MY WIFE AND I LIVE NOW ON WHAT USED TO BE a slave plantation here in Charleston, South Carolina. The actual plantation home, which is older than our country (17th Century), neighbors our own. In fact, the magnificent tree-lined street of grand oaks, each branch dripping with Spanish moss, served as their driveway for centuries. It is the very street which we must travel to arrive at our home, a humble cabin-like residence situated perfectly on the bayou and surrounded by oaks, cypress trees, bald eagles, owls, fireflies, and an endless parade of alligators. The roar of insects and frogs under the moonlight can be deafening. I love this street and the watery wonderland which the Native Americans once named Yeshoe, meaning: “Green Water.” I wander it every day and most nights in prayer, often thinking about the generations of slaves who likely prayed for their freedoms here.

Tonight my heart is troubled. Personally, I feel at peace—resting in Jesus Yeshua. And yet, walking the double-row of Grand Oaks, stopping occasionally to swipe my fingers along hanging webs of moss, so many faces of friends and loved ones come to mind. Earlier in the evening I went out on the boat with my family. Even then I was pressed with the same heavy-heart. I feel such sorrow for those who refuse to wake up from their lukewarm slumber, always tossing and turning between a declared fervent love of the LORD and frozen hibernation in worldly adoration as they go about with the motions of their society, almost robotic. So many of you know exactly what I’m talking about.

Earlier this summer my wife and I had planned to fly from Canada to Southern California so that we might celebrate our twin-sons 3rd birthday with family. We were excited. Yet my father, being a former pastor, was so embarrassed by my coming out about FLAT EARTH and the book deal which resulted from it, actually sold his house and moved away without telling us. No joke. We were supposed to stay with him for three weeks. Everything had been planned for an entire year. I guess he just expected us to buy tickets and show up to the Escrow sign. When we made last minute plans to stay with my wife’s twin sister, her husband made it clear—cease and desist—that we were not welcome to stay under his roof unless I recanted of my FLAT EARTH and “rapture” talk. He’s a church-attending “Christian,” by the way.

We ended up not going.

It’s sad, really. Nobody was able to celebrate my sons birthday—which was the entire point of our trip—and all because they couldn’t stomach the thought of the days we’re living in. Another words, don’t disturb them. They’re sleeping. And they’ve got advanced tickets for the next Marvel or Pixar or Star Wars movie to think about, and Sunday afternoon Football, and pictures of their latest meal to post on Facebook, or something to that effect. For the record, I’ve never argued or gotten in any sort of fight or heated exchange of words with any relative over FLAT EARTH. Never. They just couldn’t handle the embarrassment of” knowing” a FLAT EARTHER was in the family. It’s that simple.

As my wife’s brother-in-law put it, he doesn’t believe in “Conspiracy theories,” and that includes the New World Order. The society that he loves could never be that conniving against him.

Anyways, I’m ranting. But it’s sad. My heart is weary for each of them. I think of so many Christian brothers whom I once called “Friend,” whom I once sat and broke bread with, who’ve disowned me over this Biblical FLAT EARTH awakening. For the crime of taking the Bible literally, I am an APOSTATE.

I walk this old slave plantation, along “Green Water” and the double-row of Grand Oaks which has stood for centuries, praying for them, asking God to forgive them of their mockery.

If John’s Revelation 12 sign is a testimony to the days we are living in, then time is short. I don’t know when the x marks the spot meets a calendar day, but the door to the Ark seems likely to close. And I want everyone whom I love, everyone who calls themselves a “brother” or a “sister” in Christ, to be on it.

Maranatha!

Noel J Hadley