Heaven Sent an Angel

be stories. I don't know how long the podcast is going to be, but just hang on. I think this might be interesting. But the first thing I want to share with you is I picked up a book last week. I have a list of favorite authors that I love to read and seek out authors who may or may not tell stories I'm interested in, but they write really well. One of those authors is Dennis Johnson. D Nis Johnson. You may know that name or you may recognize something he wrote if you have watched a new film on

Netflix called Train Dreams. Dennis Johnson wrote that book. It's a short I think if they would call it a novella. It's not a very long book, but I stumbled across that book about two or three years ago. I think someone reviewed it. It looked interesting, so I bought it and I read it, and I just love the way this guy writes. He's won all kind of awards, and he's written six or eight novels. He's a poet. He's

got two or three books of poetry out. So I'll give these authors a read, and then i'll put it down, and i'll write their name down, and then i'll go to another author, and then when I want to come back to them, I'll pick up another book that they wrote. So I'm reading a book now by Dennis Johnson call it's called Tree of Smoke. Now. I'm only five or six chapters into it, and it's really good. It's a Vietnam era book. The very first chapter I read a

short scene. It's about six or eight paragraphs long, and I've recorded it. I want you to listen to it. I know this isn't monster content. Listen to this little

micro story. Listen to the way he wrote it. Immediately when it's over, I want you to hit the pause button if you'd like to, and comment to me and tell me what your immediate emotion is after hearing this little six or eight paragraph scene at the very beginning of Tree of Smoke, I'm curious to know what my listeners can hear and pick up in a good piece of writing. I'm just curious if you had any of

the same emotions I had when I stopped. I mean, it's only a couple of pages long, and I read this, and I stopped, and I reflected back on my life at the time, when I was a kid and have done this, I've done things like this, and how much remorse I had at the time, and how at the age of sixty three, I'll remember something all the way back when I was eight years old. Whenever it crosses my mind, just this wave of heat and embarrassment and remorse comes over me for doing what I did. And

it is it is. I don't know how to describe the emotion. But anyway, anyway, I want you to listen to this, pause your video, tap the screen, immediately, make a comment. Let me know the emotion that this evoked from listening to this. I'm very interested in that. And also let me know if you if you got to the end of this and you a preated the way he wrote it, to evoke an emotion from you and to give you some kind of a microscope into this

boy's life and personality and demeanor. Because I think, as I'm reading this book, it's gonna it's gonna give you some insight into some of the things he goes through in Vietnam, and you'll know who you're reading about. Okay, I'll shut up. Here is the h here's the little excerpt from Tree of Smoke. It was late in the morning and Seemen Apprentice William Houston Jr. Began feeling sober again as he stalked the jungle of Grand Island carrying

a Borrow twenty two rifle. There was supposed to be some wild boars roaming this island military resort, which was all he had seen so far in the Philippines. He didn't know how he felt about this country. He just wanted to do so hunting in the jungle. There were supposed to be wild bores around here. He stepped carefully, thinking about snakes and trying to be quiet because he wanted to hear any bores before they charged him. He

was aware that he was terrifically on edge. From all around came the ten thousand sounds of the jungle, as well as the cries of gulls and the far off surf, And if he stopped in and listened a minute, he could hear also the pulse snickering of the heat of his flesh, and the creak of sweat in his ears. If he stayed motionless only another couple of seconds, the

bugs found him and whined around his head. He propped the rifle against the stunted banana plant, and removed his head band and wrung it out, and wiped his face, and stood there a while, waving away mosquitoes with the cloth and itching his crotch absent mindedly. Nearby, a seagull seemed to be carrying on an argument with itself, a series of protesting squeaks interrupted by contradictory, lower pitched cries that sounded like huh huh, huh, And something moving from

one tree to another caught Semen Houston's eye. He kept his vision on the spot where he'd seen it among the branches of a rubber tree, putting his hand out for the rifle without altering the direction of his gaze. It moved again, and now he saw that it was some sort of monkey, not much bigger than a Chihuahua dog, not precisely a wild boar, but it presented itself as something to be looked at, clinging by its left hand and both feet to the tree's trunk, digging at the

thin rind with an air of tiny, exasperated haste. Semen Houston took the money's meager back under the rifle sight. He raised the barrel a few degrees and took the monkey's head into his sight, and without really thinking about anything at all, he squeezed the trigger. The monkey flattened itself out against the tree, spreading its arms and legs enthusiastically, and then reaching around with both hands as if trying to scratch its back, and it tumbled down to the ground.

