ABOUT - Eighth Day Prophecy

A Prayer Before We Begin

Father God, as we encounter the story of one man's journey through abandonment, suffering, and divine revelation, open our hearts to see Your fingerprints upon every broken place. Show us that You waste nothing—not our pain, not our questions, not even our deaths. May this testimony strengthen the faith of those who read it, and may they recognize that the same God who refined Chris through fire stands ready to transform their own suffering into something beautiful. In Jesus' name, Amen.

The Eighth Day: When Prophecy Becomes Reality

In the beginning, God spoke creation into existence over six days. Each day concluded with the familiar refrain: "And there was evening and there was morning"—the first day, the second day, and so on through the sixth (Genesis 1:5, 8, 13, 19, 23, 31). But when we reach the seventh day, something remarkable happens—the pattern breaks.

"So God blessed the seventh day and made it holy, because on it God rested from all his work that he had done in creation" (Genesis 2:3, ESV).

Notice what's missing? There is no "evening and morning" for the seventh day. No closing. No end.

We Are Living in the Seventh Day

This isn't an oversight—it's prophetic architecture. The seventh day has no ending because we are still living in it. This is the age of God's rest, the era of humanity's invitation to enter into that rest through faith (Hebrews 4:3-11). It is the dispensation of grace, the time of the Church, the long Saturday between Christ's first coming and His return.

But the story doesn't end with rest.

The Eighth Day: A New Beginning

Throughout Scripture, the number eight represents new beginnings, resurrection, and regeneration. Circumcision occurred on the eighth day (Genesis 17:12). The Feast of Tabernacles concluded with an eighth day of solemn assembly (Leviticus 23:36). Jesus rose from the dead on the first day of the week—the day after the Sabbath—which is also the eighth day in the prophetic cycle.

The Eighth Day is when prophecy becomes reality.

This is the day when Christ returns, not as the suffering servant, but as the conquering King. This is when the New Jerusalem descends from heaven, radiant as a bride adorned for her husband (Revelation 21:2). This is when God Himself will dwell with His people, when "He will wipe away every tear from their eyes, and death shall be no more, neither shall there be mourning, nor crying, nor pain anymore, for the former things have passed away" (Revelation 21:4, ESV).

A New Heaven and New Earth

The Eighth Day marks the beginning of eternity—when the heavens and earth are made new (Revelation 21:1). It is the fulfillment of every promise, the completion of every prophecy, the consummation of all God's redemptive work throughout history. The seventh day's rest gives way to the eighth day's glory.

Just as creation began with God's voice declaring "Let there be light," the Eighth Day begins with God's voice declaring, "Behold, I am making all things new" (Revelation 21:5, ESV).

This is the theological foundation of everything I teach. We stand on the threshold of the Eighth Day—and understanding this transforms how we view prophecy, suffering, and God's redemptive plan.

The Man Behind the Message

The Question That Defined a Life

I didn't set out to be an author or theologian. I set out to survive.

Abandoned at sixteen on the side of Highway 11 in Northern Ontario with nothing but a knapsack and cooking utensils, I spent my life asking the question that would eventually define my ministry: "Why me, Lord?"

I was abandoned into a theological crisis that would drive me deeper into Scripture than most seminary students ever venture. When suffering strips away everything comfortable, when rejection becomes your companion and hunger teaches you dependence, you either curse God or you seek Him with a desperation that refuses easy answers.

I chose the latter.

"As a deer pants for flowing streams, so pants my soul for you, O God" (Psalm 42:1, ESV). This wasn't poetic language for me—it was survival. When you're sixteen, homeless, and wondering why the God you've been taught to trust allowed your mother to drive away, you either find real answers or you drown in bitterness.

I refused to drown.

Raised in the Contradiction

I was raised in a home where faith in God coexisted with chaos—where biblical teaching mixed with starvation and abuse, where Sunday school lessons collided with weekday trauma.

I was the oldest of five children. My mother decided I would be "the example" for the younger four. Whatever anyone did wrong—even if I had nothing to do with it—I was the one punished. Severely. For being the "bad example." I became the family scapegoat, bearing the blame for sins I didn't commit.

