I Was Lost But Now I'm Found

About the Book

The search for a medieval archangel—and, yes, a female archangel. You see, that was part of her penance—to be forgotten by the church and its followers, but it did not include ancient stories passed down through the ages mostly by those she helped. She was known by many names in different parts of the known world. In Italy, she was known only as Louchiana. She championed only the ugly, the unwanted children wherever she went. You see, there was no one else. Ancient legend has it that she was one of the Lord’s favorites. Most beautiful of all angels, her wings much larger, she could soar higher above all the rest. The Lord sent her down to right a great wrong brought on by many that lived and died by the sword. To them, nothing else mattered; to win made it right. She did sweep down between two oncoming armies as they gasped in awe at her beauty but refused to stop. She cut them all down with her mighty sword, cutting and slashing away at both armies until none were left standing. She left the bloody battlefield as she rose to the high heavens. She knew she had gone too far and now must face her Lord. Her sins were, first, vanity then came vengeance. This alone belongs to her Lord. She had shown her great beauty to both armies, yet they would not stop, so she cut them all down as they charged forward. It was swift, with no mercy. All she could say was “Please forgive me, my Lord.” The Lord did love her. He would not let Satan have her. Instead, she is charged with a penance, a way to win back what is stripped away to champion the cause and the plight of the ugly, unwanted children of the world for as long as it takes without her beautiful wings, without her mighty sword, and her beauty can only be used to help in any way the unwanted, the ugly children, yet she has only her womanly wiles that any earth-bond woman possesses to survive, and yes, she too must risk death like her sisters. How long she has been on earth is unknown. You see, it was first recorded during the First Crusade, the only one won by the Christian armies. A baron knight took her as his prize to let go women and children. He left before the city fell. He and his knights sailed for home, a fortress that still stands today high up on a plateau on jagged rocky cliffs, overlooking a small valley in Italy where a small village still works the fields and still lives as they did so long ago. The story was known through the whole valley. The old folks tell it the best to their young as it passes on through time. If you have not heard the legend of La Louchiana the Archangel, how can you judge if she ever was? You know, you could have already run across her and not even know it. Next time you see an unmarked picture or statue of an angel with very large wings, beautiful, about twenty years old, with deep, wide brown eyes that seem to look deep into your soul, holding this mighty sword, or then again a painting or statue of a beautiful lightly clad woman with deep, wide brown eyes, no wings, no sword, but her beauty shocks you deep inside, and to this day, you still remember her, or then she might have just passed you by. This doesn’t mean she never existed. I can only say maybe you aren’t ugly enough. You see, it never ends for her. Next time you see a young beautiful woman with deep brown eyes, look deep into them—could this be? You think? You better find and read the story then decide.

About the Author

had a rough start in life as a kid, but so did everybody else in East Los Angeles, 1933. The Depression years were hard than the war, but we all pulled through, some better than others. The whole country came alive with jobs, all the work you could handle. My first full-time job was at sixteen years old. I never stopped, just saved the money, but the courts just stripped me clean twice, but that’s another story. At sixty-five, I retired only because social security at that time was to be cut, and I got mine—yes, it was too early for me. Now I have too much time. I can’t just sit and think, but I always had a way of making up stories to sound real then change the ending to good or bad—I don’t know why. One day, I just started writing different stories on any kind of paper I found. Where or how, it just came at me as I raced to keep up or lose the thought because here comes some more. It just didn’t stop at one sitting. I wrote for half day and all night. I stopped because I ran out of ink in two new pens and one used pen. This one story lay on the bottom of a pile of stories for over three years, forgotten, almost lost. As I threw out that pile of old papers, this one caught my eye. As I read it, I laughed. I could see there was a lot of true-life stuff you never admit to ever, so it’s called fiction. You call it what you like or choose to believe.