Camy's Loft

Book giveaway - THE FINAL CRUMPET by Ron and Janet Benrey

2009-12-07T00:01:00.000-08:00

Captain's Log, Stardate 12.07.2009

The winner of
White Picket Fences
by
Susan Meissner
is
Angela
Congratulations!

Didn’t win the book but want to read it?
Buy from Christianbook.com
Buy from Amazon
Buy from Barnes and Noble
Buy from Books a Million

Blog book giveaway:

Please click here to read giveaway rules and why I had to change them.

To enter to win today’s book, leave a comment on this blog post, giving your name and US state. Sorry, no international entrants (see post above for why).

Please also leave an email address or website where I can contact you (please use this format--you [at] yourmail.com--or something like that to prevent spammers from trolling for your email address). It is the winner’s responsibility to check to see if you won and to email me if you haven’t yet heard from me.

I always email the winner and give them a week to reply, but if I don’t receive an answer, I will pull another person to win the book. I am not responsible for a lost opportunity if you are on vacation or leave an email address you don’t check frequently.

Only one entry per person. The winner can expect their free book in 4-6 weeks.

You have a week to comment--I'll pick a name out of a hat on Monday, December 14th. (BTW, you can post a comment and NOT enter, too.)

Today I’m giving away:

The Final Crumpet
by
Ron and Janet Benrey
(This book is gently used)

No wonder the tea plants in the garden didn’t grow!

When Nigel Owen and Flick Adams—the new director and curator of The Royal Tunbridge Wells Tea Museum—dug up two stunted Assam bushes, the last thing they expected to find was the body of Britain’s most famous missing person. Etienne Makepeace, England’s renowned "Tea Sage," disappeared forty years ago without a trace. But there he lies, in the museum’s Tea Garden, buried in a shallow grave—and every policeman and reporter in the British Isles wants to know why.

So does the stodgy English bank that will fund the museum’s acquisition of a major collection of tea antiquities. They’re ready to pull the plug on the deal.

Nigel and Flick have no choice: to save their beloved museum, they must delve into the 1960s and discover what even the spymasters of Her Majesty’s Government don’t know—Etienne Makepeace brewed more trouble than tea during the Cold War.

In no time at all, Nigel and Flick are up to their teacups in ancient spies, modern femme fatales, and a mystery that threatens to turn deadly. . .unless they give up their quest to find the secret of Etienne Makepeace.

Excerpt of chapter one:

Chapter One

The roaring clatter made by the earthmover astonished Nigel Owen. The "mini excavator"-a compact tractor equipped with a crablike digging arm-sounded as loud as a bulldozer inside the enclosed confines of the tea garden. Nigel felt the need to clamp his hands over his ears, but his left arm was stalwartly enfolding Flick Adams's shoulders, and she had tightly gripped his right hand between both of hers.

"I can't bear to watch this," she shouted, as the small machine began to roll along the garden's serpentine redbrick path. "I'm having second thoughts about tearing out our Assam tea plants. It's hardly fair to chop them down just because they didn't grow to full height."

Nigel didn't feel much sympathy for the two scraggly evergreen shrubs planted in the Indian Tea area of the garden, but Flick clearly did. He bent close to her ear. "Those Assams have led long and happy lives. If they could talk, they would applaud your decision to uproot them."

"Then why do I feel like a vandal?"

"Because you have focused too closely on the fate of two individual plants. Think of the big picture. We have twenty-two tea bushes in this garden. Replacing ten percent of them represents prudent husbandry of the museum's precious resources."

"Okay, so maybe I'm not a vandal. But what do you call a person who destroys history? Our predecessors planted those Assams decades ago."

"Yes, they did-for the specific purpose of educating visitors to the Royal Tunbridge Wells Tea Museum. However, these particular tea plants routinely confuse our current day visitors. As you have repeatedly explained to me, there are three major varieties of tea plants grown throughout the world: the China, the Assam, and the Indo-China. The Assam is supposed to be the tallest of the three; consequently the founders planted only two of them. But our Assams look more like bonsai miniatures. You sensibly chose to replant this corner of the tea garden with new Assam seedlings." He gave her shoulders a reassuring squeeze. "As the newly appointed managing director of the museum, I hereby certify that you are doing a wise and proper thing."

"You may be right, but you may also be wrong. While it's perfectly true that a healthy Assam plant can soar to more than sixty feet, tea growers routinely prune them back to a height of four or five feet for convenient picking of tea leaves. Our stunted bushes are really quite realistic."

Nigel squeezed Flick's shoulders again and fought the urge to laugh. How could Felicity Adams, PhD, who knew everything about tea, think of any tea plant growing in Kent, England-tall, short, or in-between-as being "realistic"?

The very existence of this tea garden was a tribute to the extraordinary lack of realism exercised by the museum's founders some forty-one years ago. They began by surrounding a fifth of an acre of land on the eastern corner of the museum building with a twelve-foot-high brick wall to block out chill breezes. Then they ordered a grid of iron pipes buried three feet below the surface. Two powerful pumps circulated heated water through the subterranean plumbing by day and by night, to keep the Kentish soil, and the sheltered garden itself, balmy enough to raise tropical tea plants.

Nigel gazed up at the ugly gray sky and decided that this very day provided a fine illustration of the founder's accomplishments. Outside the garden, one had to endure an icy Friday morning in mid-January, but inside the wall, one could relish springlike surroundings. He and Flick had both left their cumbersome winter trench coats upstairs, in their respective offices.

Of course, if one thought about it, there was a touch of the implausible about the whole of the Royal Tunbridge Wells Tea Museum. There it stood on Eridge Road: an imposing, four-story, Georgian-style building dedicated to the many different aspects of tea. The history of tea, the geography of tea, the economics of tea, the cultivation of tea, the processing of tea, the blending of tea, the tasting of tea, the serving of tea, the food that accompanies tea-if a topic had something to do with tea, one could probably find a relevant exhibit in the museum's galleries, library, meeting rooms, garden, or laboratories. How could sensible Brits give over such a significant institution to the veneration of a mere beverage?

Don't forget the most improbable thing of all. The trans-formation of his own life. He had come to Tunbridge Wells ten months earlier as the museum's acting director, a one-year-long temporary position intended to tide him over between "real" jobs. He had had every intention of returning to London, no desire at all to make a sea change in his career. And not the least notion of falling in love with the chief curator.

That had happened the previous October during a re-markable chain of events that even now seemed inexplicable. What magic had transformed a woman he disliked into a woman he loved-a woman who loved him back? And how did one explain the two bizarre side effects? Managing a tea museum abruptly seemed an utterly logical job for him, and Royal Tunbridge Wells-Nigel had grown fond of the prefix bestowed on the small city south of London by King Edward VII in 1909-had begun to feel like home. And so, against all odds, Nigel Owen-a lifelong Londoner, a financial whiz trained to lead major corporations with thousands of employees, a man who didn't even like tea-had gleefully accepted the trustees' invitation to become the museum's managing director.

The mini excavator's diesel engine roared even louder as it approached its prey. Nigel looked across the garden and saw Jim Sizer, an enormous smile on his bearded face, wave happily at him from the driver's seat of the rented machine. Jim, who admitted to being seventy but was undoubtedly older, served as the museum's jack-of-all-trades utility person. He had once again lived up to his reputation as a problem- solving genius by figuring out how to get the mini excavator into the tea garden. For all their ingenuity, the founders had not thought to provide a door through the brick wall. Jim had taken ten different measurements and calculated there was just enough clearance to wheel the pint-sized earthmover through the aisles of the museum's greenhouse.

Jim steered the mini excavator in line with the pair of Assam tea plants and pushed a lever that activated the hydraulically powered digging arm.

Flick shouted above the noise, "This is like witnessing an execution!"

Nigel moved behind Flick and wrapped his arms around her. "This garden party was your idea. If you don't stop shifting your mental position like the pendulum in a clock, I shall change your nickname to Tick."

She looked up at him and smiled. "You wouldn't dare."

"I'd have centuries of tradition on my side. Ask your Anglophile parents back in York, Pennsylvania-Tick and Flick are both acceptable short forms of Felicity."

Jim revved the diesel again.

"We can postpone this," she said hurriedly. "We don't have to rip out the Assam plants today."

"Need I remind you that our two-week shutdown is about to come to an end. We plan to reopen on Monday; Jim Sizer will need all of Saturday to get the restored tea garden ready for visitors."

"You're assuming that the vultures will finish this afternoon."

"The appraisers will be finished by noon-as you well know."

Nigel thought of the two teams of professional antiquities valuers-twelve experts in all-who had worked their way from floor to floor in the museum. They were a lean, sallow-faced crowd who did resemble a flock of vultures. The recent death of Dame Elspeth Hawker made it necessary for the museum to purchase the many antiquities on display that were owned by the Hawker family. The first step of the process was to value the thousands of paintings, books, maps, woodwork, and pieces of crockery that served tea, praised tea, honored tea, celebrated tea, and explained its long history. One appraisal team was hired by the Hawker family, the other by the museum; their respective findings would be averaged to establish the collection's value.

"Yikes!" Flick cried as the toothed bucket on the end of the arm tore a tea bush out of the ground. Nigel felt her shudder.

"Steady on, Dr. Adams." Nigel tightened his hug. "The worst is almost over."

Jim Sizer made a dozen more careful swipes with the bucket to knock down the other Assam tea plant and scrape away enough top soil to make a trench about seven feet long, three feet wide, and two feet deep. He finished by maneuvering the excavator close to the back wall and killing the engine.

"I finally understand the true meaning of 'blessed silence,'" Nigel said.

"What happens now?" Flick asked.

"I believe that Jim takes over with a shovel." Nigel looked over his shoulder. "Isn't that right, Conan?"

"Quite right, sir," said Conan Davies, the museum's over-sized chief of security, who today was also acting as excavation supervisor. Nigel noted that the big man was smiling; the museum's staff seemed to approve of the blossoming relation-ship between their director and chief curator.

Will the trustees feel differently? One of these days, we'll have to find out.

Conan went on in his gravelly voice. "We can't risk damaging the heating pipes. Jim helped to install them forty years ago. He knows the layout better than anyone else alive does. He'll dig slowly and carefully around the pipes to prepare the bed for the new tea plants." Conan cocked his head toward a flat of seedlings sitting on a table.

Nigel studied the foot-high replacement plants. They had arrived the day before on a flight from India, the gift of a tea estate in Kerala, a renowned tea-growing region in southern India. The seedlings had begun life as cuttings from established Assam plants. Flick had told him that mature tea plants were almost impossible to transplant successfully because their long taproots rarely survived the shock of a move. He and Flick had thought about cultivating cuttings in the museum's greenhouse, but she decided to make a wholly new beginning for the Assam tea plants, starting over with imported seedlings that had a proven pedigree.

Flick unwound from his embrace. She moved closer to the trench, studied it intently from a distance, and then crouched down to dribble handfuls of loose soil through her fingers. Nigel chuckled to himself. The tea tree-loving softy had given way to the hard-nosed scientist with impeccable academic and industry credentials. Her encyclopedic knowledge of tea spanned the entire life cycle-from growing tea plants, to processing and blending leaves, to brewing a good cuppa, to preparing and serving a classic English afternoon tea. In short, a surfeit of skills for someone only thirty-six years old. Flick had so impressed the museum's trustees that they took the radical step of appointing an American as chief curator of England's leading tea museum.

Nigel remembered his initial meeting with Flick when she came on board the previous summer-and winced. He had deemed her pompous, arrogant, dreary, and much too good-looking to be an effective curator. It had boggled his mind that a stunning brunette with big brown eyes could also be a serious scientist.

So much for the perspicacity of your first impressions-and your deep understanding of women.

"The soil feels and looks healthy," Flick said. "I wish I knew why our Assams didn't thrive."

"Well, ma'am," Conan said, "one of our security guards set up a modest betting pool that has generated many different suggestions as to the exact cause of the stunted plants. One thought is bad soil in this corner of the garden. Another is a leaky uncharted gas pipe somewhere beneath the bed. My belief is that we'll find a layer of construction rubble further down that prevented the plants' roots from reaching the proper depth. We're really quite close to the building proper; the workmen may have inadvertently buried a stack of unused bricks."

"My money is on moles," Nigel said. "I think the little blighters built a subterranean city and ate the roots as fast as the plants sent them out." He extended his hand and pulled Flick to her feet when Jim Sizer arrived with his shovel.

Nigel took a step backward to make room for the clods of earth that Jim removed from the trench at shockingly high speed. Doing all manner of odd jobs at the museum had kept the lanky septuagenarian in such vigorous shape that he steadfastly refused to retire.

"I should be so healthy at his age," Nigel murmured. In February he would be thirty-nine, a painful milestone he found difficult to contemplate.

A deep thunk from the trench interrupted his reverie.

"What did you hit?" Flick asked.

"Not sure, ma'am." Jim poked about with the shovel. "It may be that Mr. Davies thought right. It could be a layer of rubble, except ..."

"Except what?"

"It's not rubble," Jim said excitedly. "This is a roof slate. Someone laid a layer of roofing tiles about three feet down."

"Well, now we know what blocked root growth."

Nigel watched Jim lever two slates loose with the tip of the shovel. He lifted them out of the way.

"Why would someone bury roofing tiles?" Nigel asked. No one answered him; Flick, Conan, and Jim had directed their complete attention to the trench.

"Do you see anything below the tiles?" Flick asked.

"Only one way to find out." Jim thrust the shovel into the earth-and immediately brought forth an ominous crunching noise.

"Blast!" Conan said. "I hope that wasn't a heating pipe."

"Oh no, sir. They go clang when you bang 'em. I can see some sort of green plastic sheeting, perhaps a tarpaulin. Whatever is there is beginning to crumble."

Nigel leaned over to look into the trench. "What do you make of that yellowish object?"

Jim used the tip of his shovel to draw back the plastic sheeting. Nigel at once recognized a discolored skull and several human bones.

Jim made a throaty moan. "Blimey! It's a skeleton!"

Nigel might have fallen face first into the trench if Conan had not grabbed his belt and tugged him away from the edge.

* * *

Flick perched against the edge of the windowsill and said, "I feel it in my bones. I don't care if you laugh at me for saying that." When she peered at Nigel, she didn't see any laughter-merely an indifferent shrug.

A few moments later, he finally spoke. "More than one detective inspector serves in Kent Police's Major Crime Unit. It's hardly likely that the plods will dispatch the only investigator in the county who has had the opportunity to yell at you."

"Want to bet?"

"Not especially." Nigel was sitting behind his desk, tilted as far backwards as his swivel chair would allow.

"Come on. You're always game for a wager. How about dinner tonight, at Thackeray's on London Road. If I'm right, you pay.... If you're right, I pay."

"Okay-if that's what you want to do."

"Make reservations."

He rocked forward in his chair and reached for his telephone, but stopped in midstretch. "Shouldn't we first arrange for a sitter for Cha-Cha?"

Flick looked across Nigel's office in time to see a pair of pointy ears perk up. The smiling mouth below them emitted a yodel-like yip. Cha-Cha had raised his head at the sound of his name, although the rest of him lay sprawled along the sofa, a piece of furniture he now considered his own.

Cha-Cha, a Shiba Inu, an ancient breed of dog from Japan, was compact and foxlike, with a heavy reddish coat and white puffy cheeks. He had become a ward of the museum upon the death of Elspeth Hawker. He spent alternate nights in Nigel's flat on Lime Hill Road, near the Royal Tunbridge Wells' town center, and Flick's apartment on the Pantiles' Lower Walk, opposite the three-hundred-year-old colonnaded walkway that was one of the Wells' leading attractions.

"I have custody of the hound tonight," Flick said. "We'll drop him off at my flat; it's on our way to Thackeray's."

"That's true."

"And you can withdraw the necessary funds to pay for dinner from the cash machine in the Pantiles."

Nigel sighed. "I adore scintillating small talk, my dear, and I appreciate your valiant attempts to amuse me in times of trouble; but when do we tackle the elephant standing in the corner of the room?"

Flick rolled to her feet. Nigel's melancholy mood had begun when Jim Sizer unearthed the skeleton and had grown worse as they waited in his office for the police to arrive. His enthusiastic "hail fellow, well met" demeanor had vanished, and his usually ruddy complexion looked strangely colorless compared to his reddish-blond hair. Even his tall, slender build seemed to have compressed several inches.

Let's find out what's bothering the poor dear.

"What would you like me to say, Nigel?" Flick asked. "We don't have enough information to discuss the corpse in the tea garden. For all we know, he-or she-is a two thousand-year-old Roman expatriate."

Buy from Christianbook.com
Buy from Amazon
Buy from Barnes and Noble
Buy from Books a Million

To find out about the differences between my blog giveaways, my newsletter giveaways, and my website contest, click here.

Excerpt - One Simple Act by Debbie Macomber

2009-12-02T00:01:00.000-08:00

Camy here:

I really love this book. Debbie’s voice is warm and encouraging, and I especially enjoyed the tip she gives of starting a gratitude journal. I did, and it has really helped me see God’s hand in so many different aspects of my life (I blogged about it on Faithchick.com). The format of this book is convenient for a quick devotional or just reading at odd times (like while waiting for the pasta to boil).

Today's Wild Card author is:

Debbie Macomber

and the book:

One Simple Act

Howard Books (November 3, 2009)

***Special thanks to Jennifer Willingham of Simon & Schuster sending me a review copy.***

In her first non-fiction title, mega-bestselling novelist Debbie Macomber illustrates the profound impact of simple acts of generosity and how lives are changed in unimaginable and wonderful ways when we share the gifts of time, encouragement, hope, laughter, prayer and even forgiveness.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

Debbie Macomber is one of today’s leading voices in women’s fiction. With more than 100 million copies of her books in print and translated into twenty-three languages, her popularity is worldwide. Debbie and her husband live in Washington and Florida and are the proud parents of four children and grandparents of nine grandchildren.

Visit the author's website.

Product Details:

List Price: $22.99
Hardcover: 224 pages
Publisher: Howard Books (November 3, 2009)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 1439108935
ISBN-13: 978-1439108932

AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:

Chapter One

Fleas, Footsteps, and Check-out Lanes

Giving from a Grateful Heart

Kate stepped out of her bookstore at the end of a long, tiring day, locked the door behind her, pulled her scarf up over her nose and mouth to shield her lungs from the bitter cold air, and rushed across the lot to her car. Just one quick stop at the grocery store and she’d be on the way home to cuddle up with her new book in front of a warm fire.

As she waited at the traffic light to turn into the grocery store lot she took off one glove to feel if the air blasting out of the heat vents was starting to warm. Ah, yes. What a relief. In the few minutes it had taken her to get from her bookstore to the grocery store her fingers had started to ache from the cold. “I think I was born with cold fingers,” she muttered. The light changed to green and as she turned into the lot she came alongside a narrow median strip and noticed a man holding a crudely made hand-lettered cardboard sign. HOMELESS. NEED FOOD. PLEASE HELP. At his feet was a small white plastic bucket. His collar was pulled high against the cold, but her eyes went to his hands holding the sign. Bare hands.