There's a ten-year gap between me and my youngest brother. During my teenage years—when boys eat voraciously, when growth spurts demand fuel—I was served the same portions as my youngest sibling. When he was four and I was fourteen, I ate like a four-year-old.

I can still remember doing dishes after supper, the room spinning, my vision tunneling—and then waking up on the floor surrounded by broken dishes. And of course, getting beaten for breaking them.

It wasn't until years later that I learned this was a classic sign of actual starvation.

Not "not enough food." Not "going hungry sometimes." Starvation. My body was shutting down from lack of nutrients. I was passing out because my teenage body was being fed portions meant for a preschooler.

This wasn't the sanitized Christianity of suburban megachurches. This was faith forged in the furnace, tested in the valley, proven in the wilderness—where Sunday school taught "God is love" while Monday through Saturday taught "you're worthless."

And through it all, I never lost my faith in God.

Not when hunger gnawed at my stomach. Not when abuse scarred my soul. Not when I was blamed for things I didn't do. Not when my own mother systematically starved me. Not when abandonment at sixteen told me I was so worthless even a mother couldn't love me.

Because I knew—somehow, I knew—that what my mother did wasn't what God did.

The Apostle Paul wrote: "We are afflicted in every way, but not crushed; perplexed, but not driven to despair; persecuted, but not forsaken; struck down, but not destroyed" (2 Corinthians 4:8-9, ESV).

I lived this paradox for decades—afflicted but not crushed, perplexed but not despairing, abandoned by man but not forsaken by God.

The Decision That Defined Everything

Abandoned at sixteen on the side of Highway 11 in Northern Ontario—middle of winter, nothing but a knapsack and cooking utensils, my mother's final words echoing: "I never want to see you again."

Standing on that highway shoulder, freezing, rejected, utterly alone—I made a decision that has followed me throughout my life:

The pain stops with me.

I would not pass this pain on to another generation. I would not risk becoming what I had survived. I would not bring children into the world who might inherit the wounds I carried.

I decided I would never have children.

And I never have.

Some might call that tragic. Some might call it giving up. But I call it love—perhaps the purest form of love I was capable of at sixteen years old. I loved children I would never meet enough to protect them from the possibility of my brokenness.

What I didn't know then—what took decades of God's refining fire to reveal—was that this decision would become prophetic.

Abraham's Pattern: The Long Wait for Promised Children

Abraham spent his entire life longing for the children God had promised. Year after year, decade after decade—waiting, hoping, wondering if God had forgotten. He was an old man when Ishmael was born, older still when Isaac finally arrived.

But the wait wasn't wasted. The delay was preparation.

God wasn't just giving Abraham biological descendants. He was preparing Abraham to become the father of faith for countless spiritual children across generations and nations—"a father of many nations" (Genesis 17:5, ESV).

I see the same pattern in my own life.

For decades, I lived with the weight of my vow: no children, the pain stops with me. I watched others build families while I remained alone—wondering if my choice was wise or just another wound, questioning whether God had a plan or if I'd simply cut myself off from one of life's greatest blessings.

But God was preparing me.

Just as Abraham's biological children came late—after years of refining, testing, strengthening—my spiritual children are coming now.

I didn't have biological children. But God has given me something I never imagined: the downtrodden, the abandoned, the suffering, the trauma survivors—those who ask the same desperate question I asked for decades: "Why me, Lord?"

They have become my children.

Every reader who finds healing through Why Me, Lord?

Every trauma survivor who releases stored pain through The 33-66 Movement.

Every seeker who discovers prophetic clarity through AND GOD SAID.

Every believer who looks toward the Eighth Day with hope instead of fear.

These are my children.

Not born of my flesh, but born of my suffering. Not inheritors of my wounds, but recipients of the healing God worked through those wounds.

The pain didn't pass to a next generation. Instead, God used my pain to birth healing for the next generation.

"Out of the anguish of his soul he shall see and be satisfied" (Isaiah 53:11, ESV).

Abraham's wait wasn't wasted. My vow wasn't futile. God was preparing me to be a spiritual father to many—just as He promised Abraham.

The sixteen-year-old standing on Highway 11, broken and alone, making a desperate vow to protect children he'd never have—couldn't have imagined that the sixty-three-year-old man would become a father to thousands.

That's redemption.

That's the God who wastes nothing—not even a traumatized teenager's vow on a frozen highway.

