From God's House to You

By Dr. Randolph Pinch

The Amazing Journey of a Psychic Herbalist Dr. Randolph Pinch. I can tell you this, you may think you control your life but you don't. Destiny is where your life begins and destiny is where your life ends. Death is not the end, it is the beginning of a new journey. I died and brought back a gift to help others. Let me tell you my story.

• Language: English
• Publisher: eBookIt.com
• Release date: Apr 26, 2016
• ISBN: 9781456620707

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Pinch.

PART I: MY STORY

INTRODUCTION

Watching him through my kitchen window, I could tell the man was in pain. He was part of the construction team working around our townhouse complex. Some of the men hefted lengths of copper pipe on their shoulders, while others carried power tools or had thick black coils of wiring wound around their arms. They were all working hard – except the fellow sitting in the back bed of a pickup truck, his legs dangling over the side. He sat hunched over, watching the ground. Whenever someone approached him, he’d glance up. He looked like he was about to cry.

My inner sense began to tingle. He was hurting, and I wanted to help him.

I moseyed outside, careful to stay out of everyone’s way, and introduced myself to the seated man. His name was Carlos, and he was head engineer on this project. He apologized for disturbing me, and told me his men were working as quietly as possible. As he talked, his reddish face was tight with pain. Perspiration dotted his forehead, even though this was a cool summer day.

Bluntly, I asked, What’s wrong with you?

His jaw clenched, then he blew out a breath. I can’t believe it, he muttered. I’ve got shingles.

I studied the redness on his face and nodded sympathetically. Shingles, an acute viral inflammation of the spinal and cranial nerves, can cause splotchy rashes and, in more extreme cases, blister-like eruptions accompanied by excruciating pain.

I feel like hell, he continued. I’ve been to so many doctors. Specialists, naturopaths, even Chinese medicine doctors – you name it, I’ve been to them. Do you know anything that can help me a little bit?

I nodded. Sure, I can help you. Give me a day or so to put something together.

He looked at me in surprise. I’m sure he thought, Who’s this guy, and what’s he know about medicine? Still, I gave him a reassuring look and after a moment, he smiled.

I went back into my house, and headed downstairs to my one-room laboratory. I consulted a book that lists Chinese herbs, as well as their North American counterparts. Then I opened my notebooks, which were filled with calculations. What would be good for shingles? I thought, as I leafed through several pages. I needed herbs with anti-inflammatory properties…

Then I closed my eyes and concentrated, centering myself, and prayed for guidance.

I visualized bromelain, a herb with anti-inflammatory properties, which can be very beneficial to people with nerve conditions. That would be the main ingredient in the supplement I was creating for Carlos. In addition, he would do well to use my chelation agent, which contains serrapeptase, a herb that can help dissolve plaque and increase circulation to inflamed areas.

I said a quick prayer of thanks, and went to work mixing ingredients.

Even though I’m a board-certified Master Herbalist, with the designation Register of Approved Herbal Medicine Practitioners, and I was trained by the Institute of Natural Healing in Somerset, England, I have a deep belief in God, and gratefully accept His help. And I always appreciate insight that comes to me from my guides and angels, and the spirit world.

Let me digress for a moment. One of the most powerful messages I ever received came to me late at night when I was working in my lab. I was trying to develop a herbal remedy for a female client who was depressed because she couldn’t seem to control her hormones.

The hormone replacement therapy drugs on the market weren’t helping her, and it saddened me to see the suffering she was going through. It affected her husband and children. I looked at the glass jars of herbs on my shelves, and I just knew the answer to her problems was somewhere before me.

So I prayed for help. And that’s when I heard the voice of God in my inner ear.

For every disease, I created a seed.

I thought about how true that statement was! It made so much sense. For every problem, there is also a solution. Every question we encounter in our life has an answer – all we have to do is look for it. God put everything here for us. It’s part of the natural flow – from God’s house to you.

Carlos must have told his wife about our conversation, because the next day, after she dropped him off at the work site, she rang my doorbell. When I opened my door, I found a vibrant young woman with thick, dark hair who was crying intensely.

She explained her husband’s difficulty, saying, The doctors don’t understand it. His health is pretty good, but he’s got one of the worst cases of shingles they’ve ever seen. And nothing’s working for him.

