About the Author

Michael De Stefano is from Philadelphia and makes his home

in Cinnaminson, New Jersey. He is the author of The Prodigy
of St. Petes the story of Andy Trumaine, an orphaned boy
whose gift to others as he journeys through life is his good
sense of the world; In the Time of Their Restlessness a
tumultuous coming of age story in urban America in the
1970s; and The Gunslingers Companion the story of a
man born into a band of wheat belt migrants and his unlikely
ascension into society.

For Kathy

Michael De Stefano

THE COURAGE OF
EXISTENCE

Copyright Michael De Stefano (2015)

The right of Michael De Stefano to be identified as author of this
work has been asserted by him in accordance with section 77 and
78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be
reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any
form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying,
recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the
publishers.
Any person who commits any unauthorized act in relation to this
publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims
for damages.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British
Library.
ISBN 978 1 78455 870 3 (Paperback)
ISBN 978 1 78455 871 0 (Hardback)
www.austinmacauley.com
First Published (2015)
Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd.
25 Canada Square
Canary Wharf
London
E14 5LQ

Printed and bound in Great Britain

Acknowledgments
The following articles, links, and videos were a valuable
source:
Darfur Region in Crisis: Childhood interrupted in Darfurs
refugee camps. www.unicef.org/sowc/20297_30568.html
Sudan kills refugees in Darfur:
news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/Africa/7580778.stm
Daily Life in Kalma Camp, Darfur Sudan, April 2006:
Uploaded to YouTube on May 17, 2010.
Missionary sees need firsthand during visit to Darfur refugee
camp: by Erik Tryggestad/Christian Chronicle.
Genocide in Darfur: United Human Rights Council

Contents

PROLOGUE

13

CHAPTER I

16

THE BOY IN THE CLOSET

CHAPTER II

70

THE CLOCKMAKERS SON

CHAPTER III

102

THE BOY IN THE CELLAR

CHAPTER IV

150

WERE NOT SO DIFFERENT AS YOU THINK

CHAPTER V

176

THE GIRL ON THE BARSTOOL

CHAPTER VI

267

THE DESSERT TRAY

CHAPTER VII

284

GODS LOST AND FOUND

CHAPTER VIII

305

SAINT JIMMY IN PARADISE

Afterward

320

PROLOGUE

A letter from a missionary working in Darfur, Sudan, written

March 25, 2006: To whomever these words may find, be it
you that has sent me, or God.
I am doomed to this place this astonishingly bleak
place from which Im composing these words. When in
moments of calm, I often recollect those times known as the
past that ever present demon who prefers to sneer at me
and who takes immense pleasure in reminding me that I could
never become all, or even a scrap of what I had once hoped.
During the restless times, which are often, I consider the
future. However, Im not all too certain that I was sent here
with the notion that I would survive. This may seem difficult
to imagine, for I can scarcely imagine it myself, but not only
am I able to consider such thoughts, but utter them without the
slightest bit of regret. This place, albeit at times remarkable,
was not all my own choosing. Mostly, it was chosen for me by
another, whose wisdom, I believed, far exceeded my own. At
this stage of my life, though, this place quite suites my needs,
and it will continue to do so as long as I am in the flesh and
therefore given to having needs. I wish I had the time to better
explain my position, in the unlikelihood that this letter reaches
its intended destination. But I must hurry, for soon my friend
will wake and require my full attention. Should this letter go
missing, or worse, get intercepted, I would ask that the reader
of these words words which could very well be my last,
perceive them as the thoughts of a fellow human soul who
13

tried tried desperately and in their heart had the best of

intentions, or at least believed that to be the case. And yes, I
understand perfectly how weak my entreaty is, for we all
believe that our causes are just and that we are fighting on the
side of God. Be that as it is, and for whatever it is worth, I
tried to be kind whenever presented with an opportunity. It is
said that a place can change a person, that it can get under
ones skin and afterward one is never quite as they once were.
True, a place can change ones being, but can it erase and then
rewrite their virtue? Or change the very essence of their
nature? Perhaps it cannot entirely, but to a point it could
knock it from its axis. With that in mind, when passing a
mirror or anything that can produce a reflection, I permit
myself a peek a fleeting glance, and always am I
astonished. Some days my appearance seems strange even
foreign, and so it never fails to surprise. At times, this
revelation frightens me, though, most often I merely startle.
Its an odd occurrence to not recognise ones own self. By
now, though, I should be resigned to what Ive become. I have
been through many changes in my life and times, and at last
Ive reached the butterfly stage. Regrettably, I cannot imagine
that my delicate wings would be long for the harshness of
such a place, never mind that its hinterlands and vistas when
in times of calm can be pleasing. The reason I say
regrettably is because my work here is far from finished. As
I gaze out upon the landscape, I see the scaffolding of majestic
acacia trees the strange but magnificent baobab, whose
branches appear as roots arching above their
disproportionately wide trunks. Both, along with the palms
provide a life source for those creatures who manage to exist
harmoniously. Beyond the trees I see a multitude of texture
and colour layer upon layer on the way to Jebel Marra,
known as the mountainous region. When I look to the left, off
in the not too far distance I can see remnants of the Aouk,
whose waters I have many a times dipped my hands and have
cooled my parched cheeks. Though lurking by the water,
behind the trees, and entrenched in the many layers
throughout the landscape are those who have committed and
14

