The Demons Who Took Everything Away from Me.

My so-called friends used to say Terry you have a complete family. A good life, and a good job, I used to say God has blessed me, and by saying that some people or should I correctly say those demons were jealous.

Those were real demons who haunted me all my life. They used to go so far as to say Terry you had a better deal, and laugh at me. But they would say Terry why would you be hot-tempered, they would why are you lying to yourself that the past held no sway over the future. 

But in the end. They said that I was rewarded by my misdeeds, and that is why God took everything away from me my family and all, and unleashed me to suffer from now on. They said this life will follow you always Terry, no matter how much you do good. No matter how much I prayed to God they said. It clings on to me, infecting everyone that comes close to me. 

Those demons went out of the way to even say I was cursed they said.

The night my family was taken from me, it felt like the world had ripped itself apart. One moment, we were together—laughing, planning our future—and the next, they were gone. Stolen by something dark, something far more sinister than any human cruelty. It was as though a black cloud had descended upon my life, swallowing everything in its path. My home, job, and happiness vanished, consumed by this unseen force.

I had no name for what took them at first, only that it was evil. A pure, malevolent evil that worked silently in the shadows, leaving devastation in its path. In the days that followed, I fell into despair. I gave up hope, feeling as though I had been marked by something that would never let go. The demons—real demons—had taken everything from me. My wife, my children, the life I had built with my own hands. And worst of all, they had taken away any reason I had left to live.

The world became a blur of emptiness. People would ask, “Terry, what are you going to do now? Everything is gone. What’s left for you?” I had no answer. I never did. The voices that asked were not kind; they belonged to those demons, mocking me, taunting me, as if the agony they had already inflicted wasn’t enough. They wanted more. They wanted to see me broken, to see me crawling on the ground, a shell of the man I once was.

But then came that day. A day unlike any other. 

I had wandered, desperate for anything that would numb the pain. That was when something—no, someone—intervened. It was like the sky opened, and a faint but unmistakable light shone through. It wasn’t a voice, but a feeling. A message, a gift from God. A path forward. At that moment, something stirred in me, a semblance of hope. It wasn’t much, but it was enough. Enough to remind me that maybe, just maybe, my story wasn’t over yet. Maybe there was something more—something good still waiting to happen.

That’s when I realized: I wasn’t meant to just grieve in silence. I wasn’t alone, even though the darkness had tried to make me feel that way. God had given me an opportunity. An opportunity to rebuild, to start from nothing and craft something better than the shattered remains of my old life. It was a gift, a second chance.

But the demons—they weren’t done with me yet.

They returned as I slowly began to rebuild and piece together a new existence from the ashes. Stronger. Hungrier. They didn’t just take my family and my home—they wanted to take my new life as well. Every time I made progress, they would appear. In the dead of night, whispering in my ear, reminding me of everything I had lost. "Terry," they would hiss, "you’ll lose this too. You’ll fail again. We’ll make sure of it."

They stole from me. They killed every dream I dared to dream. Each small victory I achieved was snatched away before I could fully enjoy it. And every time, they laughed, those shadowy figures, as though my suffering was their sustenance.

"Terry, your everything is gone—what are you going to do now?" the demons would sneer, circling me like vultures waiting for me to fall.

For the longest time, I had no answer. What could I say? What could I do? I had already lost everything. What did I have left to fight with?

But something in me changed. I wasn’t the same broken man I had been when they first came for me. I wasn’t powerless anymore. I had survived what no man should have to endure, and still, I stood. God had given me that path, and the demons hadn’t taken it away. They had tried, but I was still walking it, no matter how hard they pushed back.

So, when they asked me again, "Are you going to come back and take what’s yours?" my answer was simple. I thought about it long and hard, and then I spoke.

"Well, I’m back."

I wasn’t just surviving anymore—I was fighting. With God on my side, those demons would either leave me alone or face the consequences. They had taken enough. They had stripped me of my family, my home, my job, and my dignity. But now? Now I was going to take back what was mine.

"With God beside me," I whispered into the darkness, "I will reclaim my life, no matter what it takes. You can’t have me anymore. I’m taking it all back."