Semen Houston was terrified to witness its convulsions. There it hoisted itself, pushing off the ground with one arm, and sat back against the tree trunk with its legs spread out before it, like somebody resting from a difficult job of labor. Semen Houston took himself a few steps nearer, and from the distance of only a few yards, he saw the monkey's fur was very shiny and held a heena tent, and the shadows and a blond tent, and

the light as the leaves moved above it. It looked from side to side, its breath coming in great rapid gulps, its belly expanding tremendously with every breath, like a balloon. The shot had been low, exiting from the abdomen. Semen Houston felt his own stomach terar itself in two Jesus Christ. He shouted at the monkey, as if it might do

something about its embarrassing and hateful condition. He thought his head would explode if the forenoon kept burning into the jungle all around him, and the gulls kept screaming, and the monkey kept regarding its surroundings, carefully moving its head and black eyes from side to side, like someone following the progress of some kind of conversation, some kind of debate, some kind of struggle that the jungle the morning the moment,

was having with itself. Semen Houston walked over to the monkey, laid the rifle down beside it, lifted the animal up with his two hands and holding its buttocks in one and cradling its head in the other. With fascination and then revulsion, he realized that the monkey was crying. Its breath came out in sobs, and tears welled out its eyes.

When it blinked, it looked here and there, appearing no more interested in him than in anything else it might be seen, Hey, Houston said, But the monkey didn't seem to hear. As he held the animal in his hands, its heart stopped beating. He gave it a shake, but he knew it was useless. He felt as if everything was all his fault, and with no one around to know about it, he let himself cry like a child. He was eighteen years old. All right, thank you for

your comments. If you haven't comment it, hit the pause button on the video or the podcast. And I don't know how to comment on these podcast apps, but I'm assuming you can. The whole point of this exercise is not for me to get comments. Comments do help the channel, but that's not what I'm doing. I'm trying to demonstrate for you how good writing can actually move a reader

to almost tears. If you want to listen to that whole book on or if you want to read it, just search for Dennis Johnson on Amazon and you can buy the book or any of his books. I've only read one book, Train Dreams, but if you want to search, he's got six or eight novels out and I'm sure they're all written extremely well. May not be the subject matter you're interested in, but if you're like me, if you just appreciate exceptional writing, Dennis Johnson is one of

those guys. Now, and let me say this, if you want to listen to it on audible, Will Patten is the narrator. He is the king of all narrators. He did so much better with that little scene than I did. If you listen to it, you'll hear it. You'll hear it. You'll feel even more emotional when you hear Will Patten when you hear Will Patten read it. But I just wanted to share it with my audience, so I read it. I couldn't grab Will Patten's audio and let you hear

it because it would have been a copyright. So anyway, all that said, speaking of writing, let's talk about Steve Lily. I don't have any notes here, and I don't know exactly how to say what I'm about to say. And it's not bad news. I'm going to keep writing Steve Lily, but this for the last I think I've been writing those for three four years now. And the first one, just so you know, the first one that I put out,

I actually put it out on this podcast. I had some free time and I just spent about three hours and I just wrote this real quick story. And I'll tell you why I wrote it is because all of these Bigfoot stories they kind of run together, and they're all basically the same. If you watch a Bigfoot movie, the Bigfoot is always the terror in the woods, and Bigfoot is the focus of all those films and all

of these stories. And I wanted to at that moment when I wrote Steve Lily Number one, which would later become I didn't plan it on being a series. I just thought, you know, i've got an afternoon free, I'm going to write something different. I'm going to turn the tables and make the Bigfoot story about the people who,

in this case are hunting Bigfoot. And I kind of ran through several scenarios of how this guy could get roped into hunting Bigfoot by the government and just be a personable guy that you could begin to know and like, and then put some of his friends with him and you begin to like them. I'm an old fashioned story kind of person. I like the good guy versus the bad guy, and there's a conflict and there's a resolution, and there's an ending and the good guy comes out

on top. I may not write all the Steve Lilly stories that way, but and then I got to thinking, well, let me back up. So the first one so many people liked it, I thought, well, okay, I'll write another one. So I just kind of dreamed up another story, and I put out number two. And I don't even remember what I wrote in like two through I kind of remember a three part series, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen. I don't know.