My fingers ache from five minutes in this cold car, with gloves on. How cold must his be? she wondered. Her eyes went to his face. Late twenties, probably six or seven years older than Mark. The sudden thought of her son instantly made her shoulders sag. She hadn’t seen Mark since summer. Addicted to drugs, Mark had left home several months ago after a two year struggle—maybe war was a better word—with his parents over his drug abuse. He still called sometimes, but he’d been bunking in with friends, house hopping, and he’d even slept on the streets rather than come back home. Never had she felt so helpless as she’d felt watching her son self-destruct these past two years. Never so powerless to meet the deep needs of the son she loved. But he wasn’t ready to give up his drugs or his illusion of freedom. He remained elusive about his whereabouts and declined every offer Kate made to meet him someplace to talk. Where is he tonight? Cold and hungry like this guy? Begging on some street corner? And if a kind stranger gives him a ten dollar bill, he’ll buy his next hit of pills before buying a warm meal. Kate’s heart sank. Are Mark’s hands cold tonight?

And then it came to her. A quiet nudge. She parked, hurried into the store to pick up bread, eggs, and some yogurt for the weekend, then hit one more aisle. Through the checkout, a dash back to her car, and back along the other side of the median strip, where she pulled alongside the young man, rolled down her window and stopped. Her heart picked up its pace. He walked over to her car, bucket held out, but she didn’t hand any money out the window. Instead she held out a warm pair of gloves she’d just bought. He looked startled.

“Your hands must be terribly cold,” she said. “I hope these help.” The young man looked confused for a moment. Then accepted the gloves. “Thanks,” he said.

The car behind her honked and she pulled away and moved toward the intersection. She glanced in the rearview mirror and saw him pulling on the gloves. She blinked to clear a few tears away. They were warm on her cold checks, but another warmth from somewhere in her core was spreading upward, and she found herself smiling.

For the first time in a long time she didn’t feel powerless at the thought of Mark. Take care of my son tonight, Lord, she prayed. Show him Your love through the kindness of a stranger. And Lord, comfort the mother of that young man tonight.

In that one simple act Kate had discovered the power of generosity. She’d not only warmed a troubled young man; she’d kindled a spark of hope for Mark. And she realized that God had just used her to care for the son of another worried mother. And who knows, maybe the young man on the median strip called is mother that night.

Just one simple act.

A Discovery Worth Sharing

You’ve read the subtitle of this book, Discovering the Power of Generosity. If you recognized my name on the cover of the book you may be asking yourself why a writer known for fiction is writing a nonfiction book on generosity The answer is . . . well . . . if you don’t mind me quoting the title . . . simple. Have you ever discovered something so great that you just had to tell your friends? You know, like a great little vacation spot you stumbled across while on a trip, or a new clothing store with affordable prices, great selection and really stellar service? Maybe you’ve heard a speaker that had a huge impact on you, or saw a movie that made you laugh ‘til you cried and you knew just the friend who needed it. When we find something we love, we want to share it with it others and spread the joy. Right? That is how I feel about simple acts of generosity. I have had some encounters with generosity—as the recipient, the giver, the witness—that have had a profoundly life-changing impact on me. I’ve just got to share the news.

On the other hand, you may have seen the word generosity and thought to yourself, “Oh great. One more appeal to go digging deep into my pocket.” Don’t worry! You are not in for a brand new load of guilt. I promise! That’s precisely what this book is not about. In our age of overwork and exhaustion, tossing a few dollars here and there may be the easiest way to practice generosity. But I am talking about it in larger terms—life-changing terms.

Like my friend Kate. She made a five minute investment of time, and on a whim probably spent about eight or nine dollars on that pair of gloves. But her decision had nothing to do with her wallet. It had to do with her heart. When she handed those gloves out the window she brought unexpected goodness into a bleak situation. And that goodness spilled over and gave back. It multiplied. For my friend Kate, that was just the beginning. But that is a story for another time.

When you pick up a book, it’s fair to ask, “What’s in it for me?” My goal in writing this is to surprise you with the multiple benefits that come from small and large acts of generosity. I’m convinced that we cannot become all we could be until we are willing to unclench our hands and release what we’ve been clinging to, what we’ve been determined to keep for ourselves. The intriguing part is that once we release such gifts we are free to take hold of something more, something better; something that God has wanted to give us for a very long time.

Simply put, intentional acts of generosity can open our lives to the very best God has to offer. In fact, the very best that God has to offer is exactly where we need to start.

A Tradition Worth Keeping

Several years ago I read of the old Quaker tradition of keeping a gratitude journal. I was inspired by the idea so I purchased a book with blank pages and titled it My Ode to Joy. Each morning I wrote a little thank you note to God. I found it to be a way to start my day on a positive note. Little did I understand then how the discipline of writing down five things for which I am thankful every day would forever change my life.

When I first started I found it easy to hit the big things—good parents, a wonderful husband, my children (and later my grandchildren) and, of course, a writing career I love. These precious gifts still make their way onto my list over and over. Today, when I re-read journals from past years I see that as the months, then years, trickled by, I began to dig deeper for things to add to my list. As I matured in my understanding of how God works, it wasn’t only the good things, the pleasant, “happy” gifts for which I expressed appreciation. I began to see more clearly how God was using life’s trials in unexpected ways for my good so I began to write down my gratitude for the seemingly negative things in my life—my troubles, pains and losses. With that knowledge I became more confident that God would see me through everything, and my gratitude grew deeper. In fact, expressing thanks for negative things is a practice I adopted from Corrie ten Boom as I read her book The Hiding Place.1

Fleas, God’s Secret Weapon

During World War II, Corrie and her sister, Betsie had been arrested in Holland for trying to help Jews escape the Holocaust. They ended up in Ravensbruck, one of the most infamous Nazi concentration camps. Their barracks had been built to hold 400 prisoners but by the time the sisters arrived at the camp, the room held more than 1400 women.

Living conditions were insufferable. The women were housed like stacked cordwood on dirty, flea-infested straw, strewn on wooden platforms. The fleas feasted night and day until everyone was covered in itchy, raised welts.

If it hadn’t been for their Bible and the comfort the sisters were able to take from Betsie’s readings, Corrie didn’t know how they could have survived from day to day. If the guards had ventured into the room they would have discovered the forbidden Bible. Not only would it have been confiscated but the consequences would have been brutal. Over and over, the two sisters wondered over the mystery of why the guards never inspected their barracks.

One morning Betsie read the Bible verse in 1 Thessalonians 5:18 that said, Give thanks in all circumstances. She insisted that they put this into practice, feeling certain that ‘giving thanks’ was the answer to their suffering. As Corrie tells the story, her sister named a litany of things they needed to thank God for—from the amazing circumstance that enabled the sisters to stay together, to the Bible she held in her hands, to the other women in the camp. But when Betsie began to thank God for the suffocating room and finally for the fleas, Corrie balked. It seemed impossible to Corrie to find anything for which to thank God in the deprivation of a concentration camp.

But Betsie insisted, reminding Corrie that God said, “in all circumstances.” Corrie recalled standing in that room with all the other women, thanking God for the fleas and being certain that, for once, Betsie was wrong. Yet, that prayer proved to be a turning point for the women. Their circumstances hadn’t changed but their attitude did. Betsie and Corrie began to connect with the women in a way that changed those barracks and the women imprisoned there. It wasn’t until much later that Corrie discovered the reason the dreaded inspection never happened and their beloved Bible remained undiscovered. It was the very same reason she and Betsie were never stopped from having their much-anticipated Bible studies.

The fleas!

The guards refused to set foot into those barracks because of the out-of-control flea infestation. When Betsie took God at His word and thanked Him in all circumstances, she had no idea those fleas were actually a gift from God.

It’s easy to be grateful for the sunshine, the good things, plenty of food, meeting the budget and compliant children. But God tells us to express gratitude in all circumstances.

Think about it. That means we are called to offer thanks when the wind blows into our lives at hurricane force. We are asked to thank Him when the money runs out long before the end of the month, and when the kids are pushing the boundaries and challenging us at every turn. It doesn’t make any logical sense, does it?

Corrie ten Boom discovered the “sense” of giving thanks in all circumstances. She discovered the vital link between gratitude and trust. Through reading The Hiding Place and through the practice of keeping my own gratitude journal, I, too, have discovered this link. Though we may not understand the whys of our circumstances, by thanking God we grow to acknowledge that He is in control—that He can be trusted. We learn to release our iron-tight grip on our circumstances, and we experience a much-welcome reprieve from worry.

The importance of giving thanks is clear in Philippians 4:6: Do not be anxious about anything, but in everything, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God. Interesting, isn’t it? The antidote for anxiety is to pray with thanksgiving.

Discovery

The act of gratitude reminds us that God is worthy of our trust.

Footsteps Worth Following

I admit learning to praise God in all circumstances takes practice. I find I need to be intentional and deliberate in doing so, and make it a day-by-day, even minute-by-minute exercise. My grandparents were immigrants of German-Russian extraction who settled in the Dakotas. They were dirt farmers during the Great Depression of the 1930’s. My grandparents, Anna and Anton Adler, rose long before dawn, greeting each day with anticipation. My grandfather labored in his fields only to see his crops fail year after year. When all seemed lost, he didn’t give up. He looked toward the future. He heard of work picking fruit in the Yakima Valley in Washington State. Selling everything they had, my grandparents headed west with six children, leaving their two adult children behind with and all their earthly possessions strapped to the back of their Model T Ford. They headed west, and without a backward glance, he left the farm behind. By all outward appearances my grandfather had failed just as the land had failed and yet, as told in our family stories, my grandparents chose to thank God for the work ahead of them, rather than complain over what they had lost.

In the footsteps of my grandparents I, too, want to look at life with a sense of gratitude. I see my journal writing as starting my morning out on the positive note of practicing gratitude. Instead of grumbling over the drizzle outside my kitchen window, I can smile and remember that it’s the rain that makes everything so green and lush in the Pacific Northwest.

I once read that there are more verses in the Bible that praise God than anything else. I’m not a Bible scholar so I can’t say for sure if that’s true or not but I do know that when we have a thankful heart, despite our circumstances, we lighten our load. Nothing jumpstarts our gratitude like practicing the habit of praise. King David, who poured out his gratitude in verse after verse of the book of Psalms, was called a man after God’s own heart. Isn’t that what we’d like to be? Simply reading his psalms of praise is an ideal way to build gratitude into our lives.

Check-Out Lane Surprise

A few months ago I was in line at the supermarket. My cart was piled high and I was anxious to be on my way. I was grateful that the young woman in front of me only had a partially filled cart. As I watched her carefully unload her groceries, I could see that she seemed anxious. As the checker finished ringing up the groceries, the young woman leaned across the check stand, whispered something to the checker and left—without her groceries. The checker piled the bags onto the cart and set it off to the side.

I guessed the scenario. The young women didn’t have enough money to pay for her purchase.

The clerk looked up at me and smiled, “Thanks for waiting. She had to go to the bank for more money.”

I looked at the mountain of groceries in my cart, remembering my own scary days back in the early 1980’s when I first decided I wanted to be a writer. My husband Wayne and I had four young children and, as a construction electrician, Wayne was often between jobs. I remembered well when were feeding our young family of six on Wayne’s unemployment check of one hundred fifty dollars a week.

I felt that inner discomfort that I sometimes get when God nudges me to do something. I call these moments ‘divine appointments’. It wasn’t by accident that I turned up behind this young wife and mother.

“How much were her groceries?” I asked.

The clerk looked up as if she hadn’t understood my question.

“How much was the bill?” I repeated. She pulled the tape from the bag and told me. Then she shrugged her shoulders as if she didn’t know why I’d be asking.

“Kindly add that amount to my bill,” I told her

The clerk stopped checking my groceries. I was glad my piled-high cart had kept others from lining up behind me.

“She may not even come back,” the woman cautioned. “Sometimes if a person doesn’t have enough money they say they’ll come back because they’re embarrassed. In every likelihood she won’t return, so save your money.”

“No,” I insisted, “I want to pay for her groceries.”

“She probably won’t be back,” she said in a flippant tone. “What do you want me to do with them then?”

“Give the food to someone in need,” I suggested.

I could see the clerk had never had someone offer to pay for someone else’s groceries. She appeared shocked and continued to stare at me. “Why are you doing this?” she asked.

I explained that at one time I’d been in that young woman’s situation. I remembered wondering how I’d feed my family. I told her how grateful I was for all that God had given me. I tried to explain that with gratitude comes the urge to share.

She didn’t say a word and I was left wondering if I was babbling on far too long. What I was doing didn’t make a lot of sense. The clerk was right—the woman who’d left might very well not return. Yet I couldn’t shake the feeling that God wanted me to do this. I’ve come to recognize those promptings from God and learned not to resist them.

Slowly the clerk returned to ringing up my groceries. “I want to know more about God,” she said simply.

That’s when it hit me. This nudge from God wasn’t about the young woman who left her groceries behind. God hadn’t nudged me for her sake, but for the clerk’s sake! For whatever reason, she needed to witness an act of generosity done in the Lord’s name.

I thought of Corrie ten Boom’s fleas. In this case, my own gift of generosity was having a benefit I had never imagined, just as the fleas had a benefit Corrie had never imagined. I thought I was helping the young woman needing groceries, but the Lord had set his sights on the clerk. Something my Florida pastor, James Biles, once said in a sermon came to mind. I remembered being struck so by his words that I wrote them down on the margin of my bulletin: “We aren’t called to share the Gospel. We are called to show the Gospel.”

Look at it this way: had God not been tutoring me in the habit of gratitude, I might have been stewing about the delay caused by the young woman’s inability to pay. Instead I was able to listen to that still, small voice that sometimes gently urges me to act. Had I rationalized that the young woman might never come back for her groceries, I might have missed blessing the person God intended. Although I frequently shopped at that store I never saw her again and yet I feel God planted her in my path that day for His purposes.

Keep the eyes of your heart open for those God may want to help through you today.

Discovery

Practicing an attitude of gratitude spills over to acts of generosity.

The Science of Gratitude

My own discovery about the importance of gratitude was largely developed as I read the Bible. But did you know that science confirms the importance of gratitude as well?

Two researchers, R. A. Emmons of University of California at Davis and M. E. McCullough of the University of Miami, have been researching the Dimensions and Perspectives of Gratitude. Their findings fascinate me and have been the basis of dozens of articles in scientific journals and bulletins. Take a look with me at what they learned.

Their experiments demonstrated that those who kept gratitude journals on a weekly basis exercised more regularly, reported fewer illness symptoms, felt better about their lives as a whole, and were more optimistic about the upcoming week compared to those who recorded troubles or neutral life events. As they continued to experiment, they found that participants who kept gratitude lists were more likely to have made progress over a two-month period toward their most important personal goals—academic, interpersonal and health-based—compared to the subjects in their control group.2 So gratitude not only contributed to better overall health but helped reach important goals. Think about it. Our creator designed us to benefit when we give thanks.

And that’s not all. Here’s something else they discovered: a daily gratitude exercise where young adults regularly focused on specific things for which they were thankful resulted in higher reported levels of the positive states of alertness, enthusiasm, determination, attentiveness and energy.

And remember that I said that generosity grows out of gratitude? The study also showed that participants in the daily gratitude experiment were more likely to report having helped someone with a personal problem or having offered emotional support to another. You see, when gratitude becomes a habit, then generosity seems to follow naturally.

In a sample of adults with neuromuscular disease, a twenty-one-day gratitude intervention resulted in greater amounts of high energy, positive moods, a greater sense of feeling connected to others, more optimistic ratings of one’s life, and better sleep duration and sleep quality, relative to a control group.

Wow!

But there’s more. Stephen Post, PhD, professor of bioethics at Case Western Reserve University’s School of Medicine, is the author of Why Good Things Happen to Good People.3 In an article in Guideposts, “The Power of Gratitude” he shares five things he discovered about gratitude:

Gratitude Defends. Just fifteen minutes a day focusing on the things you’re grateful for will significantly increase your body’s natural antibodies.
Gratitude Sharpens. Naturally grateful people are more focused mentally and measurably less vulnerable to clinical depression.
Gratitude Calms. A grateful state of mind induces a physiological state called resonance that’s associated with healthier blood pressure and heart rate.
Gratitude Strengthens. Caring for others is draining. But grateful caregivers are healthier and more capable than less grateful ones.
Gratitude Heals. Recipients of donated organs who have the most grateful attitudes heal faster.
Discovery

Gratitude gives back. When we practice gratitude, not only do we grow in our trust of God, but we benefit physically, emotionally and spiritually.

Gratitude as a Prerequisite to Giving

As we acknowledge all we have, as we learn to praise God for all He has done for us. Then God helps us pry our fingers off our possessions, our Day Timers® and our bank statements. This brings us full circle. Can you see why we explored gratitude before we set off on our journey to discover the power of generosity? Gratitude is the basis for giving. Grumpy, stingy people cannot live in the spirit of generosity. In order to be able to open our hands to give, we first have to give thanks for all we’ve been given. It’s just that simple!

[Design note: Bordered feature—or maybe decorative corner treatments and different font—at the end of each of each chapter: Simple Acts of XXX. Also, find an attractive alternative to plain bullet points.]

Simple Acts of Gratitude

Begin a Gratitude Journal. Each day write five things for which you are grateful.
Practice praise. Nothing opens our eyes to the gifts we have been given than focusing on the Giver. Find at least one new thing to praise God for each day.
Stay alert for those “God Nudges” and be grateful when you sense them. When you feel like you should be doing something for someone, act on it. Keep track of those nudges. Write them down, noting how you responded and the outcome. When we practice listening for that still small voice we become better at hearing it.
Thank God in all circumstances. This means that sometimes you’ll thank Him for the “fleas” in your life.

****************************************

One Simple Act

Debbie Macomber

Howard Books

Nashville, Tennessee

Our purpose at Howard Books is to:

Increase faith in the hearts of growing Christians
Inspire holiness in the lives of believers
Instill hope in the hearts of struggling people everywhere
Because He’s coming again!

Published by Howard Books, a division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020
www.howardpublishing.com

One Simple Act © 2009 Debbie Macomber

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information, address Howard Subsidiary Rights Department, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data TK

ISBN 978-1-4391-0893-2

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

HOWARD and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

Manufactured in the United States of America

For information regarding special discounts for bulk purchases, please contact: Simon & Schuster Special Sales at 1-866-506-1949 or business@simonandschuster.com.

The Simon & Schuster Speakers Bureau can bring authors to your live event. For more information or to book an event, contact the Simon & Schuster Speakers Bureau at 1-866-248-3049 or visit our Web site at www.simonspeakers.com.

Edited by Cindy Lambert

Cover design by TK

Interior design by TK

Photography/illustrations by TK

Scripture quotations not otherwise marked are taken from the Holy Bible, New International Version ®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984 by International Bible Society. Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved. Scripture quotations marked The Message are taken from The Message. Copyright © 1993, 1994, 1995, 1996, 2000, 2001, 2002. Used by permission of NavPress Publishing Group.

It is time for a FIRST Wild Card Tour book review! If you wish to join the FIRST blog alliance, just click the button. We are a group of reviewers who tour Christian books. A Wild Card post includes a brief bio of the author and a full chapter from each book toured. The reason it is called a FIRST Wild Card Tour is that you never know if the book will be fiction, non~fiction, for young, or for old...or for somewhere in between! Enjoy your free peek into the book!

