Stephen C. McKinney Memorial Thread (1969-2001)

[Chris]

ooooooooohhhhh.. *groaaaaaaaaaaan*, not the outfit with the eggs on it!!!

BROOKE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

[Fist and Faith]

Aaaaawwwww... Is'm widdle Cwis all sad???

[Furls Fire]

Ummm...Fist

Chris would like you to know that he is no longer the little 2 year old in an egg outfit. And is quite a bit bigger now.

[Fist and Faith]

Oops. Sorry. It was an honest mistake.




(nyuk nyuk)

[Stephen C]

October 29, 1991 11:08pm

Some friends and I were arguing art under the big oak that has become our great gathering Gilden, where we hold our vespers, councils and Giantclaves. We sing songs, read poetry, and, well, argue. My best friend, Alex, had just launched himself off on a tangent concerning Impressionists, when I felt the Lord’s hand grasp my arm. All warmth left me, the bright sunlight paled, and a deep foreboding engulfed my soul. Alex’s voice became a distant hum on the edge of my hearing as my eyes swept the campus. A wave a nausea fell on me when I saw him approaching. I could almost see the caul of Satan enwrapping him. Harold. Harold, whose soul was overrun. My hand found my recorder, but before I could turn it on, I had to bolt behind the Gilden and vomit. Alex, was on me then, asking if I was alright.

“No. He makes his way toward me right now.” And I nodded at Harold’s approach. “I think you guys better let me alone with him. I’ll find you later.”

“No way.” Kim said, her pretty face suddenly washed in worry.

But, Alex understood, his eyes watched me and I looked back at him. He knows me. “Come on, Steve will be alright.” He put his arm around Kim, and they all, in a begrudged manner, left me at our Gilden.

His steps toward me were forced, as though he were being lead reluctantly by some leash. His eyes bore me down as he drew closer. I stood straighter, readied myself for the row I was about to be affronted with. My hand fumbled for the recorder in my pocket. He jerked to a halt in front of me, his eyes bloodshot, pain creased his brow, his suit of clothes rumpled as though he slept in them.

“You should not have told me how to find you.” His voice was a growl, animal-like.

“Why?” I asked. My stomach churned in a new wave of nausea and sweat poured from me. But, I held my gaze with his.

“Because now I have. By the looks of you, I can tell you would rather I hadn’t.”

“I’m alright, Harold. Just feeling a little under the weather today.” I fought to keep my stomach under control as I talked to him. “Why did you come find me?”

“Oh, Stephen McKinney. I think you know the answer to that. I was compelled to come find you. You invade my nightmares, preaching about your so called God. Talking about light and peace, shit like that. But, you come to me all bloody, sores all over you. You’re f**king sick. It’s going to kill you, and soon.” He leaned toward me, his yellow teeth flashed through a grin. And then he sneered. “AIDS, boy. It’s going to kill you. Some God, huh?”

“God didn’t give me AIDS, Harold.” I didn’t bother to ask how he knew about my illness, I didn’t need too. It was obvious to me how he knew. “I got tainted blood after an accident. THAT gave me AIDS. God, is going to help me through it.”

“Help you?” He laughed horribly then. It sent a knife sharp blast of cold through my soul. “He’ll help you, alright. Right into the grave. You should just kill yourself now. Take a gun and blow your diseased head right off. Slit your wrists and let all that f**king poisoned blood run out of you. Pop a handful of pills, if you’re a chicken shit coward, and just go to sleep. Do it, McKinney.”

“No.” I smiled. “Oh Harold, he’s going to have to do better than this. Doesn’t he know how strong my faith is? How great the power of the Lord is in me? He can’t just send you here to tell me to kill myself. He’s a fool if he believes I’ll just roll over and let him have his way with me. Jesus lives in my heart, Harold. He can’t touch me.”

He winced then. But, almost immediately he recovered. “You are the fool. God? Jesus? If they are your only power then you are already lost. God is going to let you die, Stephen. And it won’t be easy either. I saw you all bloody, and I heard you scream. It will be hideous, do you hear me? And you will beg for the easy way out then.”