And with that, I set out, determined. It wasn’t just a matter of survival anymore—it was a war. A war for my soul, my future, my life. I had lost so much, but the one thing those demons couldn’t steal from me was my faith. And with that, I would fight, not just for what was taken, but for everything I had yet to gain.

The demons thought they had defeated me. But now? Now, they would learn that I wasn’t the man they thought they could destroy. With God’s light guiding me, I would rise from the ashes. This time, the demons would lose.

The moral of the story:

That no matter how much darkness and evil take from you, as long as you hold onto hope and faith, you can rise again. Even when demons try to strip away everything, they cannot defeat the strength of the human spirit when guided by purpose and belief in a higher power. True resilience comes not from avoiding hardship but from facing it head-on and reclaiming your life, no matter the odds.

God is with me... 

Thank you, God.

Thank you, Lord Jesus Christ...

Amen...

Jacob M

**Against All the Odds: Why Me?**

A ferocious thunderstorm raged through the night, like the heavens were angry, unleashing their fury upon the world. In the dim glow of streetlights, barely visible through the pouring rain, a bald man sat hunched inside a cardboard box. His long, white beard dripped with rainwater, and his scarred scalp glistened with wetness. The surgical scar that ran along his head, a permanent reminder of a life-saving operation, seemed to pulse under the relentless downpour.

Clutching a damp bundle of stale bread and half-eaten fruits salvaged from nearby dustbins, he tried to shield the precious food from the storm. His thick clothes, worn and patched, did little to keep the cold at bay, while his dark glasses perched awkwardly on his nose, fogged up from the mix of rain and steam rising from his body heat.

His hands, smeared with grime and blood from old wounds, trembled slightly as he held onto the food. Each finger was a testament to his struggle—scarred, messy, but unrelenting. The man’s round, expressive eyes, even behind the cracked lenses of his glasses, gleamed with a quirky determination. Every so often, a strange, crooked smile stretched across his face, as if mocking the cruelty of the storm. 

*Why me?* he thought, not with bitterness, but with a bizarre, almost amused curiosity. "Why always me?" His words were swallowed by the crashing thunder. He had asked this question a thousand times, each time with less anger and more resignation. 

Behind him, barely visible in the out-of-focus background, was an old art studio. The once vibrant and chaotic space was now abandoned, just like him—left to decay in the storm. Once upon a time, he had been an artist. Paintings, sculptures, and sketches had flowed from his hands, hands that now shook as he fought to hold onto food scraps. But life had taken a cruel turn. The surgical scar, a reminder of the brain surgery due to his near-fatal accident that robbed him of his talent, had also taken away his family, his home, his career, and his health. With this it made his own family say “WE DON'T NEED YOU…”

Yet, even amid this chaos, he found something to smile about. Life had been unfair, yes. It had left him homeless, drenched, hungry, and wounded. But it hadn't taken everything. That quirky smile remained, and so did his will to survive. Against all the odds, he was still here, defying the storm, the world, and the cruel twists of fate that had marked him. 

As the rain intensified, his smile grew broader. He leaned back against his cardboard shelter, his eyes twinkling with a strange peace. "Why me?" he whispered once more, but this time, he didn’t wait for an answer. He already knew it. Because despite everything—he was still standing. Still here.

Thank you, God, for protecting and keeping me alive…

God bless us all

Jacob M

**Nothing We Do is Good Enough for Anyone**

The sky roared with fury as if reflecting the turmoil in John’s heart. He stood outside his home, drenched in the relentless downpour, his tears mixing with the rain that blurred his vision. His hands shook as he wiped his face, but it didn’t matter—no amount of wiping could clear the storm inside him. The thick coat he wore clung to his body, heavy and soaked, just like the burden he had been carrying for so long. His dark glasses, foggy and cracked, obscured his expressive, round eyes that were filled with unbearable sadness. 

Behind him, framed by the doorway, stood his wife, her arms crossed and her lips twisted into a cruel smile. Beside her was her father, sneering, mocking him. “Loser,” the old man spat as if the word itself could break John any more than he already was. His children stood next to their mother, crying and reaching out for him, their small hands trembling as they tried to understand why their father was walking away, why their home had suddenly become a place of pain.

John glanced back at them, his long white beard dripping with rain, the surgical scar on his head barely visible beneath the droplets that fell like unrelenting bullets. His round eyes, now filled with a deep, quiet agony, met his children’s gaze, and the pain twisted his face further. He had done everything for them—everything. 