You never know when I might play a wild card on you!

Tasra Dawson's Blog-Abration

2009-12-01T14:16:00.001-08:00

BLOG-ABRATE THE HOLIDAYS
Make new friends. Leave encouraging comments. Spread the link love...surely it will come back to you! My friend Tasra Dawson is hosting a Holiday Blog-Abration (http://www.realwomenscrap.com/scrapbook_lessons/2009/11/welcome-to-the-2009-holiday-blogabration.html) with prizes galore! From companies like Shutterfly and OpenSky to bestselling books from amazing authors, there is something for everyone.

You still have time to get in on the gifts and giveaways. All it takes is a quick visit to her site to get all the details and sign up. Then take a peek at the long list of giveaways, pick your favorites or sign up for them all.

Enjoy and happy holidays!

Scones

2009-12-01T00:01:00.000-08:00

Captain's Log, Stardate 12.01.2009

I grew up in Hawaii, and I’m 4th generation Japanese American, so you can imagine how I never knew what scones were when I was growing up. LOL

But I fell in love (haha) with Regency romances when I was in high school (my very first was (Update: I corrected the link) Regency Miss by Alix Melbourne and I loved it! Ahhhh that’s bringing back fond memories). And of course Regency heroes and heroines (although mostly the heroines) are drinking tea and eating scones.

Being curious about food, I found a scone recipe, I made a batch, and I LOVED it!

Ever since, I have tried to make scones semi-regularly. Even more recently, I’ve been making them to eat for “afternoon tea.”

I first read about afternoon tea in Regencies, but in more detail in Betty Neels’ books. It seems like all these modern Britishers have tea in the afternoon, and Betty Neels’ heroines are particularly fond of gigantic cream cakes with their tea. (Just the description sounds yum, don’t you think?)

Anyway, I started trying to have a pot of tea in the afternoons most days. It’s just nice because it forces me to slow down, and tea also gives me an excuse to intake about a tablespoon of local honey to help with my allergies (and BTW, I think the daily honey intake is working! My sinus headaches this season haven’t been even half as bad as last year, and the only diff I can see is the honey).

So now I bake scones about once every two weeks or so. I just love scones. It’s absolutely perfect toasted with a little bit of butter. And pair it with hot tea with milk and honey, and Camy is a happy little Asian girl.

So do any of you eat scones or have a favorite recipe? Or how about tea drinkers, anyone?

P.S. A note to Captain Caffeine, if you’re reading this—I want to go to England for—ahem—research sometime soon! Hint hint.

Blog roll update and linky luv

2009-11-30T00:02:00.000-08:00

Captain's Log, Stardate 11.30.2009

I just updated my blog roll and deleted anyone whose site is no longer up, or who no longer links back to me. If I accidentally deleted you, please let me know and list the link to your blog page where you give me your linky luv.

Also, if you want to be added to my blog roll, just comment and list the link to your blog page where you return the linky luv.

Book giveaway - WHITE PICKET FENCES by Susan Meissner

2009-11-30T00:01:00.000-08:00

Captain's Log, Stardate 11.30.2009

The winner of
The Sound of Sleigh Bells
by
Cindy Woodsmall
is
Patti
Congratulations!

Didn’t win the book but want to read it?
Buy from Christianbook.com
Buy from Amazon
Buy from Barnes and Noble
Buy from Books a Million

Blog book giveaway:

Please click here to read giveaway rules and why I had to change them.

To enter to win today’s book, leave a comment on this blog post, giving your name and US state. Sorry, no international entrants (see post above for why).

Please also leave an email address or website where I can contact you (please use this format--you [at] yourmail.com--or something like that to prevent spammers from trolling for your email address). It is the winner’s responsibility to check to see if you won and to email me if you haven’t yet heard from me.

I always email the winner and give them a week to reply, but if I don’t receive an answer, I will pull another person to win the book. I am not responsible for a lost opportunity if you are on vacation or leave an email address you don’t check frequently.

Only one entry per person. The winner can expect their free book in 4-6 weeks.

You have a week to comment--I'll pick a name out of a hat on Monday, December 7th. (BTW, you can post a comment and NOT enter, too.)

Today I’m giving away:

White Picket Fences
by
Susan Meissner

Amanda Janvier’s idyllic home seems the perfect place for her niece Tally to stay while her vagabond brother is in Europe, but the white picket fence life Amanda wants to provide is a mere illusion. Amanda’s husband Neil refuses to admit their teenage son Chase, is haunted by the horrific fire he survived when he was four, and their marriage is crumbling while each looks the other way.

Tally and Chase bond as they interview two Holocaust survivors for a sociology project, and become startlingly aware that the whole family is grappling with hidden secrets, with the echoes of the past, and with the realization that ignoring tragic situations won’t make them go away.

Readers of emotional dramas that are willing to explore the lies that families tell each other for protection and comfort will love White Picket Fences. The novel is ideal for those who appreciate exploring questions like: what type of honesty do children need from their parents, or how can one move beyond a past that isn’t acknowledged or understood? Is there hope and forgiveness for the tragedies of our past and a way to abundant grace?

Excerpt of chapter one:

one

The chilled air inside the Tucson funeral chapel suppressed the punishing heat outside. Amanda shivered as she took a seat on the cool metal chair. She leaned over and whispered to her husband in the chair next to her. “A sweater in Arizona in September?”

He nodded casually, apparently unfazed by the abrupt temperature change from scorching to polar. Neil had worn a suit, though she told him she didn’t think he had to, and she envied his long sleeves. He quietly cleared his throat, opened the program he’d been handed when they walked in, and began to read the obituary of the woman whose casket sat several feet away–the woman neither of them had ever met.

A generous waft of newly refrigerated air spilled from the vent above her head, and Amanda instinctively turned to her niece on her other side. The teenager’s arms were bare under a
flamingo-hued halter dress. Amanda wondered if the foster mother had given Tally any advice at all on what she might want to wear to her grandmother’s funeral. Amanda again turned to her husband.

“I think we should’ve come yesterday.” Her voice was barely above a whisper.

Neil looked up from the program. “It wouldn’t have changed anything,” he replied gently. “Besides, we got here as quick as we could. It’s not your fault you didn’t know she was here. Your brother should’ve told you.”

Neil reached for her hand and gave it a squeeze. Amanda looked down and noticed a thin line of wood stain under one of his fingernails, evidence that he had cleaned up from his latest woodworking project in a hurry. Neil turned back to the program, and Amanda looked over at her niece.

“You doing okay?” She hesitated, then placed an arm around Tally’s shoulders.

The girl flinched and glanced at Amanda’s arm before turning back to face the casket. The sixteen-year-old shrugged. “I didn’t really know my grandma.” The words were laced with casual regret, as if she knew people were supposed to know their grandparents, but what could she do about that now? Amanda intuitively pulled Tally closer. The girl stiffened at first and then relaxed, reminding Amanda that Tally barely knew her either.

Amanda hadn’t seen her niece in nearly a decade. A handful of phone calls over the last few years, including one from a Texas jail and one from a château in Switzerland, had confirmed that Bart was still alive and that he still had Tally. Bart tended to contact her only in desperate times. And most of the time he didn’t recognize his own desperation.

She had always felt like the older sister when it came to Bart, the one who watched out for him, the one who tried to keep him out of trouble, the one their parents expected more from. It had always amazed her that Bart was just fine with that arrangement. She had been in junior high when he left home at seventeen, and he’d come home only twice in the years before she graduated from high school. Bart missed their parents’ quiet divorce. Missed their mother’s remarriage to an Australian man who had no intention of living anywhere but Melbourne. Missed her wedding to Neil and the births of her two children. Missed their father’s last agonizing days of pancreatic cancer. In thirty years Bart had missed just about everything, including all opportunities for his family to get to know Tally.

The opening notes of the organist’s ballpark rendition of “Shall We Gather at the River?” startled her, and she barely heard the buzz of her husband’s vibrating cell phone. Neil pulled
the phone out of his suit pocket. “It’s a text from Delcey,” he said. “She wants to know if she can sleep over at Mallory’s house tonight. They want to go to the beach.”

Amanda crinkled an eyebrow at the thought of her daughter not being home when they flew back to San Diego. “Tonight?”

Neil looked at her. “Maybe it’s a good idea.”

“No. Not tonight, Neil. She can go to the beach but she should be home tonight. Don’t you think?”

“I guess.”

“Which beach? How’s she getting there?”

“Encinitas. Chase said he’d take her,” Neil said, looking at the tiny screen on his phone.

Amanda wondered for a moment how Chase would feel about making the thirty-two-mile round trip to the beach. With Delcey out of the house, Chase would have the place to himself until she and Neil returned that evening. Their quiet seventeen year-old probably couldn’t wait to get his chatty younger sister out of the house. It hadn’t passed her notice that her children were the same ages she and Bart had been when Bart left home. Chase’s
introspective nature and stark Teutonic features were similar to Bart’s, but beyond that he was nothing like her brother. And Delcey thankfully did not have to mother Chase like she’d mothered Bart. “Tell her she needs to be home by six thirty,” Amanda said. “I want her to be at the house when we get back tonight.”

Neil punched in the message on the tiny keyboard. He nodded to the funeral program as he sent the message. “Did you know Virginia was a nurse in Vietnam? In the Army Reserves.
She was in Saigon when it fell.” He cocked his head as if waiting for a response and slipped the phone back in his pocket.

“I…I didn’t know that,” Amanda whispered back, pulling her thoughts back to the funeral chapel.

“She had medals from the army.” Tally’s head was turned toward Amanda, resting at an angle–like she had been a silent and interested part of the just-finished conversation about Delcey. “I saw them on the wall in her bedroom. But I didn’t get a chance to ask her about them.”

“I’m sorry, Tally.” Amanda stroked the child’s shoulder.

“I don’t think my dad knew that about her. That she was in Vietnam. They didn’t get along, actually. My dad and Grandma. She blames him for what happened to my mom.” Tally swung her head back to face the front. “But you probably already know that.”

Amanda opened her mouth but said nothing in response. Tally’s mother, Janet, whom Bart hadn’t even been married to, had died of an overdose of sleeping pills when Tally was an
infant. Janet was alone when it happened. Alone by choice. Bart was nowhere around. She was about to tell Tally that Bart had never said much to her about Virginia, which was true, but a minister with a white checkerboard square at his throat and a tiny black book in his hands had come to stand next to Tally. Amanda closed her mouth.

“Is there anything you would like to say during the service, Tallulah?” the minister asked.

“Me?” Tally’s voice was edged with astonishment. “Um. No. No, I don’t want to say anything.”

He patted her arm. “I understand,” he soothed. “This is a very difficult time. My prayers are with you, child.” The minister smiled, turned to the next row of chairs, and approached a
woman whom Amanda had met outside the funeral home ten minutes earlier. Virginia’s only surviving child, Jill. Janet’s younger sister. Tally’s other aunt.

Amanda watched as the minister bent down to speak to her. The woman wore a charcoal gray suit, with a silky burgundy scarf frothing at her neck and black stilettos on her petite feet. She had flown in from Miami that morning, probably having made the funeral arrangements by the iPhone she now held in her left hand. Jill shook her head. Jill’s husband and twin teenage sons shook their heads as well. Amanda couldn’t remember which twin was which.

Tally also appeared to be watching the exchange of hushed words between her aunt and the minister. Amanda leaned in. “Do you know your aunt Jill and your cousins very well?”

“I met them once,”Tally whispered back. “When I was four. My dad and I were in Tucson the same time they were. I don’t remember them, though.”

Amanda gently touched the girl’s arm. “Not many people can remember things that happened when they were that little.”

“I remember your kids, though.”

This surprised Amanda, though she knew it shouldn’t. Tally was eight the last time Bart had swung through San Diego on his way to somewhere else. Certainly old enough to remember at least a little of that trip. But it wasn’t Tally’s words that had surprised her. It was the tone. It was hopeful, like Tally was relieved she had memories of her California cousins. And they
appeared to be good ones. “I’m glad to hear that,” Amanda said. “Chase remembers you too. Delcey was too little. But she likes the idea of having a girl cousin.”

Amanda was about to tell her niece that Chase and Delcey had wanted to be here at the funeral today, which wasn’t completely true, but the organ music stopped at that moment. The minister stepped onto the carpeted platform next to the casket. Amanda took a quick peek over her shoulder to see how many others had gathered at the chapel to say good-bye to Virginia Kolander. Thirty or so people sat in the chairs behind her. As she turned to face the front, Amanda noted that Tally’s outlandishly fuchsia dress and matching streaks in her hair offered the only speck of rainbow in the tiny sea of gray and black shoulders. The girl’s ankle tattoo, a ruby-throated hummingbird with its wings extended, was the only divot of extraordinary in a lineup of charcoal pant legs and nude-toned hosiery. Tally crossed her legs and Amanda involuntarily tensed. The movement gave the illusion that the hummingbird was now poised for a beautiful escape, that it was peeling away from Tally’s skin and about to take flight. Amanda pulled her gaze away and exhaled softly, remembering that Bart confessed to buying that tattoo with money Amanda had sent him for car repairs.

The minister cleared his throat to speak, but he paused as the door at the back of the chapel opened. Every head turned to follow the latecomer inside. The dark-haired woman held an iced coffee in one hand and a briefcase in the other. Her white button-down blouse clung to moist skin.

“That’s Nancy. My social worker,” Tally said, toneless. “She’s the one who called you.”

The social worker hurried inside, mouthing the word sorry. She declined a chair offered by the funeral director, choosing to stand against the back wall instead. She tipped her head toward Tally and then smiled at Amanda as she pushed a pair of sunglasses up on her head.

Amanda nodded to the woman she’d met over the phone two days earlier, the same woman who told her that Bart Bachmann was missing–somewhere in Warsaw, they thought–and that his daughter Tallulah was homeless.

Check out the Random House website for all options for purchasing this book.
Buy from Christianbook.com
Buy from Amazon
Buy from Barnes and Noble
Buy from Books a Million

To find out about the differences between my blog giveaways, my newsletter giveaways, and my website contest, click here.

When People Ask Hard Questions

2009-11-27T00:01:00.000-08:00

Captain's Log, Stardate 11.27.2009

I’m over at Girls, God, and the Good Life blog with a short post about a question that came up at youth group:

Camy here, talking about something a little more serious than normal (for me). At youth group the other night, one of the girls asked what to say when a friend or someone asks a really hard question, like if they’re going to hell because they don’t believe in Jesus, or why bad things happen, or something like that.

Click here to read the rest!

Gratitude Journal

2009-11-26T00:02:00.001-08:00

Captain's Log, Stardate 11.26.2009

Happy Thanksgiving! I’m on Faithchick today talking about a gratitude journal, an idea I got from Debbie Macomber:

Camy here! Recently I’ve been reading Debbie Macomber’s latest nonfiction, One Simple Act, which my best bud Cheryl Wyatt bought for me (and she got Debbie to autograph it for me, too!).

Click here to read the rest!

Excerpt - A NOVEL IDEA by ChiLibris

2009-11-25T15:00:00.000-08:00

Camy here: I'm especially pleased to post this excerpt because I'm in this book, too! I have a piece on finding and developing your writer's voice, that elusive "something" in your writing that makes the piece uniquely yours. I hope you guys enjoy this excerpt enough that you'll buy the book! All proceeds from this book go to charity.

Today's Wild Card authors are:

Various Best-Selling Authors
(contributions from best-selling authors including Jerry B. Jenkins, Francine Rivers, Karen Kingsbury, Randy Alcorn, Terri Blackstock, Robin Jones Gunn, Angela Hunt and more)

and the book:

A Novel Idea

Tyndale House Publishers, Inc. (November 1, 2009)

ABOUT THE BOOK:

Best-selling Christian fiction writers have teamed together to contribute articles on the craft of writing. A Novel Idea contains tips on brainstorming ideas and crafting and marketing a novel. It explains what makes a Christian novel “Christian” and offers tips on how to approach tough topics. Contributors include Jerry B. Jenkins, Karen Kingsbury, Francine Rivers, Angela Hunt, and many other beloved authors. All proceeds will benefit MAI, an organization that teaches writing internationally to help provide literature that is culturally relevant.

Product Details:

List Price: $14.99
Paperback: 320 pages
Publisher: Tyndale House Publishers, Inc. (November 1, 2009)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 1414329946
ISBN-13: 978-1414329949

AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:

Chapter 1: Plot

The Plot Skeleton

Angela Hunt

Imagine, if you will, that you and I are sitting in a room with one hundred other authors. If you were to ask each person present to describe their plotting process, you’d probably get a hundred different answers. Writers’ methods vary according to their personalities, and we are all different. Mentally. Emotionally. Physically.

If, however, those one hundred novelists were to pass behind an X-ray machine, you’d discover that we all possess remarkably similar skeletons. Beneath our disguising skin, hair, and clothing, our skeletons are pretty much identical.

In the same way, though writers vary in their methods, good stories are composed of remarkably comparable skeletons. Stories with “good bones” can be found in picture books and novels, plays and films.

Many fine writers tend to carefully outline their plots before they begin the first chapter. On the other hand, some novelists describe themselves as “seat-of-the-pants” writers. But when the story is finished, a seat-of-the-pants novel will (or should!) contain the same elements as a carefully plotted book. Why? Because whether you plan it from the beginning or find it at the end, novels need structure beneath the story.

After mulling several plot designs and boiling them down to their basic elements, I developed what I call the “plot skeleton.” It combines the spontaneity of seat-of-the-pants writing with the discipline of an outline. It requires a writer to know where he’s going, but it leaves room for lots of discovery on the journey.

When I sit down to plan a new book, the first thing I do is sketch my smiling little skeleton.

To illustrate the plot skeleton in this article, I’m going to refer frequently to The Wizard of Oz and a lovely foreign film you may never have seen, Mostly Martha.

The Skull: A Central Character
The skull represents the main character, the protagonist. A lot of beginning novelists have a hard time deciding who the main character is, so settle that question right away. Even in an ensemble cast, one character should be featured more than the others. Your readers want to place themselves into your story world, and it’s helpful if you can give them a sympathetic character to whom they can relate. Ask yourself, “Whose story is this?” That is your protagonist.

This main character should have two needs or problems—one obvious, one hidden—which I represent by two yawning eye sockets.

Here’s a tip: Hidden needs, which usually involve basic human emotions, are often solved or met by the end of the story. They are at the center of the protagonist’s “inner journey,” or character change, while the “outer journey” is concerned with the main events of the plot. Hidden needs often arise from wounds in a character’s past.

Consider The Wizard of Oz. At the beginning of the film, Dorothy needs to save her dog from Miss Gulch, who has arrived to take Toto because he bit her scrawny leg—a very straightforward and obvious problem. Dorothy’s hidden need is depicted but not directly emphasized when she stands by the pigpen and sings “Somewhere Over the Rainbow.” Do children live with Uncle Henry and Aunt Em if all is fine with Mom and Dad? No. Though we are not told what happened to Dorothy’s parents, it’s clear that something has splintered her family and Dorothy’s unhappy. Her hidden need, the object of her inner journey, is to find a place to call home.

Mostly Martha opens with the title character lying on her therapist’s couch and talking about all that is required to cook the perfect pigeon. Since she’s in a therapist’s office, we assume she has a problem, and the therapist addresses this directly: “Martha, why are you here?”

