For What I Hate I Do: Rebirth - Hardcover

M. W. Moore

Hardcover

ISBN 13: 9798892381765

Publisher: M. W. Moore Publications LLC, 2025

Synopsis

An autobiography that reveals Author M. W. Moore's journey from adolescence into adulthood, where he sorts purpose and belonging. The memoir highlights the author's upbringing in a working-class Baptist family in Houston, Texas.  Eventually, he obtained an athletic scholarship to college and began to indulge in some very destructive behavior patterns. Sex, self-condemnation, and rebellion settle in, and he starts spiraling against God's righteous precepts. Filled with deceit and envy, Moore went out of control after college and a failed marriage, and unfortunately, robbed 6 Houston area banks to support a cocaine addiction. In the end, he spent 6 years in prison on a 15-year term. Yet life never ceases, challenges came his way full circle, as he was released from incarceration and began writing and book touring, while sin continued to crouch at his doorstep. After faltering, Moore realized during his many challenges that he had to turn his misery into a ministry of obedience and a sincere change.

About this title

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

INTRODUCTION “So, the LORD said to Cain, why are you angry? And why has your countenance fallen? If you do well, will you not be accepted? And if you do not do well, sin lies at the door. And it desires to have you, but you must master it.” Genesis 4:6-7 November 1997 HELICOPTERS hovered above the apartment complex I was visiting on a cool November night. I wasn’t alarmed, though, because police sirens often blared in this neighborhood I frequented regularly. I had convinced myself that such occurrences were common in the "bottoms" of Houston’s Third Ward. I stood in the back corner of a bedroom in the apartment building, with loud, heavy trap music blasting in the background. Because of my heavy illicit drug use, I was extremely paranoid, and my palms were sweaty. As I stared into a broken dresser mirror that reflected the background, I saw my crack cocaine provider, a drug dealer known as OZ. He was neatly dressed, as usual, wearing blue jeans and a shiny black T-shirt, and mysteriously watched me as I used a cheap lighter to set fire to a crack pipe. The bedroom was smoky and unkempt. I had moved away from a bed to the cracked mirror because I had hallucinated snakes beneath the bed sheets. Before this fateful night, my dependency on crack cocaine had intensified after many relapses, but as the night wore on, I could still hear the police helicopter circling above us. I never imagined I would find myself one day hiding like a recluse in the darkened room of a crack house. Yet, there I was, staring into a broken dresser mirror, rebelling against God and conspiring with a band of crack addicts and a drug dealer. Suddenly, someone pounded on the bedroom door as I was being swept away by euphoria from the crack cocaine. I observed OZ, who didn’t move a muscle but continued to stand behind me before abruptly asking, “Who is it?” Oz’s voice was filled with anger for being disturbed. An authoritative, husky male voice responded thunderously: “Mike! Move your car.” OZ intervened and yelled, “OK! He’ll be out, fool! Just wait.” I didn’t have a chance to respond. I stood there, completely paranoid, and glanced at my watch. It was midnight. I gritted my teeth and grabbed my jeans, shirt, and shoes from the floor. My boxers and socks were still stuck to my body. I had undressed earlier when I sat on the unkempt bed, imagining snakes beneath my clothing like before, thinking they were beneath the bed sheets. Still, I dressed hastily and walked toward the door. Unexpectedly, OZ stopped me from exiting the room. Oz said, “Pick up your money from the floor,” pointing to the base of the dresser where several bills had fallen. I was so high that I was unaware I had dropped several $100 bills on the bedroom floor. They had fallen from where I had tucked them in my socks. I turned, bent over, and retrieved the money. “I’ll be back,” I said, glancing back at OZ before unlocking the bedroom door. I entered a hallway, walking past the male who ordered me to move my vehicle. He watched me curiously. I casually acknowledged him and passed through a heavy cloud of marijuana smoke and booming rap music. I had assumed it was clear to him that I was paranoid and high. I hurried past others in the hallway, making no eye contact. After reaching the exit, I entered a dark, graffiti-covered stairwell that led to a flight of stairs. I trotted down to ground level. I checked my clothes for neatness and my pockets for identification and money. Although a bit disoriented, I still took pride in my appearance – perhaps egotistical and narcissistic, but I didn't care what others thought of me, because I maintained some level of self-respect in my appearance. After self-inspection, I stumbled slightly out the door and noticed people roaming the dark streets like zombies in a horror movie. Moments later, I reached my car and backed out of a narrow driveway. Without warning, a sea of cop cruisers with flashing blue and red lights swarmed the Honda Accord I had rented. The police helicopter continued to hover above, with its spotlight shining directly onto my car. I sat there, somewhat baffled, and saw that I was surrounded by a fleet of Houston Police Department (HPD) squad cars. Then, officers approached me with their guns drawn. I mumbled, “What the heck!” Guilt suddenly overwhelmed me. “Get out of the car! Put your hands on your head!” an officer yelled. “Do it now!” another HPD officer bellowed. Slowly, I opened the driver’s side door and held my hands high, careful not to make any sudden or strange movements. The sight of police officers rushing toward me with guns drawn was unimaginable. As I stood, the first officer pulled me away from my car, slammed me face-down on the hood of the Accord, cuffed my hands behind my back, and roughly stood me up. VIII “What is this, officer? What did I do?” I asked. Deep down I knew exactly why this was happening. “You’re under arrest,” the officer explained. “For what?” I asked arrogantly, pretending to be clueless. I was angry with myself. Out of the corner of my right eye, I noticed a female TV reporter and a cameraman standing yards away. With a microphone, she approached the scene and captured the arrest for the entire population to observe. At that moment, I sensed I was about to become another black male statistic for all the wrong reasons. My situation could be summed up by a warning in Proverbs by King Solomon, son of David, King of Israel: A man who remains stiff neck after many rebukes will suddenly be destroyed without remedy. Proverbs 29:1

Edition details

• Publisher: M. W. Moore Publications LLC
• Publication date: 2025
• Language: English
• ISBN 13: 9798892381765
• Binding: Hardcover
• Edition number: 1
• Number of pages: 338