I asked her to wait a moment, then I went to get the herbal supplements I’d been working on. Tell Carlos to take four of these pills, and drink one ounce of this chelation liquid at night, and one ounce in the morning.

How much do I owe you? she asked, sobbing, as she took the container of pills, and the small bottles of fluid. She wiped her eyes with the back of a hand.

Tell you what, I said. Let’s see how this works.

After two days, I noticed Carlos was standing up and walking around. I went out to see him, and he shook my hand like a politician who wanted my vote.

You know what? he said vigorously. I feel great! I still have a little pain, but all the heavy hurt is gone.

The last time I’d seen him, Carlos couldn’t even get off of the back of his truck because he was in so much discomfort. He had to have two people pick him up. But now, he was walking with the swagger of a golfer who had just hit a hole in one.

That’s the kind of thing that I like to see, when people come to me and say, Nobody can do anything for me. Can you help? And I’m able to make their life easier.

Drugs do serve a certain purpose, and they are good for a lot of things. But I also believe in the power of natural medicine. Products made from organically grown herbs and plant enzymes are often just as useful – and sometimes more so – as chemical-based pharmaceuticals concocted by drug companies. Plus, herb-based products have no side effects. I’ve approached the pharmaceutical companies in an attempt to prove that the herbal remedies I’ve developed work as well as their mass-manufactured drugs, but no one’s contacted me to challenge my claims.

Knowing I can help people like Carlos – that’s like winning a million dollars to me. I love it when people say, My medicine doesn’t seem to be working.

My answer: Let me show you what I can do with herbs.

Someone once called me the Thomas Edison of herbs. That’s because in my more than twenty years of working with herbs, I’ve developed over 1,200 natural products, including wines, gluten-free foods and pet foods.

I’ve done it with help from the spirit world, and with knowledge I’ve gained from a lifetime of learning. I’ve also relied on something we all have – psychic intuition.

Besides being a Master Herbalist, I’m also a Doctor of Acupuncture and Chinese Medicine, and I’m certified in hypnotherapy and reflexology. I’ve treated clients with severely blocked arteries, tumours, migraines, dementia, and a host of other ills. I’ve worked with people who were HIV-positive and those dealing with chemotherapy. I can’t say I’ve cured everyone who came to me, but I’m thankful for the knowledge that I’ve been able to give people a greater quality of life.

If you read this book, you’re going to find out more on how to keep yourself physically, emotionally and spiritually healthy. I’m also going to share with you one of the greatest lessons I’ve learned: No matter how hard things get in life, you need to pick yourself up and go forward. Because when God sees you working to accomplish a goal, He helps you. The angels are all around us, and they’re also here to help. And one of the most important things I’ve learned is don’t be afraid to take chances.

I’ve had a difficult life. My parents were often violent and abusive. Death took my loving brother at an early age, robbing me of my best friend. As a young man, I was gripped by depression and once began to see suicide as the only way out of my pain. I’ve even died (but not by my own hand), and what I saw when I crossed over and who I met changed me forever.

When I see where I’ve come from, what I’ve accomplished, and where I believe I’m going – I wouldn’t change one thing about my past. I was lucky to meet all kinds of people, from Elvis Presley’s family to snake-handlers in the backwoods of Alabama. I’ve witnessed miracles in Buddhist retreats and encountered racism of the worst kind, and believe me, nothing is more terrifying than having a bigoted cop wave a gun in your face. I once owned a mansion in Las Vegas; now, I live in a modest townhouse on the outskirts of Toronto.

Pain and suffering shaped me, but I carry no anger in my heart. With God’s help, I met life’s toughest challenges and never gave up on my goals. And today, my life is filled with gifts.

Let me tell you my story….

CHAPTER 1

A Violent Beginning

I was born on May 27, 1952, in Peterborough, Canada. My parents named me after Randolph Scott – my dad loved westerns.

Like many people born under the sign of Gemini – the twins – my early life was shaped by two forces: my father’s anger, and God’s love.

I never had to be brought to God; I believe He was with me the moment I was born. I can’t explain how I know this, I just do. As a youngster, I felt Him in my heart, and I felt Him surrounding me. He was like a comfort, a pillow to rest my head on. I often daydreamed about Him, envisioning Him as a loving father, a beautiful, gentle spirit with a white beard and a white smock. And when I dreamed about Him at night, I felt His presence as a peaceful energy.