“I will not. I don’t beg for myself. I beg for the world, I beg for it’s children, I would even beg for you. But, I never beg for me, and I will not beg for an easy death. I fear it, that I can’t deny. It will come in it’s own way and time. And when it does, I will endure it, bear it, and see it end me. But I will NOT beg. You tell him that!” I had to suck in air then before wrenching. “I will NOT take the life God gave me and throw it back at Him. He can’t make me, he has no power over me.”

Harold lost his ground then, surveyed me, searched for stable footing again. “Beg for me?” He croaked out. “Why would you beg for me?”

“I pray for you because you’re soul and heart harbor he who is not of God.”

“Save it, McKinney, I hear enough of your preaching in my nightmares. Save your f**king breath.”

I shrugged. “You can’t tell me how to pray, Harold.” I smiled at him then. “Are we done with this? Or would you like to continue trying to get me to kill myself? He should know he can’t get rid of me that easy.” I paused and watch his face crinkle into a grimace. “You should stop letting him use you like some string puppet. If he wants to have at me, then tell him to come himself. He’s the coward.”

“Shut the f**k up.” He grabbed the front of my jacket, thrust his face into mine. “And keep your f**kin prayers to yourself.”

I just smiled back. “Are we finished with this?”

He thrust me away from himself and I lost my balance, fell to the ground. He said nothing else, just glared at me for a long, dark moment. My breathing became haggard and my stomach lurched. He nodded then, grinned, and left.

Slow comes the malice, the evil
The darkness of he not of God
Slow comes the disease, the hatred
The putrid smell of his rancid breath

My body recoils, my soul heaves
my stand remains rigid
for he not of God
has nothing over me.

And I say, “God bless you”
Invoking the name of the Father.

God bless you, Harold. Bless and keep you, though you be overrun by Satan. Overrun, yes, but I do not believe lost. Such torment must be so hard to bear. So very hard. No pain comes close to that of a soul in constant torment. I pray for you, Harold.

[Fist and Faith]

Wow!!!!!!! I love the whole beginning, as Harold's approaching!!!! And I like this Alex guy!!

But, Alex understood, his eyes watched me and I looked back at him. He knows me. “Come on, Steve will be alright.”

I should say so! I assume Stephen has worse encounters with Harold. Heck this one wouldn't even have tested me.

[Furls Fire]

If you remember, Alex was Steve's best friend. When he passed on, Stephen nearly lost all his faith.

What made these encounters with Harold so hard for him was the fact that his mere presence made him physically ill. But, yes, the encounters get worse. This one was just the tip of the ice burg.

I will not beg for an easy death

My brother still manages to break my heart sometimes

[Fire Daughter]

My Uncle loved music, all kinds, but he was especially fond of Christain music. One of his favorite artists before passing on was a girl named Jennifer Knapp. My mom was playing her last night and I sat listening, remembering how much my Uncle loved this one particular song. So, I thought I would post it here in his memorial thread...

Martyrs and Thieves, by Jennifer Knapp

There's a place in the darkness I use to cling to.
That presses harsh hope against time.
In the absence of martyrs
there's a presence of thieves
who only want to rob you blind.

They steal away any sense of peace,
tho I'm a king.
I'm a king on my knees.
And I know they are wrong
when they say I am strong.
As the darkness covers me.

So turn on the light and reveal all the glory,
I am not afraid.
To bear all my weakness,
knowing in meekness,
I have a kingdom to gain.

Where there is peace and love in the light
in the light, I am not afraid.
To let Your light shine bright in my life
In my life.

There are ghosts from my past
who have owned more of my soul.
Than I thought I had given away.
They linger in closets and under my bed.
And in pictures less proudly displayed.

A great fool in my life I have been.
Have squandered til pallid and thin.
Hung my head in shame
and refused to take blame.
For darkness I know I've let win.

So turn on the light and reveal all the glory,
I am not afraid.
To bear all my weakness,
knowing in meekness,
I have a kingdom to gain.

Where there is peace and love in the light
in the light, Oh, I am not afraid.
To let Your light shine bright in my life
In my life.
Oh, in my life...

Can You hear me? Can You hear me?
Can You hear me? Can You hear me?
Can You hear me? Can You hear me?