For years, he had worked tirelessly to satisfy everyone around him. He had bent over backwards to make his wife happy, to please her demanding father, to provide for his children. He had tried to fix everything, even when it wasn’t his to fix. He had carried their burdens, their expectations, and their disappointments. His hands—red, messy, and wounded—bore the scars of his sacrifices. But it had never been enough. Nothing he did was ever good enough. 

His wife’s laughter echoed in his ears, cruel and heartless as if mocking the very essence of who he was. “You’re nothing but a failure,” she said, her words cutting deeper than the cold wind. "A burden we don’t need."

The thunder clapped, drowning out the sobs of his children, who were now pleading with him not to go. But what could he do? John had tried everything—every compromise, every sacrifice, every ounce of energy—and still, they rejected him. The children's minds had been poisoned, and now, they stood watching him fall apart, amused at his downfall.

All he had ever wanted was peace—a simple life filled with love and understanding. He didn’t want riches or glory; he just wanted to hold his family close, to laugh with them, to find comfort in their presence. But that dream had slipped further and further away, no matter how hard he reached for it. And now, it was gone.

The storm raged on, but inside him, there was nothing but silence. His heart had been broken beyond repair. He cried bitterly, his face contorted with grief, knowing there was nothing left for him here. He had lost everything—his family, his dignity, and most of all, his hope. As much as he had tried to save the relationship, it was as if the universe had already decided that the good will always suffer, while the bad thrive. Nothing he did mattered anymore.

With a final, heart-wrenching sob, John turned his back to the house, walking into the storm, leaving behind the family he had once loved more than anything. He was alone now, cast out into the world by those he had given everything for. And the bitter truth settled in his heart: sometimes, no matter how good you are, no matter how much you sacrifice, it's never enough for those who cannot see your worth.

And in that moment, John realized—*that nothing we do is good enough for anyone.* The good are meant to suffer, while the cruel and selfish flourish. As he disappeared into the night, his heart heavy with despair, the storm seemed to rage even harder, as if it too knew the injustice of it all.

God, I hope you are watching…

God, you have always helped me.

God bless us all.

We all have this story in all our lives. I hope and pray to God no one should suffer like this.

In the end, the Curse of Parental Alienation will always win whether a child is separated from a mother or father.

I pray to God daily that he may save every parent, mother or father and never let them go through this chaos in their lives.

God bless us all…Amen

Jacob M

**When Will the Sadness End?**

 Today I sat by the window, watching the rain as it painted streaks on the glass, mirroring the tears that ran silently down my face. The world outside was blurred, much like my life in recent months. Ever since I had been trapped in a relentless cycle of sadness. It clung to me, like a heavy fog i couldn’t escape. 

Each morning, I would wake with the faint hope that today might be different — that the crushing weight on my chest might lift, even if just a little. But every day was the same. The emptiness in the house, the stillness of the rooms, the absence of voices — it was unbearable.

I wondered when the sadness would end. People told me time would heal, that grief was a process, but what they didn’t understand was how endless it felt. How each moment would feel like stretched on like for eternity.

One afternoon, my land lord neighbor Cavan knocked on the door, with a parcel of sandwiches in his hand. “I just wanted to check in on you,” Cavan said softly, his voice full of compassion & concern.

I let him in, though he had no energy for conversation. We sat in silence for a while, the rain pattering against the window.

Finally, Cavan spoke. “You know, when I feel like the sadness would never end. But one day, I realized something — the sadness didn’t disappear, but it changed. It became a part of me, but it didn’t control me anymore.”

I stared at the sandwiches, the vibrant aromatic smell a stark contrast to the gloom he felt inside. “How long did it take?” I asked quietly, his voice barely above a whisper.

“There’s no set time,” Cavaan replied. “But it does get lighter. And in the meantime, you just have to take it one day at a time. You won’t forget anything, but you’ll learn to carry the sadness differently.”

I wasn’t sure I believed him, but as the rain began to lighten outside, I  felt a flicker of hope. Maybe the sadness wouldn’t end completely, but perhaps, someday, I would learn to live with it.

And that, for now, was enough.

Jacob M