didn't commit a racially motivated hate crime, but a crime motivated by an egoism and arrogance fueled by an amateur cop mentality that made you believe that you could turn the position of Neighborhood Watch Coordinator into your own private vigilante power trip. Whereas my dad had the wisdom to realize that the sensible thing was to put the gentlest and least confrontational person he knew in the position of Coordinator, someone in your experience decided to go the opposite route and put you in charge. And tragedy was found in the fact that you weren't retarded, just stupid.

The only two rules I remember from the Neighborhood Watch guidelines are the two that you most flagrantly violated the night Trayvon was killed: never confront anyone and never carry a weapon. Had you simply followed these two instructions this tragedy never would have occurred. Had you simply done as instructed by the police dispatcher and left the situation alone, an officer would have been on scene shortly and he could have asked Trayvon what he was doing there, which was his job and not yours. 

If Butch had been Neighborhood Watch Coordinator that night instead of you, he would have said to Trayvon, "Hi! My name's B-B-Butch. What's yours?" and Trayvon might have said, "Trayvon. I'm staying over there with my mother's boyfriend." And Butch could have reported to my dad, "I met somebody I didn't know in the park tonight, Irv, but it's okay, he's staying here!" That's exactly how stupid this all is, George. And I will guarantee you that Biker Bob was way more intimidating than you are, and I'd be willing to bet that he was armed to the teeth. But he knew enough to call the cops as instructed and not confront the two young men he saw enter Sheltering Pines that night—and he knew they didn't belong there. So he was a hero as much for what he didn't do as for what he did.

One of the reasons I don't minister in a county jail anymore is because until the verdict is read in court, everyone's main concern is, "My case, my case, my case." As chaplain, my job was to pose the more important question, "Yes, but what about your soul?" Most inmates in jail are taken aback when informed that the chaplain doesn't give a damn about their crimes and their cases, but rather "only" cares about their sins and their souls.

So what I learned to do was to wait until a man was convicted and on his way off to prison before getting seriously involved in my ministry to him. I would hand him my card as he waited to ride out and tell him, "When you get to quarantine, write to me and my promise to you is that I will answer every letter I get from you." I have never broken that promise, and I have received some deep and profound letters from killers who find themselves confronted with time and themselves, and the stark realization of just how serious a thing it is to take the life of another human being. In fact, the longer I do this, the more God leads me in the direction towards working more exclusively with killers, and I have learned some great spiritual truths doing this, George. 

When a person takes the life of another, whether it be accidental or deliberate, whether it is through a premeditated act or an act born spontaneously out of passion and opportunity, the end result is that the souls of the killer and the killed become inextricably linked, and the eternal well being of the one is contingent upon that of the other. I don't know exactly the how or the why of this, but I do know that the more I work with and counsel those in situations similar to yours, the more the truth of this is revealed. And I do know that those in such circumstances only come to health and spiritual restoration when they approach the soul of the victim with a heart broken in contrition and a deep and sincere desire to seek forgiveness and reconciliation.

We hear much these days of "restorative justice." The Diocese of Lansing, where I serve as an outreach volunteer, goes so far as to administer its prison and jail ministry program from what it calls the "Office of Restorative Justice." Sometimes I think restorative justice is a phenomenon akin to Bigfoot or UFO's: you hear a lot about it but rarely see it, and, when it is observed, no one seems to know what it truly is or what it means. What I can tell you is that it begins by coming to peace with the soul of your victim and finding this initial and all important reconciliation. Our Catholic faith is particularly effective in this regard, as we know that the consciousness of the departed continues after death, whereas so many of the Protestants believe that we are merely dust in the ground until consciousness miraculously returns at the Last Judgment. 

At the beginning I told you that you face dangers both hidden and not so hidden. Here's what I meant:

You have been told, and you have been telling yourself, that your actions were justifiable and that you acted in self defense. A jury has ruled in your favor and you have been freed from the charge of second degree homicide. What I have stressed here is that this isn't a civil rights issue based upon your own racist attitudes and those of the region where you live. It isn't a political issue that breaks down so clearly that conservatives side with you and liberals with Trayvon. That's a simplistic and emotional reaction, and the media, in fueling this kind of hatred to boost the slow summer ratings season, are assisting in presenting you with what is the less hidden danger: that some other vigilante with the same kind of attitude you took towards Trayvon will seek "justice" through the same kind of violent action. This is cause for concern. 

