Most operate placing little value on health which is true wealth. Too many place money over health, slaving all of life for money, thinking money is wealth. Nothing exceeds health just as health can’t be bought as it is a lifestyle. Like many in the family, one may have all the money living in mini mac mansions, driving the most expensive cars yet void of health.
Our body is 90% microbes & bacteria. Every body must maintain a homeostatic microbiome which is the biological process where the body keeps its inner environment stable, safe, and balanced even when things change outside the body.
The sad reality is newborns receive 75 vaccines for the first 18 years causing longterm medical effects. Viruses don’t exist and the term created unlimited vaccines and money which is what life is all about. Lifelong problems start with newborn vaccines. The covid vaccines was the icing on the cake for the medical industry.
Think about it, we deworm dogs, cats, cattle, chickens for parasites yet we don’t deworm people. The cut, burn, poison industry is too profitable to change the course. Dr Hulda Clark shared the truth with America and they destroyed her ultimately killing her. Dr Rashid Buttar told the truth about CV19™ and they poisoned him to death. They buried him on the second attempt with poison. It’s dangerous to care enough about people to be a truther. The cost can be high.
Franklin Richardson spent 41 years as a funeral director. He embalmed over 9,000 people with my own two hands. And I’m about to tell you something I should have said 30 years ago.
My family told me to let it go. I’m retired now. Nobody’s career is on the line anymore — not mine, not the doctors’, not the county’s. But I’m 68 years old, and I held too many people in my hands knowing the truth and saying nothing.
So here it is.
When you embalm a body, you don’t just see it. You open it. You handle what’s inside. You feel the difference between a body that was healthy and a body that was being worn down from the inside while it was still walking around.
And in 41 years, in body after body that came across my table, I found the same thing.
Worms. Colonies of them, burrowed into the wall of the gut. And over the organs, this thick gray film, like someone had coated everything in wax. I’d have to work through it to do my job.
I found it in the old. I found it in the young. I found it in marathon runners and churchgoers and grandmothers who “ate clean their whole life.” I found it in people whose families stood in my parlor and told me, “the doctors said it was IBS. They said it was stress. They said her tests were always normal.”
Normal.
I want to tell you about the first time I almost said something. And why I didn’t.
It was 1994. A man named Daniel. 51 years old. He coached Little League. His wife found him slumped at the kitchen table on a Saturday morning. The death certificate said heart failure.
When I opened him, his gut was nothing like it should have been — all of it under that gray coating I’d come to know better than the back of my own hand.
Daniel’s wife sat in my office three days later and asked me, quietly, if I had any idea why a healthy 51-year-old man had died so suddenly.
And I almost told her what I’d seen. The gray coating. The gut nothing like it should be. But I didn’t have an explanation that fit on a form, and it wasn’t my place to offer one.
But I was 37. I had two kids and a mortgage and a business in a small town where the doctors sent me my work. I’d been told — not in writing, never in writing, just understood — that a funeral director’s job is to bury people, not to second-guess what the certificate says.
So I told Daniel’s wife I was sorry for her loss. And I buried him with the certificate as written and a question I couldn’t shake.
I went home that night and started a notebook.
Not for anyone. Not for court. Just for me, because I couldn’t carry it in my head anymore. Every body. The date. The age. And that gray film, every time I found it.
By the time I retired, that notebook had more than 2,000 entries.
2,000 families who shook my hand and thanked me for my care and never once heard what I was really thinking.
That’s what I carried for 41 years.
Here’s where it stopped being something I carried and became something I could not live with.
My wife. Carol. We’ve been married 39 years. Sharpest, steadiest woman I’ve ever known. Raised three kids, ran the church food drive for two decades, never sick a day she’d admit to.
About two years ago, she started bloating after dinner. Just a little. She’d undo the top button of her slacks and laugh and say she was “getting old.” I didn’t laugh.
Then the tiredness. Carol has never sat still in her life. Suddenly she was asleep in her chair by eight, and waking up like she hadn’t slept at all.
Then the 3am wake-ups. I’d feel the bed shift. She’d be lying there in the dark, eyes open, hand on her stomach. Night after night.