“Because,” she answers, “my boss will fire me if I don’t go to therapy.” Ah—obvious problem at work with the boss. Immediately we also know that Martha is high-strung. She is precise and politely controlling in her kitchen. This woman lives for food, but though she assures us in a voice-over that all a cook needs for a perfectly lovely dinner is “fish and sauce,” we see her venture downstairs to ask her new neighbor if he’d like to join her for dinner. He can’t, but we become aware that Martha needs company. She needs love in her life.

Connect the Skull to the Body: Inciting Action
Usually the first few chapters of a novel are involved with the business of establishing the protagonist in a specific time and place, his world, his needs, and his personality. The story doesn’t kick into gear, though, until you move from the skull to the spine, a connection known as the inciting incident.

Writers are often told to begin the story in medias res, or in the middle of the action. This is not the same as the Big Incident. Save the big event for a few chapters in, after you’ve given us some time to know and understand your character’s needs. Begin your story with an obvious problem—some action that shows how your character copes. In the first fifth of the story we learn that Dorothy loves Toto passionately and that Martha is a perfectionist chef. Yes, start in the middle of something active, but hold off on the big event for a while. Let us get to know your character first . . . because we won’t gasp about their dilemma until we know them.

In a picture book, the inciting incident is often signaled by two words: One day . . . Those two words are a natural way to move from setting the stage to the action. As you plot your novel, ask yourself, “One day, what happens to move my main character into the action of the story?” Your answer will be your inciting incident, the key that turns your story engine.

After Dorothy ran away, if she’d made it home to Uncle Henry and Aunt Em without incident, there would have been no story. The inciting incident? When the tornado picks Dorothy up and drops her, with her house, in the land of Oz.

The inciting incident in Mostly Martha is signaled by a ringing telephone. When Martha takes the call, she learns that her sister, who was a single mother to an eight-year-old girl, has been killed in an auto accident.

Think of your favorite stories—how many feature a hero who’s reluctant to enter the special world? Often—but not always—your protagonist doesn’t want to go where the inciting incident is pushing him or her. Obviously, Martha doesn’t want to hear that her sister is dead, and she certainly doesn’t want to be a mother. She takes Lina, her niece, and offers to cook for her (her way of showing love), but Lina wants her mother, not gourmet food.

Even if your protagonist has actively pursued a change, he or she may have moments of doubt as the entrance to the special world looms ahead. When your character retreats or doubts or refuses to leave the ordinary world, another character should step in to provide encouragement, advice, information, or a special tool. This will help your main character overcome those last-minute doubts and establish the next part of the skeleton: the goal.

The End of the Spine: The Goal
At some point after the inciting incident, your character will establish and state a goal. Shortly after stepping out of her transplanted house, Dorothy looks around Oz and wails, “I want to go back to Kansas!” She’s been transported over the rainbow, but she prefers the tried and true to the unfamiliar and strange. In order to go home, she’ll have to visit the wizard in the Emerald City. As she tries to meet an ever-shifting set of subordinate goals (follow the yellow brick road; overcome the poppies; get in to see the wizard; bring back a broomstick), her main goal keeps viewers glued to the screen.

This overriding concern—will she or won’t she make it home?—is known as the dramatic question. The dramatic question in every murder mystery is, Who committed the crime? The dramatic question in nearly every thriller is, Who will win the inevitable showdown between the hero and the villain? Along the way readers will worry about the subgoals (Will the villain kill his hostage? Will the hero figure out the clues?), but the dramatic question keeps them reading until the last page.

Tip: To keep the reader involved, the dramatic question should be directly related to the character’s ultimate goal. Martha finds herself trying to care for a grieving eight-year-old who doesn’t want another mother. So Martha promises to track down the girl’s father, who lives in Italy. She knows only that his name is Giuseppe, but she’s determined to find him.

The Rib Cage: Complications
Even my youngest students understand that a protagonist who accomplishes everything he or she attempts is a colorless character. As another friend of mine is fond of pointing out, as we tackle the mountain of life, it’s the bumps we climb on! If you’re diagramming, sketch at least three curving ribs over your spine. These represent the complications that must arise to prevent your protagonist from reaching his goal.

Why at least three ribs? Because even in the shortest of stories—in a picture book, for instance—three complications work better than two or four. I don’t know why three gives us such a feeling of completion, but it does. Maybe it’s because God is a Trinity and we’re hardwired to appreciate that number.

While a short story will have only three complications, a movie or novel may have hundreds. Complications can range from the mundane—John can’t find a pencil to write down Sarah’s number—to life-shattering. As you write down possible complications that could stand between your character and his ultimate goal, place the more serious problems at the bottom of the list.

The stakes—what your protagonist is risking—should increase in significance as the story progresses. In Mostly Martha, the complications center on this uptight woman’s ability to care for a child. Lina hates her babysitter, so Martha has to take Lina to work with her. But the late hours take their toll, and Lina is often late for school. Furthermore, Lina keeps refusing to eat anything Martha cooks for her.

I asked you to make the ribs curve because any character that runs into complication after complication without any breathing space is going to be a weary character . . . and you’ll weary your reader with this frenetic pace. One of the keys to good pacing is to alternate your plot complications with rewards. Like a pendulum that swings on an arc, let your character relax, if only briefly, between disasters.

Along the spiraling yellow brick road, Dorothy soon reaches an intersection (a complication). Fortunately, a friendly scarecrow is willing to help (a reward). They haven’t gone far before Dorothy becomes hungry (a complication). The scarecrow spots an apple orchard ahead (a reward). These apple trees, however, resent being picked (a complication), but the clever scarecrow taunts them until they begin to throw fruit at the hungry travelers (a reward).

See how it works? Every problem is followed by a reward that matches the seriousness of the complication. Let’s fast-forward to the scene where the balloon takes off without Dorothy. This is a severe complication—so severe it deserves a title of its own: the bleakest moment. This is the final rib in the rib cage, the moment when all hope is lost for your protagonist.

The Thighbone: Send in the Cavalry
At the bleakest moment, your character needs help, but be careful how you deliver it. The ancient Greek playwrights had actors representing the Greek gods literally descend from the structure above to bring their complicated plot knots to a satisfying conclusion. This sort of resolution is frowned upon in modern literature. Called deus ex machina (literally “god from the machine”), this device employs some unexpected and improbable incident to bring victory or success. If you find yourself whipping up a coincidence or a miracle after the bleakest moment, chances are you’ve employed deus ex machina. Back up and try again, please.

Avoid using deus ex machina by sending two types of help: external and internal. Your character obviously needs help from outside; if he could solve the problem alone, he would have done it long before the bleakest moment. Having him conveniently remember something or stumble across a hidden resource smacks of coincidence and will leave your reader feeling resentful and cheated.

So send in the cavalry, but remember that they can’t solve the protagonist’s problem. They can give the protagonist a push in the right direction; they can nudge; they can remind; they can inspire. But they shouldn’t wave a magic wand and make everything all right.

For Dorothy, help comes in the form of Glenda the Good Witch, who reveals a secret: The ruby slippers have the power to carry her back to Kansas. All Dorothy has to do is say, “There’s no place like home”—with feeling, mind you—and she’ll be back on the farm with Uncle Henry and Auntie Em. Dorothy’s problem isn’t resolved, however, until she applies this information internally. At the beginning of the story, she wanted to be anywhere but on the farm. Now she has to affirm that the farm is where she wants to be. Her hidden need—to find a place to call home—has been met.

In Mostly Martha, the bleakest moment arrives with Lina’s father, Giuseppe. He is a good man, and Lina seems to accept him. But after waving good-bye, Martha goes home to an empty apartment and realizes that she is not happy with her controlled, childless life. She goes to Marlo, the Italian chef she has also begun to love, and asks for his help.

The Kneecap and Lower Leg: Make a Decision, Learn a Lesson
Martha realizes that her old life was empty—she needs Lina in her life, and she needs Marlo. So she and Marlo drive from Germany to Italy to fetch Lina and bring her home.

You may be hard-pressed to cite the lesson you learned from the last novel you read, but your protagonist needs to learn something. This lesson is the epiphany, a sudden insight that speaks volumes to your character and brings them to the conclusion of their inner journey.

James Joyce popularized the word epiphany, literally the manifestation of a divine being. (Churches celebrate the festival of Epiphany on January 6 to commemorate the meeting of the Magi and the Christ child.) After receiving help from an outside source, your character should see something—a person, a situation, or an object—in a new light.

When the scarecrow asks why Glinda waited to explain the ruby slippers, the good witch smiles and says, “Because she wouldn’t have believed me. She had to learn it for herself.” The scarecrow then asks, “What’d you learn, Dorothy?” Without hesitation, Dorothy announces that she’s learned a lesson: “The next time I go looking for my heart’s desire, I won’t look any farther than my own backyard.” She has learned to appreciate her home, so even though she is surrounded by loving friends and an emerald city, Dorothy chooses to return to colorless Kansas. She hugs her friends once more, then grips Toto and clicks her heels.

The Foot: The Resolution
Every story needs the fairy-tale equivalent of “and they lived happily ever after.” Not every story ends happily, of course, though happy endings are undoubtedly popular. Some protagonists are sadder and wiser after the course of their adventure. But a novel should at least leave the reader with hope.

The resolution to Mostly Martha is portrayed during the closing of the film. As the credits roll, we see Marlo and Martha meeting Lina in Italy; we see Martha in a wedding gown (with her hair down!) and Marlo in a tuxedo; we see a wedding feast with Giuseppe, his family, and Martha’s German friends; we see Martha and Marlo and Lina exploring an abandoned restaurant—clearly, they are going to settle in Italy so Lina can be a part of both families. In the delightful final scene, we see Martha with her therapist again, but this time he has cooked for her and she is advising him.

Many movies end with a simple visual image—we see a couple walking away hand in hand, a mother cradling her long-lost son. That’s all we need to realize that our main character has struggled, learned, and come away a better (or wiser) person. As a writer, you’ll have to use words, but you can paint the same sort of reassuring picture without resorting to “and they lived happily ever after.”

Your story should end with a changed protagonist—he or she has gone through a profound experience and is different for it, hopefully for the better. Your protagonist has completed an outer journey (experienced the major plot events) and an inner journey that address some hurt from the past and result in a changed character.

What Next?
Now that we’ve reached the foot of our story skeleton, we’re finished outlining the basic structure. Take those major points and write them up in paragraph form. Once you’ve outlined your plot and written your synopsis, you’re ready to begin writing scenes. Take a deep breath, glance over your skeleton, and jump in.

Taken from A Novel Idea by ChiLibras. Copyright ©2009 by ChiLibras. Used with permission from Tyndale House Publishers. All rights reserved.

Coffee - French press or coffee maker?

2009-11-25T00:03:00.000-08:00

Captain's Log, Stardate 11.25.2009

I’m over at the Love Inspired Authors blog today talking about my hubby’s favorite beverage:

Camy here! My husband loooooooooves his coffee, and this weekend he did an experiment.

Click here to read the rest!

Nooky love

2009-11-24T00:04:00.000-08:00

Captain's Log, Stardate 11.24.2009

I totally want a Barnes & Noble Nook ebook reader.

Seriously, I’m in luuuuuuuuuuv.

I’ve been using the Sony eReader for several months now, and I LOVE using it. The screen size is really nice and I like the portability of being able to take my ebooks with me wherever I go.

I’ve also used it for writing—I loaded my story synopsis, notes, and unfinished manuscript on it (I saved them as .html documents and then used Calibre to convert them into .lrf format). Then I took my eReader and my Alphasmart Neo (it’s a small, conveniently portable word processor) to the coffee shop to write—no internet access (which is key for me to have good productivity) and I still had my synopsis, notes, and my manuscript on my eReader as reference.

I’ve been getting all my new books as ebooks lately because (a) it’s cheaper than print books and (b) the books don’t take up shelf space. I have three bookshelves packed 3-stacks deep on every shelf, PLUS books in plastic bins stacked on top of each other. (Yes, Camy is a little crazy about her book collection!)

Basically, if my books fell on me, I’d be dead.

Back to the Nook. While I like the Sony eReader a lot, the one I have is not really compatible with Macs. I can load ebooks on there, but I have to take a few extra steps for each book since I’m converting them from one format (.pdb, Palm eReader) to another (.lrf).

The Nook, on the other hand, reads .pdb files already and is compatible with Macs. The Nook would just make it a lot easier for me to read my already-purchased ebooks, which are in .pdb format because I sometimes read my ebooks on my computer, and .pdb is compatible with Macs.

The Nooks are already sold out until January, but I am thinking that I would like to preorder one.

How about you? Do you read ebooks? Do you use an ebook reader?

Excerpt - PEARL GIRLS by Margaret McSweeney

2009-11-23T15:41:00.000-08:00

Camy here: I am especially pleased to present this excerpt because I'm in this book! Margaret asked me to be one of the contributors and I was thrilled and honored to add my piece in this compilation. My article is a short personal piece about my growing up in Hawaii and the things God did in my life when I moved to California.

Today's Wild Card author is:

Margaret McSweeney

and the book:

Pearl Girls

Moody Publishers (July 1, 2009)

***Special thanks to Amy Lathrop of the Litfuse Publicity Group for sending me a review copy.***

Pearl Girls: Encountering Grit Experiencing Grace: Through this collection of essays, readers will be encouraged by the heartfelt writings that deal with loss and hardship in a real and honest way. Respected authors such as Shaunti Feldhahn, Melody Carlson, Debbie Macomber, Robin Jones Gunn and others help remind every woman that they are not alone and that no circumstance is beyond the grace of God.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

Margaret lives with her husband and two daughters in a Chicago suburb. Her book, A Mother’s Heart Knows was published by Thomas Nelson in 2005. Go Back and Be Happy, a co-authored book will be published by Lion Hudson in July 2008. Margaret has been featured on Greg Wheatly’s “Prime Time America,” TLN’s “Aspiring Women,” and LeSea’s “The Harvest Show.” Margaret writes freelance articles for The Daily Herald, the largest suburban Chicago newspaper. Notable interviews include Wolfgang Puck, Thomas Kinkade, Susan Branch and Dr. John Gottman. Margaret also wrote a feature article for crosswalk.com. With a master’s degree in international business, Margaret became a vice president in the corporate finance division of a New York City bank and worked there from 1986-1993. Supporting charitable causes is important to Margaret. For the past five years, she has served on the board of directors for WINGS, an organization that helps abused women and their children get a new start in life. Margaret would love to meet you too.

Visit the author's website.

Pearl Girls from Michael J Garvey on Vimeo.

Product Details:

List Price: $12.99
Paperback: 192 pages
Publisher: Moody Publishers (July 1, 2009)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 0802458629
ISBN-13: 978-0802458629

AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:

LOVE CAN WARM THE COLDEST HEART

By Susan May Warren

Ephesians 4:32: (ESV): Be kind to one another, tenderhearted, forgiving one another, as God in Christ forgave you.

Angels of Forgiveness

I felt as if I had been slapped. I gaped in horror as I stared at the empty storage room and tried to comprehend my mother-in-law’s words, “ . . . and we even made $200!” She had sold all my worldly possessions without my permission. She was trying to be kind, but in doing so, she plowed a cavernous furrow through the garden of our friendship. I knew it would never bloom again.

Our family had just returned home after serving as missionaries for four years in Russia. We still hadn’t found a place to live, and my mother-in-law wanted to help by clearing out room for us in her unfinished basement—in the space our hundred boxes of lifetime treasures once occupied. She’d sold everything from hand-knit sweaters to homemade

quilts. Only a forlorn crate of John Denver records and a bag of used mittens remained.

The money she handed me from the proceeds of the sale felt like blood money. I had waited for four years to unwrap my wedding china, greet my books and knick-knacks, and slip back into my fine dresses. I couldn’t believe I had put so much value on possessions, but I had, and now I was stripped.

Then I discovered she’d sold my Christmas ornaments. Every year since childhood my mother had given me a special gift at Christmas, a new and unique tree decoration that symbolized my life for that year, as well as her love for me. The box of heirloom ornaments I had so carefully packed had been sold for a dollar; my memories traded for the price of two cheeseburgers.

A ball of anger swelled in my heart. As I curled in my bed, sobbing out my grief, the ball gained momentum and became an avalanche, burying any tendril of love I had left for the mother of my husband.

Christmas loomed close and everywhere I saw beautiful, glittering Christmas trees. My tree was naked, its arms bare against the white lights. Where was the golden star with my name etched on it, or my tiny porcelain piano? How could she have done this? I felt entombed by my anger.

Sometime in January I realized I had missed the joy that came with the advent season. It couldn’t penetrate my icy heart. I could barely look at my mother-in-law, despite the fact she begged my forgiveness. “I didn’t know how much this would hurt you,” she said, weeping. “I was just trying to help.” I turned a stone heart to her plea. Frost laced the edges of our conversations and although I said the words, “I forgive you,” my soul

was an iceberg and I knew I had not.

In the past, my mother-in-law had been my greatest supporter, encouraging me, helping me pack, babysitting, and stuffing thousands of newsletters. She had cried with me, prayed for me, and tolerated me living in her home. I missed her and knew that if I wanted warmth to reenter my heart, I had to forgive her. But nothing could ease the ache of losing my memories. I avoided her and resolved to live with the pain.

When we moved away in February, I slammed the door on our relationship and didn’t talk to her again. Three days before the following Christmas, a parcel arrived at our

front door, my name etched on the front. Mystified, I opened it. Then, surrounded by my family’s astonished gasps, I unwrapped, one by one, a collection of angel ornaments.

From bears with wings and halos to gilded crystal angels holding trumpets, I hung a choir of heavenly hosts on my tree. Finally, I sank into the sofa as my children examined the

decorations, oohing and aahing.

“Who’s it from?” my husband asked. I retrieved the box, dug through the tissue, and unearthed a small card. Merry Christmas—Love, Mom was scrawled out in my mother-in-law’s script. Tears burned my eyes and, as I let them free, my icy tomb of anger began to melt. My mother-in-law was not able to retrieve the past she had so carelessly discarded, but she was hoping to build a future, our future. And it would start with these angels, proclaiming the love and forgiveness that entered our world. If God could forgive me, who stole His Son’s life, certainly I could forgive my mother-in-law for stealing my . . . stuff.

Easter arrived and with it forgiveness finally flowered in my heart. We descended upon the in-laws for a visit and I wrapped my husband’s mother in a teary embrace. I had lost the little stuffed bunnies my grandmother had knit for me, but I had gained something better—the fragrance of forgiveness, and the everlasting hope that love can warm the coldest heart.

Book giveaway - The Sound of Sleigh Bells by Cindy Woodsmall

2009-11-23T00:01:00.000-08:00

Captain's Log, Stardate 11.23.2009

The winner of
Cornhusker Dreams
by
Cara Putman
is
Sheila
Congratulations!

Didn’t win the book but want to read it?
Buy from Christianbook.com
Buy from Amazon
Buy from Barnes and Noble
Buy from Books a Million

Blog book giveaway:

Please click here to read giveaway rules and why I had to change them.

To enter to win today’s book, leave a comment on this blog post, giving your name and US state. Sorry, no international entrants (see post above for why).