I did not grow up in a religious house. We attended church on the occasional important holidays. Yet I still felt close to God. He protected me when I was three years old, when my father threw me against the wall and broke my leg. I know he was there two years later, when my skull was crushed when I was hit by a car.

When I look back at those traumatic experiences, and other events that created the person I am today, I know that during my worst moments, God held me protectively in His hands in a way that said, You’ll always know that I’m there.

Shortly after I was born, we moved to Detroit, where my father, Donald Pinch, worked for a time on the manufacturing line at Chrysler. He had citizenship in both Canada and the United States, and when I was young, we moved back and forth between the two countries several times. On one trip, the sides of the moving truck he’d rented blew out, and a lot of family paperwork we were carrying went out on the highway. So, unfortunately, a lot of my early records were lost. For all I know, my birth certificate, early immunization records and other documents are still in some farm field east of Windsor.

My father was a very angry person. But when I look at his life, I can understand where all his rage came from.

He was mulatto, but looked like a black person. He had tight curly hair and his skin was a deep brown colour. As he got older, it lightened a bit, yet not enough to attain a mocha hue. He was a construction worker, and his nickname was nigger – that’s what people called him at job sites in Europe or in California, or in the bars and pool halls where he would hang out.

When Donald was in a mood, he became an angry and brutal man. He probably couldn’t help it; he grew up with violence, and that’s how he was programmed. His father was a very brutal and abusive man who bullied his family. He used to make his wife sleep in a box. I don’t know why; I never learned the whole story. I’ve just been told he was a brutal man who stood about 7-foot-2, and he towered over everything. He had to bend sideways to come through a door – just like my Dad, who was 6-foot-7. He was an alcoholic, and did stupid things when he was drunk. He’d make bets, like he once bet some guy in a bar that he could cut off part of his finger with a knife. Donald won the bet, but lost part of a finger.

My mother, Margaret, was the illegitimate daughter of a wealthy man in the food industry. He didn’t want to recognize her, and his rejection embittered her. Plus, her mother had spent time in a mental institution. Years later, my Dad went to see my grandmother, and told me she was pretty much out of it, screaming and carrying on like she thought the devil was after her soul. It was very bad.

Margaret had anger issues, too. She was your typical headstrong teenager who didn’t want to follow rules, and didn’t want anyone to control her. Plus, she was an emotional Italian woman. Her father put her in a nunnery, but the life of abstinence wasn’t for her. When the novitiates went out on one of their day trips, somehow she met a famous hockey player, and ran away with him. Years later, the nunnery burned down.

She and this hockey player – I never did learn his name – had a child. Things didn’t work out and they separated. She moved to Quebec and befriended a French family, who adopted her. Her foster father was a railroad engineer and when the couple died, they left their money to her.

Meanwhile, Margaret met another fellow and had two more children, but that relationship also didn’t work out. Then she met Wilfred York, an Army man. They had four children together. He drove a tank during World War II, and was killed in battle. Wilfred was buried in France.

How Donald and Margaret met is an odd story. In her heart, Margaret was a kind person who liked to help people. One day, while walking through the park, she noticed a woman sleeping on a bench. The woman didn’t look like a derelict. Sensing something was wrong, Margaret approached the woman and asked her if she was alright.

I have nowhere to go, answered the woman, who introduced herself as Mrs. White. My husband beats me all the time. He makes me sleep in a box, so I had to leave him.

Margaret was astounded. Why don’t you come home with me? she said. And would you like a job? I’ll hire you as my housekeeper. So she brought Mrs. White home to clean the house, and take care of her seven children – my half-brothers and sisters.

You can imagine how crowded the house was, and it was a great deal of work for poor Mrs. White to keep track of everyone. She must have felt she had walked into the story of the old lady in the shoe!

Mrs. White eventually became my grandmother. Here’s what happened: One day, she told Margaret, I have a son. His name is Donald. I’ll show you a picture.

Margaret thought he was very handsome, and said she’d like to meet him. At the time, he was working in Ireland as a handyman. Relatives brought him to America, and then Margaret signed the papers to let him come to Canada. They met and got married, lived in Peterborough and had four children. (I was the third of those four.)

I believe my mother and father loved each other, but theirs was an abusive relationship. Both parents drank, my father more so. And the bottle sometimes put bad ideas in his head that were hard to shake loose. Unfortunately, I became the brunt of one of those horrible ideas, and it was something I had to live with for many years.