I've got one that's two parts and one that's three parts, and then I've got nineteen, and then I've got twenty. But what is going on with the Steve Lilly thing? People? I've had complaints about Steve Lilly. I've had these mostly ninety nine percent people seem to really enjoy Steve Lily, and thank you so much for the encouraging comments. This

is the best audience on the planet. But there is a certain group of people that expect every story to be like Steve Lily, maybe like one through ten but you have to understand I didn't know how to write. I had never written much of anything. I've always wanted to write, but I've never had time to. You know, to write, you have to sit down and think, and you have to write and then go back and edit it and clean it up and make it more legible.

And it's kind of a process that I didn't expect that I would have to go through, but that is the process. And you want to write something different, something, you know, a story people can relate to. And anyway, every guy in the Steve Lily, every person in the Steve Lilly series is someone I know, even Steve Leary Steve Lily, He's sort of a composite of several iron workers I've known through the years in my business. But here's what I'm trying to get across to you. I'm

teaching myself how to write. And around episode nine or ten, I decided, you know what I need to I owe this audience a better story, a better written story. And I want to even though it's a silly, kind of slapstick jamble of stories that really go nowhere, they're just episodes of They're just little ideas I come up with all these stories are kind of built off of some

little funny EPs I have in my mind. So for instance nineteen where they go to help out Charlie with the bigfoot that he dug up or the Bigfoot clan that comes after him because he dug up a bigfoot skeleton. That started out with a vision for some reason, it just popped in my head a bigfoot sitting on a tractor driving a tractor. I have no idea why that

popped in my head. Well, it wound up being a skeleton, but it was some method that they used to draw these bigfoots out and kill them, like that whole open Door story. And I'll admit I went too far in that story. That story was dealt with portals and hundreds of bigfoots pouring out of the portals, and it was kind of silly, and I don't really go into the woo stuff. I guess I just felt like righting that

kind of story at that time. And then twenty was about I had a vision of a baby big Foot and a woman bringing it back to camping and attacking everybody, So that whole story was built around that. So you got to have a bad guy good guy gotta have annoying characters. I like putting in annoying characters. Now, I told you all I was going to ramble on in

this podcast, so hang with me. If you're still with me, I just want you to know that I'm trying to teach myself how to write, and I feel like that you cannot become a good writer unless you're a prolific reader, which I am. I read as much as I can possibly read fiction nonfiction. I just finished a book, well it's on my nightstand, but it's a nonfiction book by Buddy Levy about a polar expedition into the toward the North Pole, and it's a harrowing thing. I love good history.

But you can read good history and good contemporary narrative history and you can get great ideas of how to write, and you if those things teach you how to write, and you also get ideas for stories. Now I'm reading some other stuff by some non best selling authors, some guys I actually met this weekend. Two of those guys handed me their books, and I'm gonna I'm going to try to do their audio books on the podcast, maybe sooner than later, because they're they're kind of they're they're

real interesting to me. So anyway, all that to say, if you're disappointed in Steve Lily or if you're happy with Steve Lily, I want you to know that I'm teaching myself to write how to write, and you're kind of, whether you know it or not, you're kind of following along the evolution of a man in his sixties who has found a passion late in life. And I'm teaching myself to write. And I am trying to teach myself that by reading great authors like Dennis Johnson. I've read

several passages from several books. I've even read short stories by really good authors, Tom Franklin, Michael Ferris Smith, Larry Brown, and there are Jeff Crawford is a good author I've read. I just put up a whole audio book on my podcast network that he wrote. And I feel like the more I read, the more I learned to write. And you're getting not getting don't feel like you're I don't think you're privileged to do this, but you're kind of

coming along with me on that road. And So I had started a Steve Lilly novel two years ago, and every time I read another book I think about what I've written, and I go back and change it because I think, damn, I can do that better, and so I'll try to do it better. And so I hope to get a Steve Lilly novel out, maybe by the end of the summer. I don't know, and I'm going to record the audiobook and put it out. Maybe we

can do a series. I have other stories in my head I want to write that have nothing to do with Bigfoot or they're just normal stories. So I wanted to read that to you to tell you that good writing will provoke these emotions from you. And that is what I tried to do in Steve Lily twenty, specifically that sorry couple on the side of the road, leaving those dogs behind them. The goal was to get you to hate them, and based on the comments I've got

on Steve Lily twenty, accomplished my mission. I've got so many emails. There's a lot of people pissed off about that. Matter of fact, I got about a half a dozen comments and emails from people saying they're unsubscribing because I wrote that scene in that story. It's fiction, it's not real, but you know, those things do happen. I mean, there are plenty of people who just leave dogs on the side of the highway, and that is a part of reality. But if it made you hate that couple that was

in the car, then I accomplished my mission. So I consider that one of the best things I've written. Even though it may have made you mad, it evoked this emotion from you that was I want to use the word visceral, but I don't really know what the word visceral means, but it seems appropriate, like this visceral, obvious type emotion from people. And so I learned a little bit about how to develop characters and make you like them, make you hate them, all those kind of things, and