Please also leave an email address or website where I can contact you (please use this format--you [at] yourmail.com--or something like that to prevent spammers from trolling for your email address). It is the winner’s responsibility to check to see if you won and to email me if you haven’t yet heard from me.

I always email the winner and give them a week to reply, but if I don’t receive an answer, I will pull another person to win the book. I am not responsible for a lost opportunity if you are on vacation or leave an email address you don’t check frequently.

Only one entry per person. The winner can expect their free book in 4-6 weeks.

You have a week to comment--I'll pick a name out of a hat on Monday, November 30th. (BTW, you can post a comment and NOT enter, too.)

Today I’m giving away:

The Sound of Sleigh Bells
by
Cindy Woodsmall

Beth Hertzler works alongside her beloved Aunt Lizzy in their dry goods store, and serving as contact of sorts between Amish craftsmen and Englischers who want to sell the Plain people’s wares. But remorse and loneliness still echo in her heart everyday as she still wears the dark garb, indicating mourning of her fiancé. When she discovers a large, intricately carved scene of Amish children playing in the snow, something deep inside Beth’s soul responds and she wants to help the unknown artist find homes for his work–including Lizzy’s dry goods store. But she doesn’t know if her bishop will approve of the gorgeous carving or deem it idolatry.

Lizzy sees the changes in her niece when Beth shows her the woodworking, and after Lizzy hunts down Jonah, the artist, she is all the more determined that Beth meets this man with the hands that create healing art. But it’s not that simple–will Lizzy’s elaborate plan to reintroduce her niece to love work? Will Jonah be able to offer Beth the sleigh ride she’s always dreamed of and a second chance at real love–or just more heartbreak?

Excerpt of chapter one:

Buy from Christianbook.com
Buy from Amazon
Buy from Barnes and Noble
Buy from Books a Million

To find out about the differences between my blog giveaways, my newsletter giveaways, and my website contest, click here.

Excerpt - Love Finds You In Lonesome Prairie, Tricia Goyer & Ocieanna Fleiss

2009-11-21T00:01:00.000-08:00

Today's Wild Card authors are:

Tricia Goyer

and

Ocieanna Fleiss

and the book:

Love Finds You In Lonesome Prairie, Montana

Summerside Press (December 1, 2009)

***Special thanks to Amy Lathrop of LitFUSE Publicity Group for sending me a review copy.***

Julia Cavanaugh has never left New York City. But in 1890, the young woman must head west to ensure that the orphans under her care are settled into good families. After her final stop in Montana, she plans to head straight back east. But upon arriving in the remote town of Lonesome Prairie, Julia learns to her horror that she is also supposed to be delivered into the hands of an uncouth miner who carries a bill of purchase for his new bride. She turns to a respected circuit preacher to protect her from a forced marriage but with no return fare and few friends, Julia’s options are bleak. What is Gods plan for her in the middle of the vast Montana prairie?

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

Tricia Goyer was named Mount Hermon Christian Writers Conference "Writer of the Year" in 2003. Her book Night Song won Book of the Year from ACFW in the Long Historical Fiction category. Her book Life Interrupted: The Scoop On Being a Young Mom was a Gold Medallion Finalist. Tricia has written hundreds of articles, Bible Study notes, and both fiction and non-fiction books.

Visit the author's website.

Ocieanna Fleissis a published writer and has edited six of Tricia Goyer's historical novels. She lives with her husband and their four children in the Seattle area. Connect with Ocieanna on Facebook!

Product Details:
List Price: $12.99
Paperback: 320 pages
Publisher: Summerside Press (December 1, 2009)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 1935416294
ISBN-13: 978-1935416296

AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:

The sound of little girls’ voices and the sight of the sun streaming through the tall, second-story window of the Open Door Home for Destitute Girls, a privately owned orphanage on upper Manhattan, told nineteen-year-old Julia Cavanaugh that the day had started without her. Julia, an orphan herself, now running the place for the owner, brushed a strand of dark hair from her eyes. She submitted to a second yawn as a twelve-year-old girl hopped onto her bed.

“He’s gonna ask her to marry him, don’t you think, Miss Cavanaugh?”

“Oh, Shelby.” Julia wiped the sleep from her eyes and smiled into the freckled face staring eagerly at her. “Give me a moment to wake before you go asking such things.” Julia stroked the girl’s cheek, her heart seeming to double within her chest with love for the youngster.

The embroidery sampler she’d fallen asleep working on still lay at the end of her bed. She picked it up and eyed the image of a small house she’d copied from Godey’s Lady’s Book. Above the house, she’d stitched the words Home Sweet Home in fancy script. Gazing around the broad room lined with small metal cots and bustling with little-girl chatter, Julia noted the embroidered pillowslips, carefully pressed—albeit dingy—curtains, and dandelions smiling from scavenged jam-jar vases. She’d done her best to make the room pleasant for the girls—and herself. She glanced at their faces and smiled, gladly embracing her role as caretaker.

A less-than-subtle “ahem” from Shelby reminded Julia she’d been asked a question. She glanced at her young charge, still perched on the end of her bed. “What did you ask?”

“Finally.” Shelby eyed her with mock frustration. “I said, do you think they will get married—Mrs. Hamlin and Mr. Gaffin? Haven’t you noticed the way they look at each other?” Shelby’s cheeks hinted of red. Her golden hair was already fixed in a proper bun, her hands and face washed, and her simple dress clean and pressed despite its patches and stray threads.

“Shelby Bruce.” Julia shook her head, as Shelby’s two-year-old sister Beatrice wiggled onto Julia’s lap with a squeal. Julia planted a firm kiss on the top of Bea’s head.

“Married? I don’t think so,” Julia continued. “Mrs. Hamlin would’ve told us—told me—if she was being courted. Mr. Gaffin’s just an old family friend.” Julia wondered where on earth the girl got the notion that their headmistress wished to marry.

Although they have been spending a lot of time together. Julia pushed the thought out of her mind as little Bea shuffled to a stand, planting her pint-sized feet on Julia’s thighs. “Fammy fend!” She pointed a chubby finger at her older sister, Shelby.

“All right, Bea.” Julia plopped the toddler on the floor and swiveled her toward the small bed she shared with Shelby. “Time to straighten your bed.” Then Julia eyed the twins. “Charity, Grace, would you two virtuous girls fetch fresh water for the basin?”

Shelby pushed away from the bed, wrinkled her brow, and thrust her hand behind her as if to support her back—a perfect imitation of their middle-aged headmistress. “Now where did I put my spectacles?” Shelby clucked her tongue as she waddled forward.

Laughter spilled from the lips of the girls around the room. Encouraged, Shelby scratched her head. She plopped down on her bed then hopped up again as if surprised, pulling imaginary spectacles from under her rump. “Oh!” she squealed. “There they are.”

The laughter grew louder, and Julia pursed her lips together to smother the impulse to laugh along with them. She planted her fists on her hips. “That’s enough. All of you know what must be done before breakfast.” The girls’ laughter quieted to soft giggles hidden behind cupped palms as they scattered to do their chores.

Shelby lingered behind, her form now straight and her eyes pensive. “Maybe she forgot to tell you, Miss Cavanaugh.” The young girl gazed up at her. “The way they look at each other—it’s like my ma and pa used to, that’s all.”

Julia folded a stray sandy blond curl behind the girl’s ear. “Don’t worry, my sweet. If Mrs. Hamlin was getting married, we’d be the first to know.”

Julia hoped her own gaze didn’t reflect the sinking disquiet that draped her. Mr. Gaffin was a rich world traveler. If there was any truth to Shelby’s suspicion, Julia couldn’t imagine he’d let Mrs. Hamlin continue to work with orphans. Perhaps they’d get a new headmistress.

Or maybe the girls would be separated, moved to new homes…

If Mrs. Hamlin got married, all their lives would be radically changed. And if Julia had to leave the orphanage, she had no idea what she would do. Julia swept that painful thought away and steadied her gaze at Shelby. She couldn’t hide her true feelings from this girl. Julia took Shelby’s hand and answered as honestly as she could.

“I don’t think she’ll get married, but if she does, God will take care of us, like He always has.” Julia lifted her chin in a smile. “And really, Mrs. Hamlin may be forgetful, but no one could forget that. I sure wouldn’t.”

Ardy, a shy Swedish girl, removed her dirty sheets from a small bed and then approached, taking Julia’s hand. “Don’t ya think you’ll ever be gettin’ married?”

“Actually, there is something I’ve been wanting to tell you all….” Julia leaned forward, resting her hands on her knees.

The two girls eyed each other in surprise, and Shelby’s brow furrowed.

“Come closer.” Julia curled a finger, bidding them.

“What is it?” Shelby asked, her eyes glued to Julia.

The girls leaned in. “I’d like to tell you…that there’s a wonderful man who’s asked me to marry him!”

The squeals of two girls erupted, followed by the cheers of nearly three dozen others who’d been quietly listening from the stairwell.

“There is?” Shelby reached forward and squeezed Julia’s hand.

Julia let out a hefty sigh and giggled. “No, you sillies. Well, at least not yet. Someday. Maybe.”

Shelby pouted “But you said… ”

“I said I’d like to tell you I had a man. I’d sure like to, but of course since I don’t, I’m happy to stay here with all of you.”

The girls moaned.

The squeak of the front door down on the first floor of the Revolutionary War–era home-turned-orphanage drew their attention. They waited as Mrs. Hamlin’s familiar chortle filled the air, along with a bash and clang of items—hopefully food and supplies that she’d picked up.

“Julia!” Mrs. Hamlin yelped. “Julia, dear, where are you?”

“Coming.” Julia hurried down the stairs to help the older woman.

Julia neared the bottom of the steps and paused, trying to stifle a laugh at the sight of the twinkly-eyed woman sprawled flat on her back. Scattered boxes and bags covered the donated rug.

“Mrs. Hamlin! What on earth? Why didn’t you get a steward to help you?”

“Oh, I didn’t want to be a bother.” She cheerfully picked herself up. “I was in such a hurry to show you all what I’d bought. And to tell you my surprise. Such a wonderful surprise.” Julia eyed the boxes and noted they were from R.H. Macy & Co. More than a dozen boxes waited to be opened, and she couldn’t imagine the cost.

“I found just what the girls need, and on sale!” the headmistress exclaimed.

What they need is more food—vitamin drops, too—and maybe a few new schoolbooks. But Julia didn’t dare say it. And somehow God’s hand of providence always provided.

“New clothes, I gather. That is a surprise.”

“But only half of it, dear.” Mrs. Hamlin rubbed her palms expectantly. “I also must tell you my news. The best news an old widow could hope for.”

Julia followed Mrs. Hamlin’s gaze toward the idle youngsters who’d gathered on the staircase to watch. Her eyes locked with Shelby’s, then she quickly looked away. “News?” The muscles in Julia’s stomach tightened.

“Girls,” Julia shooed them away with a wave of her hand, “you know better than to eavesdrop. Off to chores with you. We’ll have breakfast soon.”

The girls started to scurry off, but Mrs. Hamlin halted them with her words.

“No, no,” her high-pitched voice hailed. “Come back. This news is for all of you.” They circled around her, and she tenderly patted their bobbing heads.

“What is it?” Julia wasn’t sure she’d ever seen Mrs. Hamlin’s cheeks so rosy or her eyes so bright.

“I’m getting married!”

Excerpt - The Swiss Courier by Tricia Goyer and Mike Yorkey

2009-11-19T00:01:00.000-08:00

Today's Wild Card authors are:

Tricia Goyer

and

Mike Yorkey

and the book:

The Swiss Courier

Revell (October 1, 2009)

***Special thanks to Amy Lathrop of the LitFUSE Publicity Group for sending me a review copy.***

It is August 1944 and the Gestapo is mercilessly rounding up suspected enemies of the Third Reich. When Joseph Engel, a German physicist working on the atomic bomb, finds that he is actually a Jew, adopted by Christian parents, he must flee for his life to neutral Switzerland. Gabi Mueller is a young Swiss-American woman working for the newly formed American Office of Strategic Services (the forerunner to the CIA) close to Nazi Germany. When she is asked to risk her life to safely "courier" Engel out of Germany, the fate of the world rests in her hands. If she can lead him to safety, she can keep the Germans from developing nuclear capabilities. But in a time of traitors and uncertainty, whom can she trust along the way? This fast-paced, suspenseful novel takes readers along treacherous twists and turns during a fascinating--and deadly--time in history.

ABOUT THE AUTHORS:

Tricia Goyer is the author of several books, including Night Song and Dawn of a Thousand Nights, both past winners of the ACFW's Book of the Year Award for Long Historical Romance. Goyer lives with her family in Montana.

Visit the author's website.

Mike Yorkey is the author or coauthor of dozens of books, including the bestselling Every Man's Battle series. Married to a Swiss native, Yorkey lived in Switzerland for 18 months. He and his family currently reside in California.

Visit the author's website.

Product Details:
List Price: $13.99
Paperback: 336 pages
Publisher: Revell (October 1, 2009)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 0800733363
ISBN-13: 978-0800733360

AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:

To the Reader

In the early afternoon of July 20, 1944, Colonel Claus Graf von Stauffenberg confidently lugged a sturdy briefcase into Wolfsschanze—Wolf’s Lair—the East Prussian redoubt of Adolf Hitler. Inside the black briefcase, a small but powerful bomb ticked away, counting down the minutes to der Führer’s demise.

Several generals involved in the assassination plot arranged to have Stauffenberg invited to a routine staff meeting with Hitler and two dozen officers. The one o’clock conference was held in the map room of Wolfsschanze’s cement-lined underground bunker. Stauffenberg quietly entered the conference a bit tardy and managed to get close to Hitler by claiming he was hard of hearing. While poring over detailed topological maps of the Eastern Front’s war theater, the colonel unobtrusively set the briefcase underneath the heavy oak table near Hitler’s legs. After waiting for an appropriate amount of time, Stauffenberg excused himself and quietly exited the claustrophobic bunker, saying he had to place an urgent call to Berlin. When a Wehrmacht officer noticed the bulky briefcase was in his way, he inconspicuously moved it away from Hitler, placing it behind the other substantial oak support. That simple event turned the tide of history.

Moments later, a terrific explosion catapulted one officer to the ceiling, ripped off the legs of others, and killed four soldiers instantly. Although the main force of the blast was directed away from Hitler, the German leader nonetheless suffered burst eardrums, burned hair, and a wounded arm. He was in shock but still alive—and unhinged for revenge.

Stauffenberg, believing Hitler was dead, leaped into a staff car with his aide Werner von Haeften. They talked their way out of the Wolfsschanze compound and made a dash for a nearby airfield, where they flew back to Berlin in a Heinkel He 111. When news got out that Hitler had survived, Stauffenberg and three other conspirators were quickly tracked down, captured, and executed at midnight by a makeshift firing squad.

An enraged Hitler did not stop there to satisfy his bloodlust. For the next month and a half, he instigated a bloody purge, resulting in the execution of dozens of plotters and hundreds of others remotely involved in the assassination coup. The Gestapo, no doubt acting under Hitler’s orders, treated the failed attempt on the Führer’s life as a pretext for arresting 5,000 opponents of the Third Reich, many of whom were imprisoned and tortured.

What many people do not know is that Hitler’s manhunt would dramatically alter the development of a secret weapon that could turn the tide of the war for Nazi Germany—the atomic bomb.

This is that story . . .

1

Waldshut, Germany

Saturday, July 29, 1944

4 p.m.

He hoped his accent wouldn’t give him away. The young Swiss kept his head down as he sauntered beneath the frescoed archways that ringed the town square of Waldshut, an attractive border town in the foothills of the southern Schwarzwald. He hopped over a foot-wide, waterfilled trench that ran through the middle of the cobblestone square and furtively glanced behind to see if anyone had detected his presence.

Even though Switzerland lay just a kilometer or two away across the Rhine River, the youthful operative realized he no longer breathed free air. Though he felt horribly exposed—as if he were marching down Berlin’s Kurfürstendamm screaming anti-Nazi slogans—he willed himself to remain confident.

His part was a small but vital piece of the larger war effort. Yes, he risked his life, but he was not alone in his passion. A day’s drive away, American tanks drove for the heart of

Paris—and quickened French hearts for libération. Far closer, Nazi reprisals thinned the ranks of his fellow resisters. The young man shuddered at the thought of being captured, lined up against a wall, and hearing the click-click of a safety being unlatched from a Nazi machine gun. Still, his legs propelled him on.

Earlier that morning, he’d introduced himself as Jean- Pierre to members of an underground cell. The French Resistance had recently stepped up their acts of sabotage after the Allies broke out of the Normandy beachhead two weeks earlier, and they’d all taken nom de guerres in their honor.

Inside the pocket of his leather jacket, Jean-Pierre’s right hand formed a claw around a Mauser C96 semiautomatic pistol. His grip tightened, as if squeezing the gun’s metallic profile would reduce the tension building in his chest. The last few minutes before an operation always came to this.

His senses peaked as he took in the sights and sounds around him. At one end of the town square, a pair of disheveled older women complained to a local farmer about the fingerling size of the potato crop. A horse-drawn carriage, transporting four galvanized tin milk containers, rumbled by while a young newsboy screamed out, “Nachrichten!” The boy’s right hand waved day-old copies of the Badische Zeitung from Freiburg, eighty kilometers to the northwest.

Jean-Pierre didn’t need to read the newspaper to know that more men and women were losing their lives by the minute due to the reprisals of a madman.

Though the planned mission had been analyzed from every angle, there were always uncertain factors that would affect not only the outcome of the mission but who among them would live. Or die.

Their task was to rescue a half-dozen men arrested by local authorities following the assassination attempt on Reichskanzler Adolf Hitler. If things went as Jean-Pierre hoped,

the men would soon be free from the Nazis’ clutches. If not, the captives’ fate included an overnight trip to Berlin, via a cattle car, where they would be transported to Gestapo headquarters on Prinz-Albrecht-Strasse 8. The men would be questioned—tortured if they weren’t immediately forthcoming— until names, dates, and places gushed as freely as the blood spilling upon the cold, unyielding concrete floor.

Not that revealing any secrets would save their lives. When the last bit of information had been wrung from their minds, they’d be marched against a blood-spattered wall or to the gallows equipped with well-stretched hemp rope. May God have mercy on their souls.

Jean-Pierre willed himself to stop thinking pessimistically. He glanced at his watch—a pricey Hanhart favored by Luftwaffe pilots. His own Swiss-made Breitling had been tucked inside a wooden box on his nightstand back home, where he had also left a handwritten letter. A love note, actually, to a woman who had captured his heart—just in case he never returned. But this was a time for war, not love. And he had

to keep reminding himself of that.

Jean-Pierre slowed his gait as he left the town square and approached the town’s major intersection. As he had been advised, a uniformed woman—her left arm ringed with a red

armband and black swastika—directed traffic with a whistle and an attitude.

She was like no traffic cop he’d ever seen. Her full lips were colored with red lipstick. Black hair tumbled upon the shoulder epaulettes of the Verkehrskontrolle’s gray-green

uniform. She wielded a silver-toned baton, directing a rambling assortment of horse-drawn carriages, battered sedans, and hulking military vehicles jockeying for the right of way.