I've never been much for the bearing of soul
In the presence of any man
I'd rather keep to myself
all safe and secure.
In the arms of a sinner I am.

Could it be that my worth should depend
by the crimson stained grace of a hand
and like a lamb on a hill
Lord I pray in Your will
to reveal all of You that I can.

So turn on the light and reveal all the glory,
I am not afraid.
To bear all my weakness,
knowing in meekness,
I have a kingdom to gain.

Where there is peace and love in the light
in the light, oh, I am not afraid.
To let Your light shine bright in my life
In my life.
Oh, in my life...

There's a place in the darkness I use to cling to.
That presses harsh hope against time.

I miss you Uncle Steve. God's peace and grace be with you always.

[Furls Fire]

baby

He also liked this one...

Hold Me Now (about Mary Magdalene)

From glass alabaster
she poured out the depths of her soul.
O foot of Christ
would You wait if her harlotries known?
falls a tear to darken the dirt.
Of humblest offerings to forgive the hurt.
She is strong enough to stand in Your love.
I can hear her say...

I am weak
and I am poor
I am broken, Lord
but I'm Yours
Hold me now
Hold me now...

Let the first without sin
cast the first stone if you will.
To say that My bride isn't worth
half the blood that I've spilled.
Point your finger
and laugh if you choose
to say My beloved is borrowed and used
She is strong enough to stand in My Love
I can hear her say...

I am weak
and I am poor
I am broken, Lord
but I'm Yours
Hold me now
Hold me now...

But, it could be about any of us. All there is for us to do is just ask to be held. Then, the arms of Jesus will wrap around us and the light of Heaven will fill our souls with peace.

[matrixman]

What disturbs me about this Harold is how abusive he is towards Stephen in this encounter. Why would he use that kind of language to address Stephen? What did Stephen ever do to him to deserve that kind of treatment?

Did Harold have AIDS too? Was he trying to put himself in the "right" mood to end his own life by attacking Stephen?

From what I've read here, even John Nathan(?) was never like this toward Stephen.

[Fist and Faith]

Here's one maybe you don't know. It's The Hand Song, by Nickel Creek.

The boy ony wanted to give mother something
And all of her roses had bloomed
Looking at him as he came rushing in with them
Knowing her roses were doomed
All she could see were some thorns buried deep
And tears that he cried as she tended his wounds

And she knew it was love
It was one she could understand
He was showing his love
And that's how he hurt his hands

He still remembers that night as a child
On his mother's knee
She held him close and she opened a Bible
And quietly started to read
Then seeing a picture of Jesus he cried out
"Momma, he's got some scars just like me!"

And he knew it was love
It was one he could understand
He was showing his love
And that's how he hurt his hands

Now the boy's grown and moved out on his own
When Uncle Sam comes along
A foreign affair, but our young men were there
And luck had his number drawn
It wasn't that long till our hero was gone
He gave to a friend what he learned from the cross

But they knew it was love
It was one they could understand
He was showing his love
And that's how he hurt his hands
It was one they could understand
He was showing his love
And that's how he hurt his hands


Great image of a young boy seeing Jesus' hands, thinking, "I got the scars on my hands while showing my love. That must be how Jesus got his scars."

[Furls Fire]

I know that song, Fist!! Love it!!

Neo, here is the first entry about Harold. This may help you understand the second one better. As we talked about in chat last night, Harold was tormented within his soul...

...I will make darkness light before them, and crooked things straight...

October 17, 1991 2:24pm

There is a fog hanging over the water as we sail across the Bay. Serene, surreal, dense, I can barely see the pale glow of mooring lights on the other vessels passing by. They go slow, as though fearful of what lies in wait, or perhaps of dropping off some unseen edge. The ethereal silence of the mist muffles the foghorns that announce their presence on the water. I watch them as they creep along, hear the lap of the water against their keels. I inhale the mist, feel it fill my lungs with a coolness that whispers of health. My mind wanders. For here, the substantial world melds with the spiritual and I become whole. I see angels in the swirl of the haze, I hear the distant music of soft chimes, and I feel myself rising up to meet them even as my physical shell remains sitting on the damp bench of the ferry. If I were not writing, I would close my eyes and let it fill me up.