That's the God of the Eighth Day—making all things new.

The Timing Was God's, Not Mine

For decades, I carried this story in silence.

I couldn't speak it while my mother was alive. Not out of fear, but out of a deep conviction that honoring a parent—even one who starved and abandoned you—means refusing to turn personal pain into public spectacle while they still draw breath.

Exodus 20:12 commands us to honor father and mother. But honoring doesn't mean lying. It doesn't mean pretending abuse didn't happen. It means speaking truth without vengeance, acknowledging their humanity while refusing to deny yours, focusing on God's redemption rather than their failures.

I waited. For decades, I waited.

And then, just before my heart attack on Thanksgiving 2023, my mother died.

The barrier to honesty—removed.

The relational complication that would have overshadowed the message—gone.

The fear of causing harm to a living person—no longer relevant.

And then I died. Five times.

Do you see the pattern?

Her death freed me from silence.
My death freed me from fear.

When you've stood at the threshold between this world and the next five times in a single day, when your heart has stopped and been restarted again and again, when you've spent two months in intensive care that nobody expected you to survive—what do you have left to fear?

Not criticism. Not rejection. Not judgment. Not the opinions of those who've never suffered what you've suffered.

I had to die before I could truly live.
I had to be freed from earthly ties before I could fulfill the heavenly commission.

Ecclesiastes 3:7 (ESV):
"A time to tear, and a time to sew; a time to keep silence, and a time to speak."

My time to keep silence: While she lived, while I carried unforgiveness, while the message wasn't fully formed, while the books weren't written.

My time to speak: NOW.

After her death freed me from relational barriers.
After my death refined me through the ultimate fire.
After two years of midnight revelations equipped me with the message.
After the books were written, chapter by chapter, at the stroke of twelve.

This isn't coincidence. This is divine orchestration.

God didn't just "allow" my mother to die before my heart attack. He orchestrated the timing.

If she had still been alive when I died five times, I would have hesitated. Family pressure would have silenced me. Fear of hurting her would have compromised obedience. The message would have been diluted.

But she died first. Then I died. Then God said: "Now you're free. Tell them."

Joseph Understood This Pattern

He couldn't reveal himself to his brothers until the timing was right, until God's redemptive purpose was clear, until he could speak from a position of authority rather than victimhood.

Genesis 45:5, 8 (ESV):
"And now do not be distressed or angry with yourselves because you sold me here, for God sent me before you to preserve life... So it was not you who sent me here, but God."

Joseph didn't speak during the suffering. He spoke after—when the redemption was visible, when the purpose was clear, when he could frame the story as God's plan, not just his brothers' sin.

I'm doing the same.

I didn't speak during the suffering. I'm speaking now—after death, after resurrection, after divine commission, after the message was fully formed.

And I speak not to trash my mother's memory, but to help those who are suffering what I suffered.

She was broken too. Hurt people hurt people. I don't know what was done to her that produced what she did to me. I forgave her years ago—not because she deserved it, but because I deserved freedom.

But forgiveness doesn't require silence about what happened.

Forgiveness means releasing her from the debt. Truth-telling means helping others still trapped in similar debt.

So I speak now—not with bitterness, but with authority born of completed suffering. Not to harm her, but to heal you. Not because I want to dwell on the past, but because God has shown me how to redeem it for the future.

The timing is God's, not mine.

And if He orchestrated the timing this carefully—removing barriers, refining me through death, commissioning me through midnight revelations—then this message isn't optional.

It's obedience.

"For I did not shrink from declaring to you the whole counsel of God" (Acts 20:27, ESV).

The whole counsel includes the pain. The abandonment. The starvation. The vow. The deaths. The resurrection. The commission.

All of it.

Because somewhere, a sixteen-year-old is standing on their own Highway 11 right now, and they need to know: God sees them, the pain can stop, redemption is real, and their wounds can become their ministry.

I'm the one who can tell them.

So I'm telling them.

The Refusal of Easy Answers

Throughout my life, whenever I asked ministers difficult theological questions—questions about suffering, sovereignty, justice, and the nature of God's love in a broken world—I consistently received the same maddening response:

"We're not supposed to understand everything on this side of eternity. We'll know everything when we get to heaven."