She looked no older than twenty-five, yet acted like she owned the real estate beneath her feet. Jean-Pierre couldn’t help but let his lips curl up in a slight grin, knowing what was

to come. “Entschuldigung, wo ist das Gemeindehaus?” a voice said beside him. Jean-Pierre turned to the rotund businessman in the fedora and summer business suit asking for directions to City Hall.

“Ich bin nicht sicher.” He shrugged and was about to fashion another excuse when a military transport truck turned a corner two blocks away, approaching in their direction.

“Es tut mir Leid.” With a wave, Jean-Pierre excused himself and sprinted toward the uniformed traffic officer. In one quick motion, his Mauser was drawn.

He didn’t break stride as he tackled the uniformed woman to the ground. Her scream blasted his ear, and more cries from onlookers chimed in.

Jean-Pierre straddled the frightened traffic officer and pressed the barrel of his pistol into her forehead. Her shrieking immediately ceased.

“Don’t move, and nothing will happen to you.”

Jean-Pierre glanced up as he heard the mud-caked transport truck skid to a stop fifty meters from them.

A Wehrmacht soldier hopped out. “Halt!” He clumsily drew his rifle to his right shoulder.

Jean-Pierre met the soldier’s eyes and rolled off the female traffic officer.

A shot rang out. The German soldier’s body jerked, and a cry of pain erupted from his lips. He clutched his left chest as a rivulet of blood stained his uniform.

“Nice shot, Suzanne.” Jean-Pierre jumped to his feet, glancing at the traffic cop, her stomach against the asphalt with her pistol drawn.

Suzanne rose from the ground, crouched, and aimed.

Her pistol, which had been hidden in an ankle holster, was now pointed at the driver behind the windshield. The determined look in her gaze was one Jean-Pierre had come to

know well.

One, two, three shots found their mark, shattering the truck’s glass into shards. The driver slumped behind the wheel.

As expected, two Wehrmacht soldiers jumped out of the back of the truck and took cover behind the rear wheels.

Before Jean-Pierre had a chance to take aim, shots rang out from a second-story window overlooking the intersection.

The German soldiers crumbled to the cobblestone pavement in a heap.

“Los jetzt!” He clasped Suzanne’s hand, and they sprinted to the rear of the truck. Two black-leather-coated members of their resistance group had already beaten them there.

Jean- Pierre couldn’t remember their names, but it didn’t matter.

What mattered was the safety of the prisoners in the truck. Jean-Pierre only hoped the contact’s information had been correct.

With a deep breath, he lifted the curtain and peered into the truck. A half-dozen frightened men sat on wooden benches with hands raised. Their wide eyes and dropped jaws displayed their fear.

“Don’t shoot!” one cried.

The sound of a police siren split the air.

“Everyone out!” Jean-Pierre shouted. “I’ll take this one. The rest of you, go with them.” He pointed the tip of his Mauser at the men in leather jackets.

The sirens increased in volume as the speeding car gobbled up distance along the Hauptstrasse, weaving through the autos and pedestrians. An officer in the passenger’s seat leaned out, rifle pointed.

Jean-Pierre leaned into the truck and yanked the prisoner’s arm. Suzanne grabbed the other. “Move it, come on!”

Bullets from an approaching vehicle whizzed past Jean- Pierre’s ear. The clearly frightened prisoner suddenly found his legs, and the three sprinted away from the speedingcar.

Jean-Pierre’s feet pounded the pavement, and he tugged on the prisoner’s arm, urging him to run faster. He could hear the screech of the tires as the police car stopped just behind the truck. Jean-Pierre hadn’t expected the local Polizei to respond so rapidly.

They needed to find cover—

More gunfire erupted, and as if reading his thoughts, Suzanne turned the prisoner toward a weathered column. Jean-Pierre crumbled against the pillar, catching his breath.

The columns provided cover, but not enough. Soon the police would be upon them. They had to make a move. Only ten steps separated them from turning the street corner and sprinting into Helmut’s watch store. From there, a car waited outside the back door.

Another hail of gunfire struck the plaster. Jean-Pierre mouthed a prayer under his breath.

“Suzanne, we have to get out of here!”

She crouched into a trembling ball, all confidence gone. “They’re surrounding us!” The terror in her uncertain timbre was clear. “But what can we do? We can’t let them see us run into the store.”

“Forget that. We have no choice!” Jean-Pierre raised his pistol and returned several volleys, firing at the two policemen perched behind a parked car.

“Listen to me,” he said to Suzanne, taking his eyes momentarily off the police car. “You have to go. You take this guy, and I’ll cover you. Once you turn the corner, it’s just twenty more meters to Helmut’s store.” His hands moved as he spoke, slamming a new clip of ammunition into his pistol.

“But what if—”

“I’ll join you. Now go!”

Jean-Pierre jumped from behind the protection of the column and rapidly fired several shots. One cop dared expose himself to return fire—not at Jean-Pierre but at the pair running for the corner.

No!

Jean-Pierre turned just in time to see Suzanne’s body lurch. The clean hit ripped into her flesh between the shoulder blades. She staggered for a long second before dropping

with a thud. The gangly prisoner didn’t even look back as he disappeared around the corner.

I can’t lose him, Jean-Pierre thought, remembering again the importance of this mission.

Yet to chase after the prisoner meant he’d have to leave his partner behind.

Suzanne . . .

He emptied his Mauser at the hidden policemen, ducking as he scrambled toward his partner. Sweeping up her bloody form, he managed to drag her around the corner to safety.

“Go,” Suzanne whispered.

“I can’t leave you. Stay with me—”

Her eyelids fluttered. “You need to go . . .” A long breath escaped, and her gaze fixed on a distant point beyond him.

Jean-Pierre dropped to his knees and ripped open Suzanne’s bloodstained woolen jacket. Her soaked chest neither rose nor fell. He swore under his breath and brushed a lock of

black hair from her face.

Jean-Pierre cocked his head. Incessant gunfire filled the air. His colleagues were apparently keeping the German soldiers and local Polizei at bay, at least for the time being. He knew only a few valuable seconds remained to escape with

the prisoner.

He planted a soft kiss on Suzanne’s forehead. “Until we see each other in heaven,” he whispered.

Jean-Pierre darted to a trash can, where the shaken prisoner had hunkered down, covering his head. The resistance fighter clutched the man’s left arm and hustled him inside the watch store, pushing past two startled women. The rear door was propped open, and a black Opel four-door idled in the alley.

With a few quick steps, they were inside the vehicle.

Before the rear door was shut, the driver jerked the car into gear, and the Opel roared down the tight alley. The door slammed shut, and Jean-Pierre glanced back. No one followed.

The car merged onto a busier street, and only then did Jean-Pierre sink in his seat and close his eyes.

Soon they’d arrive at a safe house pitched on the Rhine River. And later, with the dark night sky as their protection, a skiff would sneak them into the warm arms of Mother

Switzerland—a skiff piloted by the mentor who’d recruited him. His nom de guerre: Pascal.

Jean-Pierre’s mission would soon be complete, but at what cost? Another agent—a good woman and a friend—had been sacrificed.

He had followed orders for the greater good, to save the life of a nameless prisoner. He only hoped this mission was worth it.

Tricia Goyer and Mike Yorkey, The Swiss Courier: A Novel,

Revell Books, a division of Baker Publishing Group, © 2009. Used by permission

Vosges Haut Chocolat Collezione Italiana

2009-11-18T00:01:00.000-08:00

Captain's Log, Stardate 11.18.2009

Yes, I have more chocolate! (In case you missed the last box, click here.) This one is their Collezione Italiana.

Yes, I ~ahem~ ate one before remembering to take the picture.

Rooster: Taleggio cheese + organic walnuts + Tahitian vanilla bean + bittersweet dark chocolate

Very unique flavors in this one that I really liked. I expected to taste the cheese more, but maybe my palate just isn’t that sensitive. It’s sweeter than I expected it to be, also, considering it uses bittersweet chocolate. Very yummy!

Sale del Mare: Sicilian sea salt caramel + milk chocolate + pine nut

Probably one of the best caramels I’ve ever eaten! The salt balances really nicely with the sweet of the caramel. I don’t eat as much caramel as I do chocolate, but this is a really good one that I’d eat more often than other caramels. It also makes me want to try the caramel collection she has on the website.

Polline di Finocchio: Wild Tuscan fennel pollen + dark chocolate

Very unusual flavor—I typically don’t care for fennel, but I’ll enjoy almost anything coated in good chocolate, especially something this well crafted. It has a slight curry aroma.

Olio d'Oliva: First press extra virgin olive oil + white chocolate + dried kalamata olives

The rich olive oil flavor is wonderfully subtle in this sweet truffle, and the kalamata olives add just the right contrast of salt to the white chocolate. Unusual—probably not to everyone’s taste, but a different flavor in the mouth that I’m glad I got a chance to try it.

Balsamico: 12-year aged balsamic vinegar + dark chocolate + Sicilian hazelnuts

The balsamic vinegar is subtle, giving a slightly tart taste to the chocolate, but it is still wonderfully sweet. It reminded me of the artisan blackberry balsamic vinegar I bought at Rodney Strong winery in Sonoma, and which I use with olive oil in salads. I didn’t really taste the hazelnuts too much aside from noticing the texture.

Excerpt - Thirsty by Tracey Bateman

2009-11-17T00:01:00.001-08:00

Captain's Log, Supplemental

Thirsty
by
Tracey Bateman

There's no place like home, they say.

"Hello, I'm Nina Parker…and I'm an alcoholic."

For Nina, it's not the weighty admission but the first steps toward recovery that prove most difficult. She must face her ex-husband, Hunt, with little hope of making amends, and try to rebuild a relationship with her angry teenage daughter, Meagan. Hardest of all, she is forced to return to Abbey Hills, Missouri, the hometown she abruptly abandoned nearly two decades earlier–and her unexpected arrival in the sleepy Ozark town catches the attention of someone–or something–igniting a two-hundred-fifty-year-old desire that rages like a wildfire.

Unaware of the darkness stalking her, Nina is confronted with a series of events that threaten to unhinge her sobriety. Her daughter wants to spend time with the parents Nina left behind. A terrifying event that has haunted Nina for almost twenty years begins to surface. And an alluring neighbor initiates an unusual friendship with Nina, but is Markus truly a kindred spirit or a man guarding dangerous secrets?

As everything she loves hangs in the balance, will Nina's feeble grasp on her demons be broken, leaving her powerless against the thirst? The battle between redemption and obsession unfold to its startling, unforgettable end.

Excerpt of chapter one:

Chapter One

I went up in a hot-air balloon once, when I was ten. The fair had come to Abbey Hills, and all the kids were buzzing about the ride. Everyone would be talking about it the next day, and I was determined that, for once, I'd have something
to talk about too.

The thing was, I knew I'd never get to go if I asked, so I snatched five dollars from Mom's purse and went anyway. Mom blamed Dad. He'd taken her last five dollars before when the shakes got the better of him and the call of whiskey grew too loud to ignore. He never even defended himself against the accusation. Just apologized and promised to do better. I felt a little guilty about that, but nothing could have
kept me from that balloon ride.

I knew I'd made a mistake the second I climbed into the basket and outrageous fear took hold of my gut. I could have gotten off before the rope released and lift took over, but I didn't.

Good choices aren't my strong suit.

Funny how much a person could sober up between last call and time to call a cab. An hour ago, when Nina had devised the brilliant idea of surprising Hunt and spending Christmas with him and the kids, she'd confidently imagined the warmth of his open arms. But now, as she stood on his doorstep watching the cab drive away into the dark, wee hours of the morning, she realized it had been an incredibly dumb idea. That was the problem with being only a little drunk—a girl was clear enough to see how stupid she was but not clear enough to make a smart decision.

An icy splash of wind shot across the porch, making her shiver as she waffled between knocking and risking the disgusted look on Hunt's face and running down the street in three-inch heels after the cab that had just rounded the corner.

Resolute, she ignored the voice telling her to sit on the porch all night and freeze to death. In the morning, Hunt would find her frozen corpse, and then wouldn't everyone be sorry for the way they'd treated her?

She knocked, taking extra care to avoid brushing against the eleven-year-old Christmas wreath—still as ugly as the day Hunt's mother had given it to her. Stomping her feet on the porch, she hugged her body to ward off the cold. Patience had never been her thing. And at thirty-four years old, she wasn't likely to develop any, so everyone could just deal with it.

Come on, Hunt. It's the North Pole out here.

She raised her fist again. The porch light snapped on just as she was about to knock a second time.

Relief poured through her, feeling a lot like that first warm rush of a semi-dry white wine. Pushing back her hair, she arranged her mouth into the smile she knew showed off her dimple best.

Please be happy to see me. A foolish hope, she knew, considering he had divorced her six months ago.

In view of that, she'd settle for not ticked.

The door opened. Nina's stomach took a dive at Hunt's dark, sleep-tossed hair. Why did he have to look so good?

He leaned against the door frame, arms crossed. "It's two in the morning. What do you think you're doing?"

Not the greeting she'd been praying for, but then prayer wasn't really her thing. "You invited me for Christmas Eve." Her hands trembled. She shoved them into the pockets of her black leather jacket. It had been a Christmas present from him last year, just before he'd finally ended things between them for good. Nice consolation prize.

She raised her chin. Buck up, Nina. Never let him see you cry.

"The party's been over for a long time. You missed it." His eyes raked up and down her body, and not in a flattering way. "Looks like you made a party somewhere else, though."

She shrugged.

"Well, you missed out. Meagan and Adam are in bed. Sleeping."

"I figured. Guess I shouldn't have come."

"Probably not."

"Okay." An awkward silence thickened the icy air between them. "So I shouldn't have come." Nina dimpled. Time to turn on the charm. "But now that I'm here, do you think I can stay? I'd like to be here in the morning when the kids wake up."

"No, Nina. Not when you've been drinking."

"I jus' want to see them open their presents." Nina bit her lip hard. She'd slurred. Hunt hated that.

His mouth tightened, eyes cold. He didn't bother to respond.

She waved toward the street. "Well, my cab seems to have gone, so I really don't have any choice but to stay."

He drew a long, drawn-out breath. His God, give me patience breath. "The cab may be gone, but you've still been drinking."

"You don't have to keep saying that!" Nina closed her eyes and gained control. "I know I've been drinking a little, but I know better than to come over when I'm drunk. See?" She took three steps across the porch, then three steps back. Too bad her legs had crossed as she walked. Twice. Her lips curved. A conscious effort. "Dang heels."

"Right." He rubbed his chin, his sign of weariness. "I'll call another cab."

She grabbed his arm before he could turn away. "Hunt."

Heat radiated from the touch, and their eyes met. His beautiful pools of blue, so honest in their search. He seemed to always be searching. For the woman she used to be? Nina wondered if he was remembering when he still cared. Every second of their relationship replayed in her mind. A heartbeat, a lifetime. Christmas mornings around the tree, peals of excitement, loving. Each wonderful second of joy. The heart-ripping torture of a home torn apart with her own hands. Nina softened her grip to a light touch."Pretty please? Just this once. For me?"

She knew she'd said the wrong thing even before his face hardened and his eyes lost the softness that only a second ago had weakened her knees. "No," he said, his voice ice, even colder than the god-awful air. "You can come in and wait for the cab if you want."

In the face of such blatant and harsh rejection, sarcasm worked its way into her tone. "I thought you didn't want me in your precious house."

"I don't. But I don't want you getting sick out here in the cold either." He stepped aside to let her in. "Come on."

"No, thanks." Too bad she'd given up smoking. Now would have been a great time to nonchalantly light a cigarette and blow smoke in his self-righteous face.

"Suit yourself. But try not to make a scene. I saw Mr. Taylor staring out his window. You don't want him calling the cops again."

Nina turned and looked up at the second-story window in the house across the street. The curtain fluttered. "Nosy old piss ant."

Hunt grinned. "I'll be right back." He peered closely at her, and Nina's breath stilled at the softness in his face. "Be good."

"Please let me stay," she whispered.

His lips flattened into a grim line, and his guard flew back up. "You just can't leave well enough alone, can you?"

Nina's eyes swam as he stepped inside and closed the door. She stared at the big, blurry wreath bow in front of her as she tried to wrap her foggy brain around the facts. Instead of sinking into the pillow-top mattress in the guest bedroom at the top of the stairs and waking to happy squeals from her kids, she'd be waking up to a messy studio apartment and A Christmas Story marathon on cable.

Hunt wasn't being fair.

She shook as anger ignited in her gut. The elaborate wreath stared back at her, a mocking reminder that she'd never been good enough for Hunt.

She'd always hated that ugly, gaudy thing. Hunt's mother had given it to them their first Christmas together. "Now don't be offended, hon, but Christmas just isn't Christmas without a wreath hanging on the front door."

Well, when you'd been working three jobs to pay for school and raising a daughter alone, there wasn't much leftover for fancy lobster dinners and fifty-dollar wreaths, was there?

Every Christmas of their eleven years together, Nina's sense of duty had walked her to the door and lifted her arms as she hung the wreath on it. Well, guess what?

She reached up, snatched the ugly, fake-pine, bell-and-baubleladen monstrosity from its nail and began ripping it apart. She yanked and pulled, tore and tugged until all that remained in her hand was the shredded bow. Elation exploded through her, shooting
a flood of laughter from her lips.

"Nina!"

She hadn't heard Hunt open the door. Still reeling with guilty pleasure, Nina turned to face him, but he wasn't looking at her. Instead, his bewildered gaze rested on the remnants of the wreath. Slowly, he raised his head and looked at her.

Fever rose to her cheeks. "You know I always hated it."

His silent stare shouted through the foggy mist in her brain.

"Don't look at me like that." Like she was something to be pitied.

"Nina, this has to stop. What's it going to take? You need—"

"No, don't tell me. Let me guess. I need religion." Nina threw the wrinkled bow onto the porch. It landed in the middle of the mangled wreath.

"I wasn't going to say that." Hunt's quiet voice made Nina's chest tighten.

"Good. Because I tried that once, remember? That God of yours never bothered showing up."

"What do you want me to say?" He shook his head, helpless.

"Nothing, Hunt." Hunt opened his mouth, but she held up her hand. "I mean it. I don't want you to say anything."

He crossed the threshold and stepped onto the porch. "At least come inside and wait for the cab."

She lifted her chin, but a shiver claimed her body. Why couldn't she catch a break?

"Come on, Nina. It's starting to ice again."

"No, thanks. I'd rather wait out here. I'm too mad to feel the cold."

"Your teeth are chattering. Stop being so stubborn."

"I said no." She glared at him. "Why can't you just take no for an answer? We're divorced, remember? I don't have to follow your every command."

His nostrils flared and his eyes glinted. Angry calm. He was good at it. "No one expects you to follow my command. Least of all me. And you might want to lower your voice." His fingers closed around her arm.

Nina yanked free of his grasp and stumbled down the steps. Her three-inch heel turned. She fought for balance but fell hard onto the gravel path.

"Nina!" Hunt rushed from the porch, skipping the last two steps. He knelt at her feet and unbuckled her strappy sandals.

"Leave me alone." She kicked at the air, a warning that the next one would make contact with him.

"Stop being stupid."

"Please, Hunt," she whispered through a lump in her throat. Couldn't he see she was humiliated?