And yet, somehow, there is something else, the hint of fear. It grows now, building. It invades my soul, silences the music, taints the mist. I look over at the man next me. He sits huddled, wrapped up in his coat, his hands grip the fabric so tight that his knuckles bulge. He looks expensive, an executive of some sort, ferrying over to Oakland. He sees me looking at him, his eyes full of trouble or madness or fear, and asks: “What are you writing?” At once, I reach into my jacket pocket, turn on my little recorder and put down my pen…

Same day--October 17, 1991 11:38pm-- (Now recounting what I heard from Harold Prevetti. There is, as is known, agents of evil in the world.)

“I keep a journal. Right now, I’m writing down how in the fog the world and Heaven become one.”

He snorted at that, but made no comment. His fear encompassed me as I continued to watch him. “I hate this fog.” He said after a minute, and I watched those troubled eyes stumble from side to side as he took in the mist. “I really hate it.” I watched him start to shift and grip his coat even tighter. “Don’t you hate it?”

I smiled at him then, and he actually winced. As though my smile hurt him in some way. “No. I like the fog, the mist, the way it seems to blank out the substantial and let in the other side. I especially like it out on the water. I like to breath it in.”

He grunted. “You would.” He looked away from me and something more than fear began to seep into my awareness. It was hatred, coming from him, directed at me.

I held out my hand to him then, “Steve McKinney. I’m a student of theology and art at Berkeley.”

“Harold, Harold Prevetti,” he avoided my hand.

“What did you mean when you said ‘you would’?”

His eyes found me again, and I became chilled, a chill that no fog or dampness at its worst could have produced. “Look at you. Long hair, ear rings, writing down thoughts about…(the words “thoughts” and “about” came out as one long snarl). All you artsy queers love shit like fog.”

I laughed. He didn’t. I decided then to come to the matter before me. What else was there to do? Run? No, I don’t run. I felt the Father’s hand on my shoulder then and inhaled more mist. My will was about to be tested, my faith. I knew it. I leaned forward, letting my notebook and pen drop to the floor. “So, where does it come from? This hate you have so focused on me?”

Whatever mask Harold Prevetti was wearing came off then. At once, my soul was seared with a hate so hot that I began to sweat. His eyes became daggers as they stared at me, the grip on his coat fell away and he let his hands form claws. It was then I knew, as if I didn’t already, who had his heart. And he knew who had mine. I didn’t recoil, nor did I flinch. I held his gaze and he mine. Then he whispered. “I hate all artsy queers.”

And I replied. “I hate no one.”

“No? Of course you don’t. But, I bet if you knew me well enough, you would hate me.”

“No. I wouldn’t. And I don’t. Because you are just being used. He strives always to make us hurt ourselves and each other, because he knows that is what hurts the Father the most.”

This time, he laughed. “Oh, I get it, you think I’m possessed or something. By what? The Devil?” He leaned back, relaxed a little. The hate coming from him was intoxicating, made it hard for me to breathe. “I’m not possessed, kid. I just hate all queers and religious nuts. You seem to be both. Go back to your scribbling and leave me alone.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t want to talk to you.”

“No, I mean, why do you lie to me?” I felt the grip on my shoulder grow tighter.

(It is here that the recording becomes distorted. Something went wrong with it. So, I will try and remember all he said, but it is not verbatim—and I must say this—it is not of God.)

“Oh, you are a smart one. Lie to you? Alright, this is why I hate you. Because I see how close you are to where He is. And I will never be that close. Not that I want to be, I want to be as far away from it as I can get. I hate you because it’s easy. And it’s better than hating myself. I hate you because I can see how much you just love everything. That’s the truth, kid.” There he paused, and pulled in a huge breath. I knew he wasn’t finished talking so I waited. “I saw what you wrote down, ‘angels swirling in the mist’, I saw them too, but they weren’t angels, they were demons. The world and—Heaven—(he said ‘heaven’ with obvious effort)—becoming one? It’s the world and hell, kid. The world and hell.” Another pause. “f***, the world IS hell.”

“God bless you.” I said then, and he bared his teeth at me, grabbed the front of my jacket with both hands, stuck his face in mine.