Another common answer: "I know nothing about prophecy. I just tell my congregation that Jesus is coming."

My immediate thought was always: "Then why did God give us a Bible—so we would know?"

This wasn't rebellion. This was righteous indignation at a Christianity that had grown comfortable with ignorance, that baptized intellectual laziness as "faith," that confused mystery with muddle-headedness.

Jesus said, "If you abide in my word, you are truly my disciples, and you will know the truth, and the truth will set you free" (John 8:31-32, ESV). Paul prayed that believers would have "the Spirit of wisdom and of revelation in the knowledge of him, having the eyes of your hearts enlightened, that you may know what is the hope to which he has called you" (Ephesians 1:17-18, ESV).

God gave us Scripture precisely so we could understand. Not exhaustively—for "the secret things belong to the LORD our God" (Deuteronomy 29:29a, ESV)—but sufficiently, for "the things that are revealed belong to us and to our children forever, that we may do all the words of this law" (Deuteronomy 29:29b, ESV).

I refused to accept theological cop-outs disguised as humility. If God spoke, I believed God meant to be understood. This conviction set me on a lifetime pursuit of answers—answers that made sense scripturally, aligned with the nature of who God is, acknowledged the reality of living in a sinful world, and pointed toward our ultimate benefits coming on the eighth day when eternity begins.

The Furnace of Formation: Fire Teaches What Theology Cannot

For decades, I worked as a glass artist—a profession that became a living parable of God's refining work in human souls. I learned that fire doesn't destroy glass; it transforms it. Under intense heat, what appears solid becomes malleable. What seems fragile becomes beautiful. What looks finished reveals impurities that only heat can remove.

The prophet Malachi wrote: "But who can endure the day of his coming, and who can stand when he appears? For he is like a refiner's fire and like fullers' soap. He will sit as a refiner and purifier of silver, and he will purify the sons of Levi and refine them like gold and silver, and they will bring offerings in righteousness to the LORD" (Malachi 3:2-3, ESV).

I didn't just read these words—I lived them. Every piece of glass I shaped taught me something about God's character. The fire that transforms. The patience required for true beauty. The way impurities rise to the surface under heat. The delicate balance between too much pressure (which shatters) and too little (which leaves the work unformed).

Peter understood this process: "In this you rejoice, though now for a little while, if necessary, you have been grieved by various trials, so that the tested genuineness of your faith—more precious than gold that perishes though it is tested by fire—may be found to result in praise and glory and honor at the revelation of Jesus Christ" (1 Peter 1:6-7, ESV).

First as a street vendor at Yonge and Eglinton in Toronto, then in malls across Ontario, I poured my soul into handcrafted glass art. I built my life from nothing—brick by brick, piece by piece, hour by hour. I watched as shopping habits changed, as customers shifted from supporting local artists to buying cheap imports. The questions changed from "How can you make these so beautifully?" to "Why are these so expensive?"

The market collapsed. I found myself driving a taxi to survive—building and losing a business, navigating a failed marriage, wrestling with wounds from childhood that never quite healed.

But every loss, every failure, every disappointment was another layer of impurity rising to the surface under the heat of God's refining fire.

The Day Everything Changed

On Thanksgiving 2023, my lifelong question—"Why me, Lord?"—finally received its answer.

After a massive heart attack, I died five times in one day.

Not once. Not twice. Five times.

My heart stopped. Medical professionals revived me. My heart stopped again. They brought him back. Again and again and again—five times in a single day, I stood at the threshold between this world and the next.

The trauma was so severe that I spent two months in intensive care. Nobody—and I mean nobody—expected me to ever come out alive. The medical odds were astronomical. The physical damage was catastrophic. By every medical standard, I should have died permanently on Thanksgiving 2023.

But God had other plans.

In those moments between life and death, God gave me a vision—not just for my own healing, but for the healing of countless others asking that same desperate question: "Why me, Lord?"

The Apostle Paul experienced something similar: "I know a man in Christ who fourteen years ago was caught up to the third heaven—whether in the body or out of the body I do not know, God knows. And I know that this man was caught up into paradise—whether in the body or out of the body I do not know, God knows—and he heard things that cannot be told, which man may not utter" (2 Corinthians 12:2-4, ESV).