He sat back, palms forward in surrender. "Okay, fine." She could hear his weariness.

Nina hauled herself up and stumbled, barely avoiding crashing back to the ground. Hunt's warm, familiar arm slid around her waist. Nina closed her eyes and tried not to give in to the desire to bury her face in his neck and take in his scent.

"Come inside and let me take a look at it," he said.

She fought the darkness rushing in around her eyes. Steeling herself against the pain, she pushed her words through clenched teeth. "Not even if there were a bone sticking through my skin and blood gushing on the ground, Dr. Hunter."

"Nice dramatics. I'm impressed."

Panic clutched at her as Hunt shoved her shoes into her hands and lifted her into his arms without waiting for permission. She knew that look in his eyes. He was like the Terminator. She'd need a vat of acid to stop him when he was committed to something.

Ironic. She'd been the acid in their relationship.

Headlights beamed toward them from the end of the street. With Nina still in his arms, Hunt turned toward the vehicle. "That must be your cab. Go home and sleep this off. You can come for dessert tomorrow night after the kids and I get back from my parents'."

"Thanks for the crumbs off your table."

Hunt shrugged. "Take it or leave it."

"Put me down."

He obliged. "Want me to help you to the cab?"

"No."

"Okay then. Meggie and Adam will be awake in a couple hours. I'm going to bed."

"I can't believe how mean you're being, Hunt. They're my kids too."

"I never said they weren't." His tone had reverted back to caution, ready to defend himself if necessary. "But when you've been drinking, you will not see them. I'll never give in on that point. It would be best for everyone involved if you'd save yourself the trouble of even trying."

A comeback was out of the question. She didn't have it in her to mentally spar with him. She wrapped her fist around her shoes. Who cared if he didn't want her? Who needed Hunt, anyway?

Her mind didn't have time to catch up with her action as she lifted and flung both shoes away from her. One landed harmlessly on the porch. But the other… Nina gasped at the shatter of glass.

Her wide eyes found Hunt's profile. He stared at his obliterated
front window, the muscle in his jaw jumping as he clenched
and unclenched his back teeth. Blue and red lights flashed in the
driveway, accompanied by the blip of a warning siren.

"Mommy? What crashed?"

Nina turned, her mind barely registering the police car at the sound of her son's voice. Seven-year-old Adam stood in the doorway, his eyes sleepy and confused.

"It was nothing, baby." She limped forward despite her screaming ankle. "The dumb window just broke on accident. But Daddy's going to cover it up in a minute." She stopped before the steps, not wanting to chance a stagger. Forcing gaiety into her voice, she grinned. "You best get back to bed. Santa's going to be here soon, and you know what'll happen if he finds you awake."

Adam's blue eyes widened as he looked toward the sky for signs of the jolly elf, then back to Nina. "Will you tuck me in?"

Hunt spoke up before Nina could respond. "Mommy has to go, sport, but I'll be up in a second."

Adam's face clouded with disappointment, and he turned to go back upstairs. Then his eyes hit the shredded bow and mangled fake pine. "The wreath!"

He raised a chubby foot. Anticipating the move, Nina sprang forward, but Hunt was a beat ahead of her.

"Don't move, Adam!" Hunt rushed barefoot up the steps and snatched up their son before Adam could bring his foot down on the broken glass that covered the porch.

Once again, Hunt had saved one of their children from her stupidity.

The sound of boots crunching on the gravel driveway made Nina turn away from the sight of her son being cuddled in his father's arms.

"Good evening, folks." A police officer strode toward them, his hand resting on his belt. "What seems to be the problem?"
Nina stared at Hunt. "I thought you were calling a cab."

"I did call a cab. Mr. Taylor must have called the cops. He did warn you last time."

"He didn't call," said a new voice. "I did."

Nina and Hunt turned.

"Meg?" Nina said, her voice suddenly small. "You called them?"

Their fifteen-year-old daughter stood in the doorway, wearing a pair of flannel pants and a T-shirt, shivering and wrapped in her own arms.

Nina expected Hunt to chastise the teen, but instead he spoke in the soothing tone he'd used when Meg was little and woke up screaming from night terrors. "It's okay, Meg."

Nina tried to hang on to her resentment, but Meggie did look a little white. She had probably awakened to their arguing and gotten scared. "Yeah, it's okay, Meggie."

No matter who called the police, Nina just wanted to get rid of this guy so she could help with damage control for the kids. Remorse flooded her. How could she have been so stupid?

Practicing her smile as she turned to the cop, she widened her eyes and concentrated on not sounding drunk. "Officer, there's been a bit of a mix-up here tonight."

"A mix-up, eh?" The officer smirked. Nina decided smirking at a person you're about to arrest should be illegal. What happened to protect and serve?

"The only mix-up is in her mind." Hugging Adam close, Hunt stepped forward. "My ex-wife came to my house drunk, destroyed my wreath, and as I'm sure you saw, threw her shoe through my window, scaring the kids half to death."

Nina's mouth dropped open. Hunt was throwing her under the bus?

The officer nodded, eyeing her sternly. "I saw."

Nina gave him a sheepish grin. "I was provoked. And it's not a very sturdy window. We—um—always said it was flimsy."

The officer stepped forward. "Place your hands behind your back, ma'am."

"You're arresting me?" Nina stared at Hunt. "You're just going to let him haul me off to jail like a common thug? In front of our kids?"

"Good night, Nina." Hunt walked toward the door, limping slightly.

"Good night? What are you talking about? Hunt!"

He ignored her, instead addressing the officer. "She hurt her ankle. Could you make sure someone takes a look at it? It looks fairly bruised and swollen. A sprain, most likely."

"Will do."

The icy air wrapped around Nina as Hunt cradled Adam and headed for the front door.

"How much have you had to drink tonight, ma'am?" the police officer asked.

"None of your business," Nina snapped. "Hunt, what's going on? Tell him you don't want me arrested."

Hunt waited for Meg to step aside so he could enter. As she turned into the house, Meg looked over her shoulder. Anger mottled her face, and her glare silenced Nina, filling her with shame.

"Is Mommy going to jail?" Adam's words trembled in his throat.

Nina didn't catch Hunt's reply as he stepped across the glass and entered the house. The door closed with a solid thud.

Bewilderment left Nina too weak to struggle against the cold steel circling her wrists. Pain pinched her right shoulder as her arms stretched unnaturally behind her back. Disbelief hauled her to the squad car, despite her screaming ankle. She didn't resist as the officer folded her like a lawn chair into the backseat.

She turned toward the house as they drove away, hoping to find some evidence that Hunt was watching. That he still cared.

The hallway light snapped off.

Turning, she settled into the seat for the silent ride to the police station. She'd been arrested twice before but had never made it to lockup. Still, she'd watched enough Lifetime movies to know what went on, and shards of fear sliced through her as her imagination went wild. But those violent images weren't the worst things that could happen.

Her shoulders slumped, and she blinked away a tear. If she'd really, truly driven Hunt to the end of his rope—if he truly didn't care anymore—then they might as well give her the chair, because her life was over.

Excerpted from Thirsty by Tracey Bateman Copyright © 2009 by Tracey Bateman. Excerpted by permission of WaterBrook Press, a division of Random House, Inc. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.

Check out the Waterbook Multnomah website for all options for purchasing this book.
Buy from Christianbook.com
Buy from Amazon
Buy from Barnes and Noble
Buy from Books a Million

Excerpt - Touched by a Vampire: Discovering Hidden Messages in the Twilight Saga by Beth Felker Jones

2009-11-17T00:01:00.000-08:00

Captain's Log, Stardate 11.17.2009

Touched by a Vampire: Discovering Hidden Messages in the Twilight Saga
by
Beth Felker Jones

EXAMINING TWILIGHT THROUGH A BIBLICAL LENS

People around the world are asking the same question, enraptured with Edward and Bella’s forbidden romance in the Twilight Saga, a four-book serial phenomenon written by Stephenie Meyer. The bestsellers tell the story of a regular girl’s relationship with a vampire who has chosen to follow his “good” side. But the Saga isn’t just another fantasy–it’s teaching girls about love, sex, and purpose. With 48 million copies in print and a succession of upcoming blockbuster films, now is the time to ask the important question: Can vampires teach us about God’s plan for love?

Touched by a Vampire is the first book to investigate the themes of the Twilight Saga from a Biblical perspective. Some Christian readers have praised moral principles illustrated in the story, such as premarital sexual abstinence, which align with Meyer’s Mormon beliefs. But ultimately, Beth Felker Jones examines whether the story’s redemptive qualities outshine its darkness.

Cautionary, thoughtful, and challenging, Touched by a Vampire is written for Twilight fans, parents, teachers, and pop culture enthusiasts. It includes an overview of the series for those unfamiliar with the storyline and a discussion guide for small groups.

Excerpt of chapter one:

Chapter 1
Forbidden Fruit
The Allure of Dangerous Romance

Suppose that each person possesses a certain amount of energy for wanting and hoping and wishing. This energy represents our deep longings. If we picture that energy as a pile of golden coins, we can imagine the ways we "spend" it. For many girls and women, we pour most of these coins out on romance. We spend the coins on imagining a true love, on hoping that we will meet Mr. Right, our Prince Charming. We sigh over "the one," our soul mate, the romantic love who will finally understand us, who will match up with who we are.

When we're little girls, we watch Snow White sing, "Someday my prince will come," longing for the day when she will meet the man of her dreams. According to the song, when she meets Prince Charming, it will be love at first sight. Snow White and her cousins, the princesses of all our favorite fairy tales, gladly spend their golden coins on yearning for that prince. We've been encouraged to share this longing, to make it our own story.

Bella's romance in the Twilight Saga fits with our tendency to spend our wanting and hoping coins on romance. This romance defies the rules and rushes forward despite all dangers. It is also completely absorbing—it demands everything from Bella (and from many readers of the books as well). Most of all, this romance is fated. Edward and Bella are soul mates, meant for each other. The forces that draw them together are more powerful than the difficulties and dangers that would keep them apart.

Intense and dangerous romance defines the Twilight Saga.

DANGEROUS ROMANCE
When Bella first sits down next to Edward in science class, he tenses up and looks at her with revulsion. She had noticed him earlier that day but doesn't yet know him. Bella can't imagine why she has provoked such horror from the boy next to her. His strong reaction makes her think about the phrase "If looks could kill."1 She senses the danger between them.

We later learn why Edward looked at her with such disgust. For him, the lure of Bella's flesh, the particular scent of her blood, is uniquely tempting. It is so tantalizing that he has to run away to keep himself from attacking her and undoing all the years he has spent protecting human life. Even though he has practiced restraint for decades, developing self-control, he must flee. For him, Bella is that enticing. Running is the only way to stop himself from ripping her to pieces then and there.

In New Moon, Aro, one of the Volturi guardians of the vampire world, is baffled at the way Edward can resist the "call" of Bella's blood when it speaks to him with such intensity. Why would Edward want to resist such a tempting lure? Why, when something is that desirable, that delicious, would Edward steel himself against the urge to bite?

At the beginning of Twilight, we meet a quotation from Scripture. In Genesis 2:17, God instructs human beings that they "must not eat from the tree of the knowledge of good and evil, for when you eat of it you will surely die." The book's striking cover art, a ripe red apple, is the forbidden fruit of dangerous love. The romance at the center of Twilight is forbidden because it is so very dangerous.

As Christians, though, we need to pause before we romanticize the knowledge of good and evil. In Genesis, God gives the people many, many good things. They have all they need for joy and happiness and a great life. The choice humans make to disobey God and eat the one "forbidden" fruit is, literally, a fatal choice. It brings sin and death into the world. All of that happiness and goodness come crashing down around them.

Romance threatens to destroy Bella. The books create a constant, suspenseful awareness that Edward is always in danger of losing control and biting her. Every moment that Bella and Edward are together, he struggles with his desire to drink her blood. Bella's friend Mike expresses his distaste for her growing relationship with Edward. "He looks at you," Mike says, "like…like you're something to eat."2

Before spending time alone with each other, Edward prepares carefully, taking precautions to keep Bella safe. He makes sure that he isn't overly hungry. He does all he can to fight against the temptation of her very presence, especially if they leave the watchful eyes of others. He must prepare because his nature is, for Bella, life-threatening. Bella, though, seems unconcerned about her own danger. Instead, she worries that it would cause trouble for Edward if she were murdered on his watch.

Bella does admit, at least at moments, to finding Edward frightening. When he drops his "carefully cultivated façade"3 of humanity, he is both frightening and beautiful to Bella. Her attraction to him is tied up with the fact that he is dangerous.

Repeatedly, Bella confuses Edward by embracing the danger that lies in being with him. He tries, again and again, to warn her off for her own good. She refuses, again and again, to remove herself from this perilous situation.
2. Twilight, 221.
3. Twilight, 264.

Romance in the series is something dangerous and illicit. That is, it is against the law. Every rule of both human and vampire society is working against the couple. He threatens her existence with his thirst for her blood. She threatens his existence when she discovers his secret life. Bella and Edward want what they simply shouldn't have.

So how should Christians view illicit romance?

To start with, we don't exist alone. God has created us to live in community, and we do that as the church. The church exists as both the body and the bride of Jesus. Christians, then, are never rogue agents. We're parts of a body. Paul, in 1 Corinthians, puts it like this:

The eye cannot say to the hand, "I don't need you!"
And the head cannot say to the feet, "I don't need
you!" (12:21)

We need each other. We need each other in the area of romance just as in every other area of life. Other members of the body can help us to see things that we couldn't have seen on our own. They can help us discern whether our romantic interests are really in our best interests. They can help us to discern whether our romantic interests are in God's interests. Parents, pastors, Christian friends, and youth leaders can be the church for us in helping us to think about romance.

This idea that the church should have a role in our romantic stories is a grating one. I understand if you'd rather head for a long, painful visit to the dentist than ask for someone else's opinion about who you should or shouldn't dream about.

The idea of romantic accountability irritates us because we think of romance as a very private thing. Bella and Edward certainly do. Bella hides the truth about Edward from her parents. She ignores Jacob's feelings about the dangers of her relationship. Though Edward's family eventually grows to love Bella, he deliberately ignores their early worries about the complications involved with him loving a human girl. He breaks the vampire taboo against revealing his world to a human. Their attraction to one another is so very strong that it seems there is nothing for them to do but ignore the rules meant to
keep them safe.

Yet nothing in the Christian life is truly private. We belong, after all, to God and not to ourselves. While this idea seems to go against the way we want romance to be, it is actually one of God's very good gifts. God made us so that we shouldn't be alone, and God didn't do this to annoy us. God doesn't give us the church to impose a bunch of arbitrary rules on us. God gives us the church as a blessing. The fact that you are not alone is a good thing. It means you're not at your own mercy.

You and I both know that the church is not a perfect place. It is a place for sinners, so we can't expect the church's efforts to help us be discerning about romance to be perfect either. It helps, though, to remember that the church exists for a reason. It exists for God's glory. It exists to be Jesus' holy bride.

When we ask the church—parents, friends, leaders—to hold us accountable about romance, we're not giving people license to control us with whatever their own preferences might happen to be. We're not asking, for instance, if someone else thinks this or that person is physically attractive. I can imagine all kinds of really bad reasons why people might think we shouldn't be attracted to someone. If someone dislikes a person because of his race or because he isn't from a wealthy family, we as Christians wouldn't find any help for accountability there. Still, we need accountability. We're asking other people to help us be the church, to glorify God and become His holy bride, in every area of life. Including romance.

As we look for accountability in the area of romance, we have a way to tell what good romance or bad romance is like. If attraction to someone else glorifies God, this is a good sign. If the person who captures our romantic interest is good at serving Jesus and helps us be good at it, this too is a good sign. When we're caught up in romantic feelings, these good signs may be the kind of thing we miss. Worse, we may miss bad signs, like our attraction to someone pulling us away from God or encouraging us to be less than the people God wants us to be. We may even miss it if our attraction is actually putting us in danger.

Step outside of Bella's shoes for a moment, and imagine you were her best friend. Would you have been worried about the danger involved in her romance with Edward? Romance should not be dangerous. We have jokes and stereotypes about girls being attracted to "bad boys," but the truth is that those attractions often cause a lot of pain. Bella's disregard for her own safety is a warning sign, one we should pay attention to if we see it in ourselves or our friends. We especially need accountability when we might be putting ourselves in danger.

CONSUMING ROMANCE
The romance in Twilight is all-consuming. When she falls in love with Edward, Bella doesn't have space for anything else in her life. The books use words like obsessed or consumed to describe Bella's feelings for Edward. Edward influences everything Bella thinks and does. She is willing to surrender her entire life for Edward, ready, in his words, "for this to be the twilight" of life, "…ready to give up everything."4 Readers of Twilight are consumed by this romance too. I've heard plenty of accounts of the series eating up all of someone's time and energy, almost swallowing her up.

As Christians, we have to be immediately suspicious of an account of romance that consumes our entire being. One of the strongest warnings in Scripture is against idolatry. Again and again, the people turn away from God's commandments:
4. Twilight, 497.

You shall have no other gods before me. You shall
not make for yourself an idol in the form of anything
in heaven above or on the earth beneath or in
the waters below. You shall not bow down to them
or worship them; for I, the LORD your God, am a
jealous God. (Exodus 20:3–5)

In the New Testament, Paul describes the sad state of living in idolatry. We human beings have become fools and "exchanged the glory of the immortal God for images made to look like mortal man and birds and animals and reptiles" (Romans 1:23). We've made a bad trade, Paul is saying. We've traded in God's glory for sad images. While you and I probably don't pray to an idol carved to look like a bird or a reptile, we are still tempted to idolatry. We're tempted to trade the most amazing, priceless, astounding thing in the world—the glory of the immortal God—for images. We trade God's glory for illusions.

Is there anything that demands you give allegiance to it before you give glory to God? That thing is an idol. Is there anything that wants to consume your whole life, to take from you all your energy and longing and wishing and hoping? That thing is an idol. It is easy for romance to become such an idol.

Paul continues his description of idolatry in the first chapter of Romans. Not only do human beings make this bad trade, but the trade has consequences. What happens to human beings when we trade in God's glory for something else? We're handed over to our sinful desires. We're trapped.

The message of the Bible is that God should be the center of our lives. Jesus highlights this message when He quotes from the book of Deuteronomy:

Love the Lord your God with all your heart and
with all your soul and with all your mind and with
all your strength. (Mark 12:30)

Jesus is not talking about loving God halfway. He's not talking about spending half of your energy on God and half on other things. Jesus repeats the word all four times in the verse above. How should we love God? With all that we are. With heart, soul, mind, and strength. With passion, longing, thought, and energy. With desire, time, attention, and activity. In Jesus, we see someone whose whole life is about God. He offers us the chance to have the same kind of life.

FATED ROMANCE
More than anything else, romance in the Twilight universe is something fated. Bella and Edward are meant for each other. They are the ideal of what romantic soul mates should be. Their connection is powerful, immediate, and irresistible. They are drawn to each other, pulled together as though by a magnetic force. Bella seems to exist just for Edward. Her very makeup, who she is at the core, is a perfect match for his desire.