will continue to commit unspeakable slaughter and treachery,

and along with them, are others who maintain to know and
understand Gods purpose for humankind. Woe are those who
serve the greater good, for their dreams may never be realised.
Woe are those who maintain to fight on the side of heaven, for
they are always outnumbered and have fewer swords. As for
myself, I have never raised a hand, nor have I ever dared to
make any existential claims as it might pertain to Gods
purpose; I am merely here to serve and serve I shall. But
before I rest my pen, I will now end by saying these are the
words of Jimmy Saint Jimmy in Paradise, though you once
knew me by another name. P.S. The blood stains on this letter
belong to my friend. I know him only as someone who came
willingly to this godforsaken land, and who like myself
foolishly carries within him this ponderous affliction known
as hope. Together we forged a friendship that could very well
become his, and quite possibly my final act of humanity.

15

CHAPTER I
THE BOY IN THE CLOSET

London, England 1991:

Nestled in the Bloomsbury section of London, stands the
charming and well patronised Ebenezers Coffee House. The
establishment opened in the year 1989; and if one were to
confer with the locals, they would learn quite categorically
that, along with being necessary (before 1989, there didnt
exist a coffee house able to serve as a destination for locals
and students of the university to gather) the establishment was
an immediate success. Oddly enough, though, Ebenezer was
an Aussie named Brian, who came to England to study
agricultural engineering. However, during this worthwhile
pursuit, a passion for coffee was developed. It has been noted
by many that, when a passion is permitted to blossom into a
career it can make for a happy life, and toiling away would
never be how one would describe their days. Of course, no
one truly believed that the blonde, ponytailed Aussie was
named Ebenezer. Furthermore, after having been abroad for
six years, his Australian accent, which was once as distinct as
it was charming, was by then all but undetectable. It could be
said of the young women of Bloomsbury, that they frequented
Ebenezers Coffee House because of the French Mug a hot
drink Brian crafted that contained French roast coffee, raw
sugar, African coco, a speck of butter, and twist of nutmeg.
Indeed, the young Bloomsbury women could claim to have
16

passed by the areas more recently established coffee houses

in favour of this concoction, along with Brians other coffeebased inventions; their claims wouldnt be entirely wrong.
And most would agree that the French mug was well worth
walking a few extra blocks or driving an extra mile. But if
truth be told, it was Brian himself that was Ebenezers main
attraction. After all, what young woman wouldnt want to
look at a blond, ponytailed man in his mid-twenties
possessing soft eyes, a rugged chin, bronze skin, and an
intellect that was either equal to, and often surpassed that of
the university students who frequented the coffee house.
Hes like a surfer with brains, many of the female patrons
would swoon. To his credit, Brian not only served the areas
best coffee, but made every effort to educate Ebenezers
patronage on the virtues of his passion. And since reading and
drinking coffee seem to go well together, he kept a shelf
stocked with English classics, which folks were free to read
and borrow on the honour system. The shelf included all the
expected names: Jane Austen and the Bronte sisters, as well as
the more modern D. H. Lawrence, and Oscar Wilde. There
were even a few political nonfiction titles for those who enjoy
indulging in such morass. And while one was reading, sipping
coffee, or both, they were just as likely to hear the strains of a
Haydn string quartet as they were the satiny crooning of Cleo
Laine. On Friday evenings, there was live music, and
musicians whose genres included either jazz, classical, or folk
were invited to come and test their wares before the locals and
university students. Brian preferred folk, but jazz and classical
were welcomed. Whenever a jazz artist or combo appeared,
Brian would dim the lights, and the coffee house seemed to
transform into a night club. If still open, and if not too weary
when through with his shift, a local named Jimmy Philips
would happen by the coffee shop and relax with what was
resolved a well deserved French mug. When not slated to
work Sunday and his schedule had remained unchanged,
Jimmy would come slinking into Ebenezers coffee house at
eleven oclock a.m. sharp. The reason the term slinking is
used to describe the manner in which Jimmy Philips entered
17