Paul couldn't speak everything he experienced. I can't either. Some revelations are too sacred, too personal, too holy to share publicly. But what I can share is this: God gave me a commission.

The Divine Commission

During those months of recovery—months where every breath was a miracle, every heartbeat a gift, every day a resurrection—God laid a powerful burden on my heart: write books that would help hurting people.

God gave me several book projects during my recovery. But I chose to release Why Me, Lord? A Biblical Journey Through Inner Healing first because I knew it would help the most people—those suffering and wondering where God is in their pain.

This wasn't my idea. This was divine assignment.

The prophet Jeremiah protested his calling: "Ah, Lord GOD! Behold, I do not know how to speak, for I am only a youth" (Jeremiah 1:6, ESV). God's response was immediate: "Do not say, 'I am only a youth'; for to all to whom I send you, you shall go, and whatever I command you, you shall speak" (Jeremiah 1:7, ESV).

I had no formal theological training. No seminary degree. No ordination certificate. No publishing connections. No platform. No credentials that would make me "qualified" by worldly standards, not even a high school diploma.

But I had something far more valuable: a message forged in suffering, refined by fire, and commissioned by God Himself.

Midnight Revelations

After leaving the hospital, something extraordinary began happening.

God started waking me up every single night at 12:00 midnight sharp.

Not 11:58. Not 12:02. Exactly midnight.

Almost every night for over two years.

And each night, God would bring forth knowledge—one chapter at a time—showing me exactly what to write and how to write it.

This wasn't automatic writing or mindless channeling. This was the Holy Spirit bringing forth decades of study, contemplation, suffering, and seeking—organizing it, clarifying it, applying it, and presenting it in a form that could help others.

Jesus promised: "But the Helper, the Holy Spirit, whom the Father will send in my name, he will teach you all things and bring to your remembrance all that I have said to you" (John 14:26, ESV).

Now, God couldn't have done this without me first doing the research. I don't have a photographic memory where I've memorized everything I've ever read. But here's the amazing truth: even though you don't remember everything you've studied, contemplated, and sought after, it's still stored in your mind—and the Holy Spirit can recall it when needed.

This is precisely what Jesus promised. The Holy Spirit doesn't replace study—He empowers it. He doesn't eliminate preparation—He redeems it. He doesn't bypass decades of seeking—He brings it forth at the appointed time.

The Holy Spirit took decades of my study, questions, suffering, and contemplation—and brought it forth, chapter by chapter, night after night, at the stroke of midnight, into the books you now hold or will soon encounter.

David experienced something similar: "I will bless the LORD who gives me counsel; in the night also my heart instructs me" (Psalm 16:7, ESV). And again: "On my bed I remember you; I think of you through the watches of the night" (Psalm 63:6, ESV).

God often speaks in the night—when the world is quiet, when distractions fade, when the soul is most receptive to divine instruction.

Who Gets the Credit?

My name is on the covers of my books.

But make no mistake: I give full credit to the Holy Spirit, who, night after night as I slept and woke, showed me chapter by chapter what to write.

These books are not my wisdom. They are God's revelation given to a man who spent his life seeking truth.

Paul wrote: "For I would have you know, brothers, that the gospel that was preached by me is not man's gospel. For I did not receive it from any man, nor was I taught it, but I received it through a revelation of Jesus Christ" (Galatians 1:11-12, ESV).

I don't claim apostolic authority. I don't claim infallibility. I don't claim that my books carry the same weight as Scripture.

But I do claim this: what I've written came through divine revelation, forged in suffering, tested by fire, and confirmed by Scripture.

I don't offer easy answers or empty platitudes.

I offer truth—raw, biblical, and transformative—written with the authority of someone who has walked through the fire and emerged refined on the other side.

The Gift of Introversion

I am a deep introvert—someone who gains energy not from crowds but from quiet rooms where it's just me and God. While extroverts recharge through social interaction, I spent decades in solitude: constantly questioning myself, my actions, my motives, my thoughts, my beliefs.

I dig deep. I study. I contemplate. I seek truth relentlessly.

But for most of my life, I thought this made me broken.