I was just trying to do that in this story. Anyway. That's kind of what's going on with Steve Lilly. Now I want to read you a story I got from This is actually an email I got. It's a story a published author has written specifically for this podcast. I'm sure he's published in other places, but it is his struggle with depression. This guy went down a road that was terrible, terrible, terrible, and he's just listening to the story. But it's a happy ending. We won't drop off on

this podcast with a gloomy kind of mood. But I think you're really gonna like this and you're gonna appreciate it, and it ought to provoke an emotion from you that is, I'll use the word again, visceral. You will. You'll actually be moved by the story. So again, this is a different podcast. It's just something I've been wanting to do for a while. Talk about writing, talk about Steve Lilly, talk about good writing, talk about emotional writing and how it can move you. And here is one of those

stories that will do that. And then I'll sign off at the end. But listen into the story, and when you get to the end of it, even if you've commented before, push the pause button and let me know how this story makes you feel. It's going to take you deep into the recesses of the human mind that makes some of us want to do things that we probably that are dangerous for us. So listen to it, leave a comment and I'll talk to you at the end. Thanks. This email is from Greg ball And Greg Ballin is

a published author. A published author, it's several books out on Amazon. Greg Ballin, GR E, G. B. A L. L A N. You can look him up. I've done a couple of his creature stories on this podcast, one being that I remember is called The War of the Species, really good story he wrote. This is a personal story that he sent to me. I called Greg, I said, can I attach your name to this email? He said yes, so let's read the email. Thank you so much for

reading the many of my stories. I'm extremely humbled and grateful. This is a tale about a real experience I had in September of nineteen ninety eight. I was experiencing an incredibly bad depression. I had never been at such a low point in my life. I've been through hard times before, but nothing like what I was in during that late summer and fall. I can no longer take the pain, and I decided to end my life. I called in sick to work on a cloudy Wednesday and went to

the gun range intent on suicide. The attached is the true tale of my experience and how a strange old man saved me from making a horrible, horrible choice. Five years later, my best friend and hunting buddy took his own life. Often wonder why I was fortunate enough to escape my fate, and he wasn't. I witnessed the pain his death caused his sons and daughter, at the horrible months of tears and the questions that followed his passing. I can only imagine what my young wife and small

children would have gone through. My death would have ended my pain, but permanently scarred my children. My friend's children have been scarred for life. And even today, twenty one years later, I still miss my friend and long for the times we had spent together in the woods and at his dinner table, talking and laughing. I hope you find merit in this true story. It is not as creepy as the haunted forest, or the scary or as scary as the war of the species or the binding Watch.

But I have never forgotten that afternoon when I almost made the worst possible decision the human can make. Thank you for getting me through my damn. I hadn't even gotten the story in his Every time I read this note, he said to me, it chokes me up. Thank you for getting me through my long workdays. I feel like we're old friends, and I have several colleagues following your podcast. Very respectfully, Greg Balin, Well Greg, thank you now Here's Greg's story. It's called a talk with an angel. I

had nowhere else to turn. No other solution seemed viable. Why oh why want this pain and misery leave me? I can't find the strength to get up in the morning, and I find myself dragging through each day the misery of mere existence more than my tortured soul can bear. Work is hopeless. I'm falling further and further behind. Home is nothing but strife and turmoil. I'm constantly being yelled at. What's wrong with you? Why can't you just stop this?

You have responsibilities in a family to support. Everybody is relying on me, depending on me, and counting on me for some chore, some favor, some task that needs my attention. Nobody asks how I'm feeling, how I'm doing? Am I okay? I'm supposed to be strong and a warrior. I'm not allowed to be weak. I have too many people counting on me, and now I'm only allowed to be strong and carry others. This is my sole purpose to give and never receive. The well is run dry. The giving

tree has no more branches. No one can understand how or why this happened to me. Hell I can't figure out how this happened. I've fallen so far, so fast, and I never saw it coming. This was the only answer. It will end my pain and I can finally rest. I drove my truck to the rifle range. It's the middle of a weekday, so I'm completely alone. I took out my nine millimeter auto and loaded a hallow point into the gun. I cycled around and removed the safety.