However, my deeper concern for you is that you will confuse acquittal with exoneration. That in "beating your case" you will believe that you are also relieved of all responsibility. Acquittal may remove the fault but it does not remove the responsibility. When you were informed by the police that Trayvon was dead, your initial reaction was remorse and your comment was, "In the Catholic religion it’s always wrong to kill somebody." Some months later, after the media circus had erected its tents, you told Sean Hannity, "I feel it was all God's plan...“Without getting overly theological, suffice it to say that you were certainly more right in your first remark, and that the obvious flaw in the second is that it is never in God's plan for us to sin. To the contrary, sin is precisely the point at which we deviate from God's plan. Removal of the criminal penalty in your killing of Trayvon Martin does nothing to remove the more serious, and more eternal, penalty of sin. Believing that it does is the more hidden danger.

When a person is injured at our hands, through our fault or by accident, it inflicts deep spiritual and emotional wounds not only upon the lives of loved ones and family—theirs and ours—but upon our own soul as well. As with a physical injury, the only way to true healing is to open these wounds and scrub them, though this process can be excruciatingly painful. However, to wrap such deep spiritual injury in the dirty rag of denial leads to a deep infection of the soul and a separation from God that becomes our own personal hell.

But God has given us a remedy in the Great Physician, Jesus Christ, who has gone to the Cross for us so as to reconcile us to God by healing the self inflicted injury to our own soul that is the result of the injury we have inflicted upon others. He has done this for us by receiving the wounds that are rightfully ours, and the grace that he extends to us in this way is such that we seek our own healing when we seek the healing of those we have damaged by our actions, and this healing is truly restorative for all. 

What the world recognizes as "restorative justice" has its roots planted deeply within this spiritual realm, and the more healthy and well cared for these roots, the more abundant the more visible fruits of psychological and emotional health will be to the world. And while the world may be blind to this deeper truth, we know in our Catholic faith that the truest and deepest blessings are eternal and heavenly and not merely earthly and temporal. And that place where the eternal and heavenly meets the earthly and temporal is the Cross.

To help you more fully realize this, I am going to suggest a deeper devotional experience based upon opening the wounds you have inflicted upon yourself to Christ at the Cross so that you might approach him for the true and complete healing he wishes you to have. In this process, and as an integral part of it, you must pray for those you have injured and seek justice for them as well as yourself. This begins first and foremost by praying for the repose of the soul of Trayvon Martin and in seeking his forgiveness for the way in which your actions have cut short his ability to work out with God his own salvation on earth. Because of this, your salvation now depends upon his, and it is in this way that your souls have become inextricably linked. My suggestion to you is that you approach Christ in his suffering for us through this Novena to the Holy Face of Jesus. Along with this, meditate deeply upon The Holy Wounds of Christ and pray the Sorrowful Mysteries of the Holy Rosary as part of your daily prayer routine. In the midst of this, answer Jesus' invitation to St. Thomas in the upper room and, "Put your finger here, and see my hands; and put out your hand, and place it in my side; do not be faithless, but believing." And when you can answer as did Thomas, "My Lord and my God!" then you will know that your faith has placed you where God can work the miracle of recovery He wants in your life.

In your mind, place yourself back in that night and see what you have done. Do not believe that you can turn away and run, because to do so will brand you with the mark of Cain and this will banish you from God forever. Instead, pick up the lifeless body of Trayvon and know that more than your brother he is also your cross. Carry him up the hill of Calvary and place him at the feet of Jesus at the Cross and call out from the anguish that racks you from the bottom of your soul, "Lord, look what I have done!" See now that a tear rolls down the cheek of Christ and falls upon you and baptizes you along with Trayvon, as you die to the sin that has united you in death—his physical, yours spiritual. See now the blood that falls upon you from Christ's brow and brings life to both of you. See now beyond the Cross and watch as Trayvon walks into the dazzling light of eternal glory. 

And know that one day the two of you will meet again, and that meeting will be much different than the first.

Yours in Christ,

Chaplain Phil Ropp




Phil Ropp

Phil is the owner of the news portal  Radio New Jerusalem  

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