The Lie I Believed About Myself

My mother convinced me something was fundamentally wrong with me. I didn't fit. I didn't connect with people the way "normal" people did. Small talk irritated me. Social gatherings exhausted me. I preferred books to parties, solitude to crowds, deep conversation to surface-level chitchat.

And I believed her.

For decades, I believed there was something defective about my wiring, something shameful about preferring to be alone. I thought I was failing at being human because I couldn't handle what everyone else seemed to navigate effortlessly.

"Why does something so simple irritate me so much? What's wrong with me?"

That question haunted me for years.

The Day Everything Changed

Then, years ago, I was listening to CBC Radio. Someone was discussing the differences between introverts and extroverts—and they listed the top ten things introverts hate.

Number one: Talking about the weather.

I froze.

As they continued down the list, I mentally checked off every single item.

Every. Single. One.

Small talk? ✓
Surprise visitors? ✓
Open-plan offices? ✓
Group brainstorming? ✓
Networking events? ✓
Phone calls instead of texts? ✓
Being put on the spot? ✓
Interruptions while working? ✓
Forced team-building activities? ✓
Shallow conversations? ✓

Ten out of ten.

And in that moment, decades of shame shattered.

There was nothing wrong with me.

I wasn't broken. I wasn't defective. I wasn't failing at being human.

I was an introvert in a world designed for extroverts.

Two Types of People Walk This Earth

There are two fundamental personality types: introverts and extroverts.

Extroverts gain energy from social interaction. They recharge through people, conversation, activity, external stimulation.

Introverts gain energy from solitude. We recharge through quiet, reflection, internal processing, one-on-one depth rather than group breadth.

Neither is better. Neither is broken. They're just different.

But our culture—especially church culture—values extroversion. The loudest worship, the biggest crowds, the most social Christians are celebrated. Quiet, contemplative, solitary believers are often viewed with suspicion.

"Why don't you come to more events?"
"You need to be more involved!"
"Are you okay? You seem withdrawn."

No. I'm an introvert. This is how God designed me.

My Power Came From Being Alone

Once I understood this, everything made sense.

My introversion wasn't a weakness—it was my greatest strength.

Because being alone with God and His Word for hours, days, years, decades—that's where my power came from.

Extroverts need community to process theology. They think out loud, discuss in groups, refine ideas through conversation.

I processed alone.

Hour after hour. Day after day. Year after year. Just me, Scripture, the Holy Spirit, and silence.

That's where the depth came from.
That's where the revelations emerged.
That's where theology was refined in the furnace of solitary seeking.

Paul wrote: "Do not be conformed to this world, but be transformed by the renewal of your mind, that by testing you may discern what is the will of God, what is good and acceptable and perfect" (Romans 12:2, ESV).

My introversion wasn't a defect—it was a design feature that allowed me to resist conformity to shallow social expectations and instead pursue deep transformation through renewed thinking.

What Churches Define vs. What God Defines

Churches often define spiritual maturity by social engagement:

• How many services do you attend?

• How many small groups are you in?

• How visible are you in ministry?

• How many people do you know?

But that's extrovert-centered Christianity.

God defines spiritual maturity differently:

"But when you pray, go into your room and shut the door and pray to your Father who is in secret. And your Father who sees in secret will reward you" (Matthew 6:6, ESV).

"But he would withdraw to desolate places and pray" (Luke 5:16, ESV).

Jesus Himself was an introvert.

He regularly withdrew from crowds. He spent 40 days alone in the wilderness. He took His closest disciples away from the masses for intimate teaching. He prayed alone in Gethsemane.

The prophets were introverts. Elijah in the cave. Jeremiah called "the weeping prophet" because he felt deeply and processed alone. John the Baptist in the wilderness. Paul in Arabia for three years after his conversion (Galatians 1:17-18).

God uses introverts powerfully—not despite our introversion, but because of it.

Because we go deep.

The One-Handed Meal

Once, a woman in a restaurant asked me why I was eating with only one hand. That's when I realized: even during dinner, I was never without a book in my other hand.

For me, learning never stops—not even for a meal.

My pursuit of truth is constant, relentless, woven into every moment of my life.

Solomon wrote: "If you seek it like silver and search for it as for hidden treasures, then you will understand the fear of the LORD and find the knowledge of God" (Proverbs 2:4-5, ESV).