I can feel the tears flowing from my eyes as I stared down the barrel of the pistol. The muted black grip feels perversely comforting in my hand, and the weapon is waiting to bark, its doom filled answer to my problems. My mood like the sky is bleak, cold and gray, a perfect day to expire. Is this really my only option? Something inside me screamed as my finger starts to squeeze the trigger. Yes, A voice whispered back, it's my own. I hear the words, but am I

actually saying it? A sense of peace washes over me. Finally, I've made a decision to do it. I can feel the release point on the trigger. Another millimeter and I'll be free of all the pain and all the misery. There'll be no more yelling, no more stress, no more pain. Oh God, finally, no more pain. I hesitated for a second, hovering over the brink of my life. An instant eradication. The sound of footsteps make me ease off the trigger. I lower the gun just as the stranger arrives with

his gun case in supply pack. You shooting today? Do you mind some company, an old man asked in a soft voice. Well, I don't own this place, and just remember like you, I replied in an unfriendly tone. Snarky reply I didn't seem to bother him. He unpacked his rifle and opened his shooting bag. I'd never seen such an elegant rifle before. The engraving was inlaid into the stock. Beautifully breathtaking images were intricately carved and further embellished upon

the silvery gun medal. The stranger caught me staring at his rifle and without warning, tossed the weapon at me. I reached out on instinct and grabbed a stock and twisted the muzzle toward the ground in one fluid motion. Not bad for a Yankee, he said, walking toward me. I knew you wouldn't drop it. Are you a member here, I challenged, handing him back his rifle after admiring the

weapon's beauty, Oh, I just joined, the stranger replied. I hadn't been to a meeting since the onset of my depression, so I had no reason to doubt his word. I turned my back, staring at my pistol lying on the shooting bench. Couldn't do this with an audience. I'd head into the woods and find a peaceful spot and make it my final resting place. Have a good time. It's all yours, I said. I grabbed my stuff, ready to face oblivion alone in the woods. I turned to go,

and the old man sighed in frustration. I looked over at him, and he asked me if I knew anything about rifles. I nodded a great deal. Actually, I don't know why I felt compelled to answer him. The bolt isn't sliding properly. I think something's wrong, but I don't have any tools, he commented, struggling with the rifle bolt action. We'll put it on the bench. I'll take a look at it. I sighed. I had come here intent on ending my life, and I wound up performing a service call.

I started wrestling with the bolt on his rifle, and he just began to talk. He spoke of his travels and his love of hunting and shooting, and his appreciation of nature. I found him. I'm annoyingly happy for the first five minutes while he babbled on like we were old friends. He began asking questions about me. Where did I live, how did I find the love of the outdoors,

and other things that only two hunters can appreciate. I don't remember exactly when I realized it, but suddenly, for the first time in three months, I felt like I had someone I could actually relate with. I began answering his questions while asking a few of my own. Between wrestling with a stubborn rifle action. We talked a great deal more about our lives and our problems, mine in particular.

I never confessed to this stranger why I had come here today as I finished freeing and cleaning the jam bolt action. But since the old man knew all too well. When he interrupted, he read the guilt in my eyes. He knew if I walked away it would be to finish what he interrupted. Where do you store this right in alent factory. I lightly teased him, and he laughed, a joyous sound that made me chuckle along with him. The lent mixed with the gun ole and powder residue

coated this thing like tarl like coating. You're lucky this thing cycled at all, I explained, as I threw away two filthy cleaning rags. She smoothed in silk across the babies behind now, I added, handing him his rifle. The old man worked the action a few times and smiled warmly. He haded my pistol lying on the shooting bench. I followed his gaze and looked upon my weapon. He seemed to be waiting for me to say something, offer up a reason for what we both knew he'd seen. I

chose to keep silent. You any good with that? He pointed toward the pistol. Uh good enough, but I could always be better, I answered, in a much warmer tone than I originally greeted him. So let's shoot, Yankee impressed me. He gestured toward the range targets. We spent an hour going through several hundred rounds of ammunition, chatting like we were old friends as we paused to reload and examine