Then she started losing words. Calling our son by our grandson’s name. Forgetting why she’d walked into a room. She’d shake her head and say her brain was “going.”
I knew those signs. God help me, I knew them better than I wanted to. I’d been noticing them for forty years. Bloating. Exhaustion. Sleep that breaks at 3am. A mind going foggy. The exact pattern I’d spent a career seeing and never once been able to name.
Carol went to her doctor. Bloodwork. Stool sample. A colonoscopy. They told her everything looked fine and handed her a pamphlet on irritable bowel and a prescription for something to help her sleep.
Of course they did.
I’d embalmed hundreds of people who tested “fine” their whole lives. Here’s what no one tells you: the standard test only catches what’s loose in the gut at that one moment. The ones I always found — burrowed into the wall, sealed behind that gray film — they don’t show up. They can’t. The test was never built to find them.
I sat across from my wife that night while she tried to remember the name of a movie we’d watched two days before, and I felt forty years of silence sitting on my chest.
I was not going to watch my own wife handed the same shrug and the same pamphlet for the rest of her life. Not Carol. Not after everything I’d seen.
I tried the cleanses first. The herbal ones. The ones from the health store. Wormwood, black walnut, the whole cabinet.
Three weeks. A little cramping. Nothing else.
I should have known. I’d seen what was inside these people. One herb at a time, a pinch of it, half dead in a capsule that had sat on a shelf for a year. Even if a trace of it got down there, it would just slide off that gray coating and pass through. You don’t clear what I’d spent my life looking at with a single herb at a health-store dose. It doesn’t get there.
Then I called the one man who’d understand. Walt. He’d run a funeral home two counties over for 44 years before he retired. Old school. The only one in the business who’d ever talk about what we both saw on our tables.
I told him about Carol. Told him what I’d tried.
He was quiet a long moment. Then he said, “You’ve been thinking about this wrong your whole career.”
“What do you mean?”
“You keep reaching for one herb at a time. A pinch at a time. You of all people know that doesn’t touch the wall. You’ve had your hands on that wall. You know what’s coating it.”
“So what reaches it?”
“Not one plant. The whole handful, together, at a real dose, in an oil so the bitter part actually absorbs instead of passing through you. Wormwood, black walnut, clove, oregano, garlic, pumpkin seed. The wormwood breaks down that gray film so the rest can get behind it. The pumpkin seed makes them let go of the wall. The clove kills the eggs, so there’s nothing left to build back from. One herb they survive. The whole handful at once, they don’t.”
He paused.
“And this isn’t a new idea. That wormwood is the same plant a scientist won the Nobel Prize for in 2015, for the compound in it that kills parasites the drugs couldn’t touch. It’s named in the Bible eight times over, the herb the old world reached for when something was living inside a person. They took the whole handful, not one pinch. We forgot. And they feed at night, when that film is at its weakest. The same small hours your wife keeps waking. That’s not a coincidence. That’s a schedule.”
“Walt. How long have you done this?”
“Sixteen years. My wife too. She’s 79 and the doctor’s got nothing to do with her but check her ears.”
“You never told me.”
“You’d have looked at me like I was crazy. A man who buries people telling you the fix is a fistful of bitter weeds. Who’d listen to that?”
He was right. Five years ago I’d have laughed him off the phone.
I wasn’t laughing. My wife was awake at 3am with the first chapter of every body I’d ever opened.
I went out that night and did what I’d done the first time, bought the herbs one bottle at a time. Half-dead powder, a pinch of each, three brands that didn’t agree on a dose. Two more weeks, same nothing.
Third morning she said, “I love you, but I am not choking down another cabinet of pills that do nothing.”
I called Walt and he laughed before I finished.
“Everyone tries to build it themselves first. You can’t. The dose is wrong and the oils are dead by the time they hit the shelf. There’s a company that puts the whole handful in one softgel, at the dose that actually does something, in an oil so it absorbs. My wife’s used theirs for years.”
He told me the name. Holior.