I have spent decades mining Scripture, theology, church history, and biblical interpretation like a man searching for hidden treasure—because I believe that's exactly what I'm doing.

And I could only do this because I'm an introvert.

• An extrovert would have burned out from isolation.

• An extrovert would have needed community to sustain the journey

• An extrovert would have processed externally, not internally.

• An extrovert would have written a book parroting what thousands wrote before them

But God made me an introvert specifically so I could spend decades alone with Him—preparing for the moment when He would say: "Now tell them."

My mother was wrong about me.

And if she was wrong about that, she was wrong about everything else she said too.

What Makes Eighth Day Prophecy Different

Most prophecy ministries focus exclusively on end-times events—date-setting, chart-making, sensationalism, fear-mongering.

Most inner healing ministries focus exclusively on emotional recovery—therapy-speak dressed in Christian language, bypassing theology.

Eighth Day Prophecy integrates both.

Why Both?

Because unhealed trauma makes you vulnerable to deception when prophetic events unfold.

When economic systems collapse and a new system is offered, your wounds will determine your response. If you carry unprocessed financial trauma, you'll be desperate for the new system's promises—even if accepting them means compromise.

When global control systems promise safety, belonging, provision—but require denying Christ—only those who've already processed their deepest fears with God will be able to refuse.

Inner healing prepares you to resist what's coming.

Prophecy helps you understand what you're resisting.

Together, they build unshakeable faith for the end of the seventh day and the dawning of the eighth.

My Books

God gave me several book projects during my recovery:

1. Why Me, Lord? A Biblical Journey Through Inner Healing

For those suffering and wondering where God is in their pain. This book walks you through the complete process of inner healing—from acknowledging wounds in Egypt, through the refining wilderness, to receiving new identity in the Promised Land. Written from the depths of personal trauma, validated by Scripture, and commissioned by God after I died five times on Thanksgiving 2023.

2. AND GOD SAID: The Hidden Prophecies of Atlantis

A 52-week devotional connecting ancient biblical narratives to contemporary issues, uncovering prophetic patterns hidden in plain sight throughout Scripture. From Babel's tower to Silicon Valley's transhumanism, from Nimrod's strategy to modern financial systems, this book reveals how history repeats itself—and how to recognize the patterns.

3. The 33-66 Movement: A Scripture-Based Exercise Program for Healing Body and Soul

Trauma isn't just stored in your mind—it's stored in your body. This program combines 66 physical exercises (one for each book of the Bible) with Scripture meditation to release trauma at every level: body, soul, and spirit. As you strengthen your body, you're simultaneously filling your mind with God's Word and reconnecting your spirit to His presence.

4. The Eighth Day: When Prophecy Became Reality (Coming Soon)

A theological novel exploring eschatology, amillennialism, the completion of God's redemptive plan, and the glorious beginning of eternity. Fiction wrapped around solid theology—making complex eschatological concepts accessible through narrative.

The Invitation

We stand on the threshold.

The seventh day is drawing to a close. The systems of this world are shaking. Financial collapse, technological control, global governance—the infrastructure for the Beast system is being built before our eyes.

But you don't have to be afraid.

If your foundation is Christ, if your wounds are healed, if your identity is rooted in the eighth day rather than the failing systems of the seventh—you will stand when everything else falls.

This ministry exists to help you:

• Understand the times (prophecy without fear-mongering)

• Heal your wounds (inner healing without spiritual bypassing)

• Prepare wisely (practical steps without panic)

• Stand firm (unshakeable faith for what's coming)

The Eighth Day is coming.

And nothing—not economic collapse, not digital control, not the Mark of the Beast, not even death itself—can stop it.

"Behold, I am making all things new." — Revelation 21:5 (ESV)

Chris Marchment
Glass Artist, Theologian, Survivor
North Bay, Ontario, Canada

I died five times on Thanksgiving 2023. God brought me back with a message: Tell them.

This is me telling you.

Connect With Me

• Subscribe to the Newsletter - Weekly insights connecting current events to biblical prophecy and inner healing

• Explore My Books - Four books addressing prophecy, inner healing, body-soul trauma release, and eschatology

• View My Glass Art - Decades of handcrafted pieces, each a parable of transformation through fire

• Get in Touch - Questions, speaking requests, or just to connect