An Angel Without a Name: Hearing Your Voice

By Mary E. Sims

Mary thought she was lost. After writing the book Going Home Another Way: The Journey Begins Within, she realized she was never lost. Now the question was Who is the Voice? The words in the book left a tiny trail to the hidden treasure that she searched for most of her life. She had the treasure when she was born but fear made her hide it. As she grew older, she forgot where she hid it...

The pen was needed more than the paper. Write it on the walls or on the back of your hand! Just remember where the pen is...Now she remembers where she put the pen. The Pen is indeed mightier than the Sword!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Balboa Press
• Release date: Nov 29, 2013
• ISBN: 9781452583761

Mary E. Sims

Mary E. Sims has experienced many supernatural events that has changed her life and the lives of many people that have gotten to know her She was always told and therefore asumed that the Voice she heard since she was nine years old was the Voice of God. On a quest to understand the God of her youth , she discovered that it was her own Voice all the time. She lives in Dallas, Texas. This is the only place she has ever called home. At the age of 45, she became a drug addict. This was a very hard part of her life. The Voice gave her specific instructions on how to get free of this deadly disease. She has been drug free for nearly 20 years. This is a journey for the rest of her life...

Book preview

An Angel

Without A Name

Hearing Your Voice

Mary E. Sims

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Copyright © 2013 Mary E. Sims.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

The author of this book does not dispense medical advice or prescribe the use of any technique as a form of treatment for physical, emotional, or medical problems without the advice of a physician, either directly or indirectly. The intent of the author is only to offer information of a general nature to help you in your quest for emotional and spiritual well-being. In the event you use any of the information in this book for yourself, which is your constitutional right, the author and the publisher assume no responsibility for your actions.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

ISBN: 978-1-4525-8375-4 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4525-8376-1 (e)

Balboa Press rev. date: 02/12/2014

Contents

INTRODUCTION

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

REFLECTIONS

This book is dedicated to the memories of my family members and friends who have passed on. They become immortal in the ages only when we remember them and say or write their names. Thanks to Vernon Garrett and Retha Ricks, my childhood friends. I’m glad you remembered the memories.

"With only your Voice, you can move mountains. It remains for you to realize how to do it."

Unknown

Remember not to forget.

H. E. Toliver

Introduction

Her arms were stiff and her nails dug deep into her palms.

You’re almost finished. Get this spot under the blades of the ceiling fan.

Mary had heard this almost an hour ago. She continued to double coat the molding between the ceiling and the wall. After finishing, she moved the ladder under the ceiling fan and climbed it. The ladder started to shake. She continued to stretch as far as she could. The paint tray fell from the ladder and onto the floor.

Oh damn!

All of a sudden, she started to cry. She felt free to sob out loud. It wasn’t because of the small amount of bright-yellow paint that spilled on the white carpet, nor was it because she was tired from painting the whole room alone. In fact, she was all alone. The kids were at a sleepover and her husband was at work. He wouldn’t be home until morning, if he even came home at all.

This sad feeling was familiar. It was as if she felt the despair of the whole world. Crying eased the pain. She knew that this was the burden of death. When she looked at her watch, it was eight thirty.

God, who is it? Tell me who’s going to die!

In the midst of her tears and pain, she waited for an answer. She had experienced these episodes of sadness since she was nine years old. The answers to most of her questions were loud and clear.

You’ll know who it is tomorrow. Just pray that his dying is easy.

This book is a collection of my most vivid memories as a child and an adult. It gives some unbelievable details of incidents that allowed me to see visions of the future. I didn’t understand some of the visions. They became clear to me only after the event had come to pass. It also contains stories of a past-life regression done by a professional therapist.

In my late thirties, I was in a state of confusion most of the time and felt I was losing my mind. I went to family members, preachers, prophets, and palm readers, trying to get answers. The answers were as many as the people who were questioned.

In 2002, I wrote Going Home Another Way: The Journey Begins Within. The book was originally a diary I had written after an addiction to cocaine. It was inspired by an entity I referred to as the Voice. An Angel without a Name: Hearing Your Voice gives more details about the first book. Some of the stories are repeated in this book. But the stories are new to anyone who hasn’t read the first book. Whatcha’ think?

When I wrote the first book, I was lost and trying to find my way. A Voice or a guardian angel showed me how to find my way. Now I’m trying to find who this entity is and what its name is. After all this time, I finally found the answer, and now I know who it is.

The events I tell about myself in this book are true. Some parts are written in the first-person point of view and others are in the third-person. The only characters whose names have been changed in this book are non-family members. This book is not designed to hurt or degrade any persons living or deceased. It’s written for the sake of the truth, which is my truth, and I am a writer. Therefore, I write my truth. My truth always sets me free.

Some of the stories told in this book may seem distasteful and unnecessary to some readers. All incidents are mere stepping-stones that lead us from Alpha to Omega. This is like this because of that being like that. Some things just happen. All roads lead to home.

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I am the Resurrection and the Life

Mamaw’s Grave

CHAPTER 1

The Baby in a Basket

We were poor, Black, and lived in a housing project. That September night was cool, and the stars shined bright. The tall night-lights glowed throughout the backyard, revealing elongated shadows of any objects that moved in the yard. I can still see my mother’s long shadow between the poles of the clothesline.

I was about six months old when this happened. I say this was my age because of the small wicker basket I sat in that night. From looking at pictures of me at six months old, it wouldn’t be long before I would be too big to sit in a basket, let alone be carried in it.

Since I had been born in March, this had to be my first September. I’ve always enjoyed how the mid-September nights feel after the hot, scalding summer in Texas. I was excited when I saw the stars that night. The basket almost tipped over when I reached up to them. My celestial view was suddenly blocked by a diaper that my mother threw over my head. She picked up the basket and hurried into the house. A feeling of abandonment throbbed deep in my heart. I cried and somehow knew my families from the stars weren’t coming back for me. It was like waiting on your only ride in the world to pick you up from work. They never show up and you are stuck at work forever. Wow! What a world!

The diapers felt soft as I cuddled deep into the basket. These people—the tall lady who fed me the sweetest milk from her breast, the mean man who yelled, and the small people who pinched and pulled at me all day long—were going to be my friends now. In time, we understood each other, all of them, except the mean man who yelled. I called him Daddy.

I was in my midthirties when I remembered this. There wasn’t any traumatic event that made me remember it. It just happened in the wind. I was calm, and there was nothing on my mind. Soon after this, I remembered the night I stopped sucking my mother’s breast. If I could remember when I was six months old, then this memory could easily be fathomed.

She wore an olive-green seersucker dress that night. The whole family was in my parents’ bedroom watching television. It was a Sunday night, because my father was home. The buttons on her dress were very tiny and I managed to unbutton the first three. After pulling a shriveled breast from her bra, I played with it for a while and sucked the nipple, only to find my unending supply of milk was depleted. She wasn’t interested in giving me milk, and I wasn’t interested in getting milk from her. I just wanted something to play with. Finally, I pushed her breast back into her bra and tried to button her dress. Those damn tiny buttons! I tried and failed over and over to conceal any evidence of my past titty takings. I was ashamed of what I had been doing. I’ll never forget that olive-green seersucker dress. I don’t like the color olive green to this day.

After remembering this event and mulling over it for a couple of days, I went to my confidante—my playmate and sister—Cathy. She was eighteen months older than me, and my younger brother, Ronald was eighteen months older than Cathy. The oldest sibling, Charlie, was seven years older I was, and then a younger sister, Sheri, came ten years after I was born. Now that the birth order is on your mind, let’s get back to Cathy.

When I told her about my remembering when I stopped breast-feeding, she said it