our targets. As I was firing round after round, my mind began to visualize what would have happened when my children learned Daddy splattered his brains all over this gun club. They were too young to understand my pain and my problems. It just knew Daddy wasn't feeling well, but he'd be better soon. Now. I had visions of them at my funerals, staring at my headstone, not really comprehending the fact that I was never coming home. I envisioned the bank for

closing on the house, and other terrible visions. I put the gun down and tried to fight back the tears. What did I almost do? I mumbled, staring at the target I had totally destroyed. I looked over and the old man was staring at me concerned. Are you okay? He asked me. Yeah, I think so, I replied, as that morbid cemetery vision stayed with me. You sure, greg, he asked me again. Yeah, I'm gonna be fine, I answered,

as a sense of relief washed over me. He packed up his rifle and gathered his equipment and prepared to leave. I watched him in silence, still thinking about what would have happened had this man not come here. He walked over and extended his hand. Thanks for fixing me up, he raised his rifle case. I don't mention it. Clean that beauty as soon as you get home. And thanks for the company, I noted, and gave him a half salute.

You're welcome, he answered with a deep smile. Funny thing about problems, Greg, they oftentimes seem bigger because you're in the middle of them. Take a step outside of them for a while, and don't be afraid to talk to somebody. Even a warrior needs to rest once in a while. After all, you are only human. Amen to that, brother, I shouted back. As I turned together up my things. I heard him laugh for a moment, and then I heard nothing, no footfalls or rustling or twelve fabric that

had announced his presence. And I spun back around quickly and he was gone. I made my way up the path at a rapid pace, only to find an empty parking lot and my truck parked nearby in the grass. It was no way the old man could have moved so fast. I would have heard his car start if he had driven here. If he had walked, he would easily be within visual range. And then it hit me like an electric shock, A tingling sensation raced through my body,

and he called me by name. Never once in our conversation did I give him my name, and I never bothered to ask for his. I used the terms guy, my friend bud on one occasion, and he always called me yankee, but we never bothered to exchange names. But through all of talking in conversation, I had never even thought to ask him, how did he know my name? Why did he use the term warrior? How did he know that particular word would hit home with me? I was a student of Bashido, the way of the warrior.

How did he know? There's no possible way he could have known. I recovered from my depression in the weeks following. I was able to step outside my problems and take hold of them and control them, just as the old man suggested. I talked to a few people at work about my job, and I got the help that I needed there. Things were turning around. And as for the old man at the rifle range, I kept these mysteries to myself. I attended the next club meeting and I

looked for the old man, but he never came. I asked around if anyone had seen him before. No one had. I asked the board members if they had voted in any new members had, but they were all men my age or younger, nobody as old as the man I described. I spent the rest of the meeting in a fog. I had been sent an angel in the form of an old man. I would have taken my own life

that cold fall afternoon. Had he not been there to stop me, I would have put that nine milimeter around through my skull and left my kids without a father. I look back, and I wonder how I ever let things spiral so far out of control. Was it my pride at always having to be perfect? Was I really feeling like everybody wanted more than I could give? Will I ever be able to thank that old man for

saving my life. I still don't know the answers, and I've gathered enough wisdom to realize I'll always have more questions than answers. The old man taught me that problems aren't always as big as they see, provided there's someone around to hell put them in perspective. The price for my life, and that piece of wisdom was the twenty minutes it took me to dissemble and clean a bolt action rifle. I write this in the memory of my dearest friend Glenn, who took his life in October of

two thousand and four. My friend, I miss you greatly. Trying to get my composure here. That is a letter from a real man. You know his name, you know the problems he went through. He listed them all. These are problems that men from twenty years old to eighty year olds have. We have no one to talk to, We have no one, and we can relate these feelings to. Greg was provided. I believe one hundred percent it was an angel. If you're in a season of depression and

you hear this story, there is hope. Just hang in there, Just hang on. That's all you have to do. I'm not a psychologists or a psychiatrist, and Greg, I'm sorry if I'm adding some commentary that you don't appreciate. I'm just asking these people to hang on, because that's what I got from this story. This man that just showed up at the rifle range just held him there and he was hanging on for just a minute, just another minute, just another minute, just another sentence. Until it all worked

out in Greg's head. Thank you Greg for sending this. Please please please not comment for the sake of commenting, but comment how this letter from Greg Ballin made you feel he would be interested in seeing your comments and so so I'll end that podcast with this. It was a different podcast every once in a while, I don't know, I like to do something different. Hope you enjoyed it and we'll see guys on the next week.