“F*** God. Hell is all there is.” He shoved me away from him, got up and moved off into the fog.

“Harold!” I called after him. “Hell is only where you think you are. There is more, so much more, all you have to do is let go of the hate. He can’t hold you if you let go of the hate.”

He surged out of the fog at me, grabbed the front of my jacket again, yanked me up off the bench. “Shut up. What do you know of hate? Huh? What the f*** do you know of it? You’re what? 18? 20? How could you possibly understand anything about life and hell. You’re nothing but a queer ass kid.”

“I know more about life and love and heaven and hell than you can guess. I know pain, I know sickness, I know mortality, and I know God. He’s here right now, Harold. And you know that, don’t you? Because you felt Him through me. That’s why you were so afraid of the fog, that’s why that fear turned to hate toward me. You hate me because I know Him and you wish you did. You say it’s easy to hate? Yes. It is. But it is also easy to love. What has happened to you to make it so hard for you to love? Give it up, Harold. Hate serves no purpose but to breed more hate. It can’t make you happy.” I paused then, staring into those mad, hate-filled eyes. “God bless you, Harold.” He let go of me then, turned, and started to walk away. “Harold? You can find me at Berkeley. Just go to student services and ask for me. They will get me for you. My name is Stephen McKinney.”

“Go to hell.” His voice came out the fog at me. But it lacked the fierceness of hate, conveyed only the loneliness of fear.

So now, I say again. “God bless you, Harold Prevetti.”

"And I will bring the blind by a way that they knew not; I will lead them in paths that they have not known: I will make darkness light before them, and crooked things straight. These things will I do unto them, and not forsake them" --Isaiah 42:16, KJV

Ah, Father, You send me such harmed souls. I hope I have not failed you, I didn’t know what else to do. My heart tells me that it was not enough.

[matrixman]

Thanks, Furls. I just shake my head at this Harold. It's a testament to Stephen's strength of character that he could keep his composure, and patience, under that kind of personal attack.

[Furls Fire]

He astounded everyone, he really did.

[Revan]

WOW. Your brother is amazing Furls, he really is. Makes me envy those who believe that there is a god. Don't like this Harold much though.

And Furls, showed sarah some of Stephen's work, she said it was beautiful! Love you Furls.

[Furls Fire]

Love you too, sweetie. Who is Sarah? And Darth, saying things like "I envy those who believe in God" makes me wonder if you really don't The hope is there inside you, so is the love. Just reach down and search for it.

Read Stephen...He'll guide you.

Oh, and no, Neo, Harold did not have AIDS. Believe it or not, he was inflicted with something far worse...He had darkness in his soul, and hate in his heart.

[Revan]

Love you too, sweetie. Who is Sarah? And Darth, saying things like "I envy those who believe in God" makes me wonder if you really don't The hope is there inside you, so is the love. Just reach down and search for it.

Read Stephen...He'll guide you.

Oh, and no, Neo, Harold did not have AIDS. Believe it or not, he was inflicted with something far worse...He had darkness in his soul, and hate in his heart.

Sarah is my girlfriend, the one I've known my entire life. heh, the one I've told you about 1000 times.

heh, , hmmm... maybe I will one day... but not now..... now yet. *Sigh*

[Furls Fire]

ahhhhhhhh okay, don't recall you mentioning Sarah to me. Glad you showed her Stephen's entries and that she enjoyed them.

Everyone is welcome here.

I'll try to get another up soon.

Peace all

[Furls Fire]

Hail everyone, I'm putting in another prayer request. Our little Silezia is not doing very well and is back in the hospital. If the Father wishes to take her Home, then we will let her go, of course. If it is His wish that she stay a little longer then we ask for prayers to make her suffering less.

Peace and God bless

Daddy, when we get to Heaven, can I taste the Milky Way?
Are we going there to visit, or are we going there to stay?
Am I gonna see my Grandpa? Can I have a pair of wings?
And do you think that God could use another Angel,
To help pour out the rain?

--Buddy Jewell, "Help Pour Out the Rain (Lacey's Song)

[duchess of malfi]

Oh, Furls.

(There is nothing in the world more painful for me than a sick or hurt child. My prayers are with your Zia.)