Just after I was born, my father looked at me and said, Who’s that effin’ kid from?

Mrs. White – my grandmother – was shocked at the vile look my father gave his newborn son. She said, Don, take a look at his face, don’t look at his hair.

My hair was curly and platinum-coloured, quite the opposite of his kinky black hair. With disgust dripping from his voice, he said, That thing is not mine.

From that moment on, he hated me. He was convinced another man was my father. (Years later, when my hair started turning darker, he realized I was his son, and he started to love me. And I could begin to forgive him.)

But when I was very little, whenever I went near him or passed through his field of vision, I felt his anger radiate toward me in waves, like he was shooting me vibes saying, Don’t let me see you. So I tried to avoid him as much as possible.

I was probably three years old when he threw me against the wall and broke my leg. Why? Because I walked in front of the television. He was sitting in his worn recliner and watching a western movie, some Roy Rogers oater. For some reason, I meandered between him and the TV, and he muttered, I’m warning you, don’t walk in front of that TV again. If you walk in front of the TV again, you’ll pay for it.

His voice had a sharp edge of resentment, a bitter tone that I knew meant, Don’t dare mess with me, so I stayed out of his way. But a little later I got fidgety and got up to go to the washroom or something. He growled, Ok, I warned you. Now you’re going to see.

He picked me up over his head like a rag doll, and threw me against the wall. The impact cracked my left leg, and I dropped to the floor like a crumpled shirt.

The moment his enormous hands grabbed me and hoisted me into the air…. Time slowed. I left my body, and from somewhere above, watched myself being hurled across the room. The wall seemed to float toward me and I closed my eyes. For a tiny instant, I felt weightless and free….

I didn’t even feel my leg snap. But everyone in the house heard it. My brothers and sisters rushed at my father and began hitting him with pots and pans, anything they could get their hands on, until he cowered away.

He wasn’t drunk at the time. He was just filled with anger.

I was taken to the hospital. Things were different back then – doctors were not as vigilant in 1955 as they are today when it came to reporting suspected cases of child abuse. I don’t know what excuse my parents gave the emergency room physician, but no one asked me about my injuries. While I was in the hospital, Dad came to see me. I was in bed, and when I saw him approach, I tried to shrink into the blankets. I was afraid he’d hit me again.

What kind of toy do you want? he said, his voice as hollow as an empty room.

A fire engine.

Okay. He gave me an emotionless nod, I’ll get it for you.

He never did, and he never came back to the hospital to see me.

Alcohol sharpened my father’s violent edge, and a night of drinking could turn him into a vicious machine. We loved him as a father, yet often lived in fear of him.

One night, he staggered home and began pounding on the front door, which my mother had locked – she knew how surly he could get after spending the evening in a smoky bar tossing back shots of rye. His thick fists battered the wooden door, and it felt like the whole house was shaking.

With a voice that growled like the big bad wolf from one of my fairy tales, he ordered my mother to let him in.

No, she cried. You’re not coming in here!

She had anticipated his foul mood, and was afraid for herself and her children. Before he’d left, they’d fought about his drinking. He’d stomped out of the house, screaming at my mother to stop telling him what to do.

He banged the door even harder. You better let me in the house, you know what’s good for you!

My sisters Sandra and Sharon wedged knives in the door frame to try to keep him out. But the closed door mocked him, and made him even angrier. We cowered against the back wall, hoping for some miracle that would save us. We were terrified when our father turned into an ogre. When he was drunk and seething, he could do anything. Our tiny voices shouting for him to go away made us all the more scared.

He kicked the door until the wood began to splinter. And then his heavy boot smashed through the door like Frankenstein’s shoe. The door swung open and we scrambled for hiding places.

My mother wasn’t fast enough to get away. She had humiliated him. In his eyes, that was unforgivable. No one was ever allowed to stand up to him!

He looked at her with steely eyes. His face was a frozen scowl.

Suddenly he was on her, beating her with mallet-like fists until she slumped to the floor. The air seemed to crackle with static electricity, as if a tornado of evil energy was spinning around us. We screamed at him to stop; he ignored us. He stared at her unconscious body on the floor, and his mouth twisted downward. He hefted my mother over his head as if she