I ordered it that day. When it came I understood why the loose bottles failed. The whole handful in one oil softgel, wormwood, black walnut, pumpkin seed, clove, oregano and garlic, 6,600 milligrams’ worth a serving, built so the bitter oils actually get where they’re going instead of passing through. No guessing. No cabinet full of half-dead powders.
Carol took it the way you’re supposed to, three a day before breakfast, and gave it the full month.
Week one: more activity in the bathroom. Something moving that hadn’t moved in a long time.
Week two: the bloating started going down. Steady, day by day. End of the week she stood at the mirror and said, “My stomach’s flat. When was the last time my stomach was flat?” I couldn’t tell her. I didn’t remember.
Week three: the 3am wake-ups stopped. Clean through the night. I’d wake at 3 out of forty years of habit and look over and she’d just be sleeping. Breathing slow. Still. I cannot describe to you what that silence meant after the months we’d had.
Week four: her sister came by, stopped in the doorway, and said, “What on earth have you done? You look ten years younger.” Carol just smiled at me.
The fog lifted. The energy came back. The sugar cravings she’d been fighting just stopped. She told me she felt like herself for the first time in two years.
Because she was herself. She’d just been carrying something that had been quietly taking her apart — the same something I’d spent forty years seeing and never been able to name.
I take it now too. The tiredness I’d blamed on forty years of long days, gone. I’m 68 and I sleep like I did at 40.
We both run a bottle through a couple times a year now to keep it clear. Keeping it that way.
I don’t open bodies anymore. I don’t fill out certificates. I don’t sit across from widows and say “I’m sorry” and keep what I saw to myself.
But I think about Daniel. His wife in my office. The notebook in my desk drawer with 2,000 names in it. The families I sent home without ever telling them what I’d seen, because I was told that was my place.
And I think about Carol. How close she came to spending the rest of her life being told it was nothing. How her symptoms were word for word the ones I’d been seeing for forty years. How her tests came back fine, just like everyone’s always did.
The only difference was that I knew what to look for. And for once, I found it in time.
That’s why I’m telling you now. Because I finally can.
The bloating. The exhaustion no sleep fixes. The 3am wake-ups. The fog that makes you feel like your mind is slipping. The sugar cravings you can’t explain.
Those aren’t separate problems. They’re connected — and I spent forty years wishing someone had connected them sooner.
Something is living inside you. Behind a wall. Taking what your body needs.
Your tests will come back normal. Your doctor will say stress, hormones, age, IBS. I spent forty years around people whose charts said exactly that. The test was never built to find what’s behind the wall.
And one herb at a time never reaches it. A pinch of wormwood on its own. A single bottle of black walnut. That’s why every cleanse you’ve tried worked for two weeks and then quit on you. It killed a few adults and left the eggs behind the film to hatch and build the whole thing back.
What reaches it is the full handful, together, at a real dose. Wormwood to break down the film they hide behind. Black walnut, oregano and garlic to turn the gut into a place they can’t live. Pumpkin seed to make them let go of the wall. And clove to kill the eggs. That wormwood is the same plant a scientist won the Nobel Prize for in 2015, and it’s named in the Bible eight times over, the herb the old world reached for when something was living inside a person.
That’s what Holior makes. The whole handful in one oil-based softgel, 6,600 milligrams a serving, built so the bitter oils actually absorb instead of passing through. Three a day before breakfast, for 30 days.
No cabinet full of half-dead powders. No guessing at the dose. No endless shipments of things that never worked anyway.
30-day money-back guarantee. If you don’t feel a meaningful difference, every penny back.
| Wormwood Black Walnut Pumpkin Seed & Clove Softgels*Holior |
They’re a small company and they sell out constantly. If they’re out of stock when you click, sign up for the restock. It’s worth the wait.
Every day you wait is another day it feeds. Another day it stays behind the same wall.
I spent 41 years around people who were never told what to look for. I wrote 2,000 of them down in a book nobody was ever meant to read.
I’m not carrying it anymore.
The bloating won’t go on its own. The exhaustion won’t lift. The 3am wake-ups won’t stop. Not until you reach what’s behind the wall.
Stop feeding what’s feeding on you.
In His Service
John 8:32