This is a bootleg book. It didn't go through the proper channels. It took the backroads, sometimes blind drunk at at 100mph. It ran low on gas and low on oil. It ran on bald tires and a temporary spare. It stopped off at fleabag motel rooms and twobit dive bars and greasyspoon truckstops. It ran through Gatlinburg and Atlanta and Seattle and San Diego and Houston and Orlando and Little Rock and Tijuana and New York City. It found love there in those dark hollers and crowded streets. It found love and art and politics and philosophy and pain and justice and truth and beauty and history and racism and culture and religion and God. It found God on those twisted backroads and busy streets. This is a book about God. This is a book about The Gospel, that original bootleg manuscript, written longhand and passed around in secret by palsied hands and leprous fingers; passed around by the fingers of hookers and junkies, fishermen and truckdrivers, children and old folks, thieves and murderers. And it passed to me.
This is the story of a southern writer who came to NYC to make it big and ended up making it small, as small as a child's backpack. Tennessee writer Donnie Lamon came to the Big Apple 4 years ago to make a name for himself, and instead made a ministry. He lost his own name but found the names of hundreds of those unnamed and uncounted. Five Loaves and Shoeleather distributes care packages to the homeless on the streets of New York. Inside are the items that might help them to get through one night. Any one of us can help any one of us to get through one night. And sometimes one night can make all the difference in the world. Now, instead of a bag full of books, he carries gifts to give to these who perhaps have been given nothing. This is his passion now. His love. They are his passion. His love. And he still writes. He tells their stories. And maybe one person will hear. One person can make a difference. One person, one night, five loaves and a little shoe leather can still move this hard old world.
This is the story of a southern writer who came to NYC to make it big and ended up making it small, as small as a child's backpack. Tennessee writer Donnie Lamon came to the Big Apple 4 years ago to make a name for himself, and instead made a ministry. He lost his own name but found the names of hundreds of those unnamed and uncounted. Five Loaves and Shoeleather distributes care packages to the homeless on the streets of New York. Inside are the items that might help them to get through one night. Any one of us can help any one of us to get through one night. And sometimes one night can make all the difference in the world. Now, instead of a bag full of books, he carries gifts to give to these who perhaps have been given nothing. This is his passion now. His love. They are his passion. His love. And he still writes. He tells their stories. And maybe one person will hear. One person can make a difference. One person, one night, five loaves and a little shoe leather can still move this hard old world.
This is a bootleg book. It didn't go through the proper channels. It took the backroads, sometimes blind drunk at at 100mph. It ran low on gas and low on oil. It ran on bald tires and a temporary spare. It stopped off at fleabag motel rooms and twobit dive bars and greasyspoon truckstops. It ran through Gatlinburg and Atlanta and Seattle and San Diego and Houston and Orlando and Little Rock and Tijuana and New York City. It found love there in those dark hollers and crowded streets. It found love and art and politics and philosophy and pain and justice and truth and beauty and history and racism and culture and religion and God. It found God on those twisted backroads and busy streets. This is a book about God. This is a book about The Gospel, that original bootleg manuscript, written longhand and passed around in secret by palsied hands and leprous fingers; passed around by the fingers of hookers and junkies, fishermen and truckdrivers, children and old folks, thieves and murderers. And it passed to me.
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