In addition to Bella and Edward's romance, the series portrays another strong instance of fated romance. In Jacob's werewolf pack, werewolves find romance through "imprinting." When he meets the "one," the fated love, the werewolf immediately imprints on the other person. Jacob describes this in strong terms. He explains to Bella, "It's not like love at first sight, really. It's more like…gravity moves. When you see her,
suddenly it's not the earth holding you here anymore. She does. And nothing matters more than her."5 Imprinted pairs experience "peace and certainty."6

Sam, the leader of Jacob's pack, has imprinted on a woman named Emily. Sam accidentally harmed Emily when he was in his wolf phase. Before he imprinted on Emily, though, Sam was in a committed relationship with someone else, Leah, but when he imprints, he has no choice but to leave Leah behind. The treatment of Leah's situation in the series is incredibly frustrating. Her rage and pain at Sam's rejection isn't handled with much seriousness. Sam, in the romantic world of Meyer's series, has no control over this rejection. The bonds of a loving relationship cannot hold him when fate steps in and he imprints on Emily.
5. Stephenie Meyer, Eclipse (New York: Little, Brown and Company, 2007), 176.
6. Stephenie Meyer, Breaking Dawn (New York: Little, Brown and Company, 2008), 153.

Emily also receives very little attention in the narrative. We see that the injury Sam caused her is a source of pain, particularly for him, but we don't see much about the difficulty of living with and loving a werewolf who unintentionally scarred you. We don't hear much of Emily's voice or about what choice she had in loving Sam. She would, presumably, have had very little choice if fate truly meant her to be with him.

We hear even less of the voices of other characters imprinted on by werewolves. Jacob's friend Quil imprints on a child named Claire. The reader is assured that there is nothing inappropriate in his loving devotion to the toddler. Quil will not desire her romantically until she is a grown woman. For now, he is a devoted baby-sitter. But the narrative doesn't address the question of the inherent imbalance of power in a relationship between a girl and a man years older than her. Even if Quil would still be physically young when Claire grew old enough for him, he'd still have years of experience she wouldn't. It would be difficult for there to be much that was mutual about such a relationship. Quil would always have the upper hand, the stronger voice.

The assumption that romance is fated is very widespread, and it's portrayed in a compelling way in Twilight. What are the consequences of accepting this idea of romance? First, if romance is determined by fate, if my love has to be my soul mate, the one I am meant for, then the possibilities of choice and accountability disappear. I'm no longer free to make good choices about who I want to share my life with. Instead, I am bound by fate. Also, I can no longer seek the good advice of other Christians about my romantic life. Fate is the only advisor I need.

Fated romance thus not only destroys our freedom to choose at the beginning of a relationship, but it also threatens our freedom to continue to choose love in the face of difficulties and distractions. If I were bound by the idea of the fated romantic soul mate, I would follow him whenever I found him, even if that meant leaving someone else behind, like Sam leaves Leah for Emily. The idea of fated romance destroys good marriages in just this way. If I become convinced that someone other than my husband is actually my soul mate, then I lose the freedom God gives me to keep on loving my husband through thick and thin. I lose the freedom to continue to choose love daily, to keep my commitments, and to enjoy all the rich blessings of a steadfast love.

The idea that you belong with a soul mate, then, robs you of your freedom. It steals from you the power God gives you, through the Holy Spirit, to make good choices, choices that are for God's glory. The idea of a soul mate binds us. It wraps us in chains. Why, then, are we so captivated by this idea? I think it's because we want to be loved by someone who is just for us, someone who really fits with who we are. We want it desperately. We're hurt and we're broken, and we want someone to meet us exactly where we are.

No human being, however, can fulfill us. No human being can complete us. No human being can give our lives meaning. If what we hope for from romance is fulfillment, completion, and meaning, we are going to be sadly disappointed. We'll demand something from another person that he or she cannot possibly give.

The good news is that we don't have to give up our hopes. But we do need to put them in the right place. God is so much more than human beings can ever be. This doesn't mean that God will do whatever you want or that you can mold God to be the way you'd like Him to be. It does mean, though, that God has a really beautiful way of meeting us exactly where we are.

God knows exactly what human need is and knows exactly what to do about it. God jumped right into the world with us. God became "flesh and made his dwelling among us" ( John 1:14). God-in-the-flesh fits what we need so perfectly. Jesus is God there for us, experiencing what we experience, struggling with our struggles. He's been tempted. He's known need.

We needed to touch and see God's love for us, and God came to us as the touchable, seeable, Jesus. We needed to be healed, and Jesus took on all of our mess, all of our guilt, to heal us. We needed to know who God was, and Jesus came so that we could see "his glory" (verse 14).

This is more compelling than a consuming romance. This reaches right into the depths of our being to touch us as we truly are.

THINK ABOUT IT/TALK ABOUT IT
1. What are your favorite romance stories? What makes them so compelling?
2. Who can you turn to for accountability? Wait. Don't skip over this question. I hope, if you're young, that the answer might include your parents, but if there are reasons it can't right now, do some brainstorming. A family friend? Someone at church? at school?
down the block?
3. Who can you offer accountability to? Who can you help to see what kind of choices will serve God's glory?
4. Even with no vampires around, how can romance become dangerous in our lives?
5. What would it look like for romance to be about glorifying God?
6. Talk about the concept of the soul mate. Do you think it is a problematic concept? Does it have a lot of power in your life?

Excerpted from Touched by a Vampire by Beth Felker Jones Copyright © 2009 by Beth Felker Jones. Excerpted by permission of Multnomah Books, a division of Random House, Inc. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.

Check out the Waterbook Multnomah website for all options for purchasing this book.
Buy from Christianbook.com
Buy from Amazon
Buy from Barnes and Noble
Buy from Books a Million

Book giveaway - CAPTIVE DREAMS by Cara Putman

2009-11-16T00:01:00.000-08:00

Captain's Log, Stardate 11.16.2009

The winner of
Together for the Holidays
by
Margaret Daley
is
Kim
Congratulations!

Didn’t win the book but want to read it?
Buy from Christianbook.com
Buy from Amazon
Buy from Barnes and Noble
Buy from Books a Million

Blog book giveaway:

Please click here to read giveaway rules and why I had to change them.

To enter to win today’s book, leave a comment on this blog post, giving your name and US state. Sorry, no international entrants (see post above for why).

Please also leave an email address or website where I can contact you (please use this format--you [at] yourmail.com--or something like that to prevent spammers from trolling for your email address). It is the winner’s responsibility to check to see if you won and to email me if you haven’t yet heard from me.

I always email the winner and give them a week to reply, but if I don’t receive an answer, I will pull another person to win the book. I am not responsible for a lost opportunity if you are on vacation or leave an email address you don’t check frequently.

Only one entry per person. The winner can expect their free book in 4-6 weeks.

You have a week to comment--I'll pick a name out of a hat on Monday, November 23rd. (BTW, you can post a comment and NOT enter, too.)

Today I’m giving away:

Captive Dreams, which is one of the three novels in
Cornhusker Dreams
by
Cara Putman

Dreams Are Altered on the Nebraska Home Front

World War II changes the dreams and aspirations of three young women who seek to enter the war effort.

Audrey Stone is a schoolteacher who joins a train station canteen to lend her support to deployed soldiers. Local rancher, Willard Johnson is ready to go to war to avenge his brother’s death. Can Audrey and Willard fight the demons of war together?

Lainie Gardner’s health won’t allow her to serve as a nurse in the war. Tom Hamilton was turned down as a trainer of war horses. At Fort Robinson, can these two come together to build new dreams that will make a difference in their world?

Anna Goodman struggles to care for her father and the family farm alone. Specialist Sid Chance is stuck on the plains overseeing German prisoners of war. Can Anna and Sid learn to trust and depend on each other?

Can these couples find their place in the war effort and realize the gift of love on the home front?

Buy from Christianbook.com
Buy from Amazon
Buy from Barnes and Noble
Buy from Books a Million

And now, here’s me and Cara!

Cornhusker Dreams is a compilation of your three Nebraska WW2 historical romances (three for the price of one!). For each of the three books, tell us what you liked best about writing each story.

Great question!

Canteen Dreams was very special because it is based in part on my maternal grandparents story. My grandmother would tell you I borrow their names, but there is more to it than that -- I wanted to honor my grandparents and their generation. I am humbled and amazed by their sacrifices. I also thought the North Platte Canteen was an amazing story that reinforced how special that generation and that time was. It also gave me the opportunity to pay tribute to the role my hometown played in the war.

Sandhill Dreams shifts focus to the northwest corner of Nebraska and the tiny Fort Robinson. While it has played many roles during the years, its job in World War Two was to train war dogs and pack mules. I focused on the war dog angle -- another fascinating aspect of the war. Imagine shipping Buster or Bowzer to the Army to serve during the war. That's exactly what happened.

Captive Dreams turns to the Prisoner of War camps that dotted Nebraska and other parts of the Midwest. I highlighted Camp Atlanta and the Kearney Airfield. During the war, the Dust Bowl years disappeared. There were bumper crops just as the young men disappeared and many other of the able bodied found jobs in the factories. The military was capturing Germans and needed a place to put them, so many ended up in the Midwest farm country. Absolutely fascinating!

While those are the historical backdrops, each story is primarily the story of the romance between a couple caught in the war. Willard and Audrey, and his need to serve even though he can't. Tom and Lainie, and her need to be useful even when it seems like God has killed her dreams. And Anna and Sid and her need to save the family farm while working in a factory. Each of those couples is pretty special to me.

Who was your favorite hero and why?

Willard. He's based on my grandpa, though I don't know if Grandpa struggled with being drafted 4 times and then being sent home because he was the only son of a farmer. Can you imagine that in an environment where many families had multiple sons fighting? But there are so many ways we can lay down our lives for other, and that's what Willard wrestles with.

Who was your favorite heroine and why?

Hands-down it's Lainie. I wrote this book while I was in the middle of God blessing the dream of writing, yet also experiencing the death of a dream through a miscarriage. My world rocked, and I struggled to find God and stand on His promises and truth. Lainie's struggles aren't those. But together we wrestle with God and where He went when our dreams died. She just had more spunk than I did. She's a fun character and readers really seem to connect with her.

You're off the hotseat! Any parting words?

Thanks so much for having me, Camy. These books are so special to me... Romances set during my favorite time in history in my favorite state. And now people can find them in one volume: Cornhusker Dreams. And if they want to learn more about me or read the first chapters, your readers can explore my website: www.caraputman.com

Camy here: Thanks for being here, Cara!

To find out about the differences between my blog giveaways, my newsletter giveaways, and my website contest, click here.

Excerpt - THE GREAT CHRISTMAS BOWL by Susan May Warren

2009-11-15T00:01:00.000-08:00

I just came back from ACFW conference where I chatted (briefly) with Susan May Warren. She is just the nicest person ever! I didn't get a chance to read the book below yet, but her novel Finding Stephanie was a finalist in the Long Contemporary Romance category of the Book of the Year Contest (seems like Susie does nothing but final in all these contests!!!).
Camy

From Susan May Warren:

Shoot...football season is over. I'm so sad....as we all know, I love Football...

So much so that I wrote a FOOTBALL STORY! Okay it's not JUST about football. It's about Christmas. And small town life. And church Christmas Teas. And family....and traditions. And the crazy things we do for each other. Basically my favorite things about the season!

Yes. I LOVE Christmas stories - and every year I read aloud to my kids (okay, my college kid MIGHT be too old), the Greatest Christmas Pageant Ever. And recently Dave Barry's, The Shephard, the Angel and Walter the Christmas Miracle Dog. (SOOO funny). I wanted to write my OWN Christmas Classic.

So, I did. Well, at least I HOPE it is a Christmas classic.

Are you in ministry? Want a cool bulletin insert--flyer for the GCB?

And don't forget the cool CONTEST we're running this fall! It's a recipe exchange!! Send us your favorite Christmas recipe and a cool story - we'll publish it on the blog, and sign you up to get a preview copy of my new book (a world war 2 epic!) And/or a cool Harry and David Gift basket!

Warren’s tender holiday novella invokes both laughter and some sweet tears. The vivid portrayal of family connections and football fervor will bring the Christmas spirit to everyone. (Romantic Times)

The Great Christmas Bowl
by

Susan May Warren

Tyndale House Publishers (August 17, 2009)

Marianne Wallace is focused on two things this holiday season: planning the greatest family Christmas ever and cheering on her youngest son’s team in their bid for the state championship. Disaster strikes when the team loses their mascot—the Trout. Is it going too far to ask her to don the costume? So what if her husband has also volunteered her to organize the church Christmas tea. When football playoffs start ramping up, the Christmas tea starts falling apart. Then, one by one her children tell her they can’t come home for Christmas. As life starts to unravel, will Marianne remember the true meaning of the holidays?

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

Susan May Warren is the award-winning author of seventeen novels and novellas with Tyndale, Steeple Hill and Barbour Publishing. Her first book, Happily Ever After won the American Fiction Christian Writers Book of the Year in 2003, and was a 2003 Christy Award finalist. In Sheep’s Clothing, a thriller set in Russia, was a 2006 Christy Award finalist and won the 2006 Inspirational Reader’s Choice award. A former missionary to Russia, Susan May Warren now writes Suspense/Romance and Chick Lit full time from her home in northern Minnesota.

Visit the author's website.

Product Details:

List Price: $9.99
Paperback: 176 pages
Publisher: Tyndale House Publishers (August 17, 2009)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 1414326785
ISBN-13: 978-1414326788

AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:

I’ve always been a football fan, the kind of woman who could easily find herself parked on the sofa any given Sunday afternoon, rooting for my favorite team. I’ve never been a gambler, never played fantasy football, never followed my team during the hot summer months. I’m a fall-season-until-Super-Bowl-only fan, but die-hard nonetheless. Something about investing my emotions for three hours in the fate of eleven men dressed in purple tights soothes my busy spirit.

Having given birth to three sons, I dreamed I’d have the makings of a starring offensive lineup. My oldest son, Neil, would play quarterback; Brett would be a running back; and my youngest, Kevin, would be a wide receiver. My daughters and I would lead cheers from the stands. My husband, Mike, who had played in our hometown high school and helped bring them to state in his senior year, would help coach. We’d be a football family, training with weights and running in the off-season. We’d plan our vacations around summer practices, and I’d join the booster club, maybe sell raffle tickets, even host the end-of-the-year potluck.

If girls could have played football in our tiny town, I know that Brianna and Amy would have joined the team. They became my cohorts, huddling under stadium blankets and clapping their mittens together as we cheered our high school team to victory.

Alas, Neil joined chess club, and Brett became a lead in the school plays.

The football gene seemed to have eluded even our youngest son. A boy who would rather sit on the sofa moving his thumbs in furious online game playing as his only form of exercise, Kevin didn’t possess even a hint of interest in football. I knew he’d inherited some athleticism, as evidenced by the discarded sports equipment left in his wake over the years: hockey skates, pads, helmet, basketball shoes, a tennis racket, a baseball glove. All abandoned after one season of hopeful use.

The only sport that seemed to take had been soccer. For three years I entered into the world of soccer mom, investing in my own foldout chair and a cooler. Perhaps it was his boundless energy that allowed him to play nearly the entire game, but Kevin had a knack for getting the ball in the net. Too bad our community soccer program ended at sixth grade, because Big Lake might have had its very own star. I’d hoped his interest would transfer to football, the other fall sport, but the old pigskin seemed as interesting to Kevin as cleaning his room.

Meanwhile, Neil, Brett, Brianna, and Amy graduated and moved out of the house, bound for college—most obtaining scholarships, much to the relief of my overworked, underpaid EMT husband. By the time Kevin moved into Neil’s basement teen hangout room, Neil was married and working as a CPA in Milwaukee, Brett was doing commercials in Chicago, Brianna had started graduate school for psychology, and Amy was studying abroad in London.

I worried for Kevin as he approached his senior year, envisioning him taking on a post–high school job at the local Dairy Queen while he honed his gaming skills, waiting for his future to somehow find him in the dark recesses of our basement amid his piled dirty clothing, his unmade bed, and the debris of pizza cartons. How I longed for him to grow up.

So the day he came home from school clutching a medical release form for football in his hand, I wondered if perhaps he had a high fever and needed immediate hospitalization.

“I’ve been thinking of playing for a while,” he said, shrugging. “It’s my last chance.”

Summertime had begun its slide into fall, the northern nights cooling. In two short months, we’d have our first snowfall. As I stared at my son—his stringy blond hair, his muscles that just needed toning, the way his gaze slid away from me and onto the floor—I wondered if he expected me to say no.

I took the pen and signed the form without reading it.

Teenage sons are often difficult to encourage. Instead of erupting into a wild jig of joy in the middle of the kitchen, I took the subtle route. I purchased football cleats and set them by the door to his room. I filled his water bottle every morning, packing it with ice, then slipping it into his backpack. I started baking pot roasts and cutting him the largest piece. I bought Bengay, put it on his pillow. I set vitamins out for him at breakfast.

And sometimes, yes, I snuck up in my SUV and sat at the edge of the field, behind the goalposts, watching practice.

My son had talent. A lot of talent. And I wasn’t the only one who noticed. Our residence in a small town played to Kevin’s odds, and being bigger and faster than most of his teammates made up for his inability to block. Coach Grant started him at tackle, then moved him to fullback, then, after noting his ability to twist out of a hold (thanks to years of wrestling for the remote control with his brothers), landed him at tailback.

To my silent glee, my son had the moves of Walter Payton and could dance his way up the field, leaping opponents, breaking tackles, and generally restoring my faith in the Wallace family football gene. I couldn’t wait for the season to start. Finally, I had a Big Lake Trout.

I purchased a season pass. A stadium cushion. A foam finger.

I was the first one in the gates on the day of the season opener. Mike stood on the sidelines next to the requisite ambulance, something that I’d always noted but never fully appreciated until now.

He waved to me as I plopped down my cushion, pulled my red and black stadium blanket over my knees, and wrestled out my digital camera, prepared to capture every moment of my son’s magnificent run to victory. Mike had taken Kevin out for dinner the night before for what I hoped would be a pep talk/strategic-planning session. I wasn’t the only one holding tightly to silent hopes.

“You’re here early.”

I looked up from reviewing shots of Brianna’s college graduation to see Bud Finlaysen greeting me from the field. Bundled in orange hunting coveralls as an undergarment, he wore over the top the shiny black and silver costume of the Big Lake Trout team mascot. Bud had served as the Trout since what I assumed was the dawn of time, or at least the game of football, and we needed him like summer needs lemonade. He and his fish costume comprised the entirety of our cheerleading squad. Our cheerleaders had defected three years prior, and despite the efforts of our paltry pep band, we were woefully lacking in sideline team spirit.

Bud held his headpiece under one arm, the gargantuan mouth gaping open. When worn, his face showed through the open mouth, the enormous fishy eyes googling out from atop his head, a spiky dorsal fin running along his back. He’d shove his hands into two front fins that sparkled with shiny silver material. The costume split at the bottom for his black boots, and a tail dragged behind him like a medieval dragon. Once fitted together, the Big Lake Trout towered nearly eight feet tall, although with the tail, it easily measured over ten. Ten feet of aquatic terror.

“I have a son playing tailback,” I said, holding up my camera and taking a shot of Bud. “Gotta get a good seat.”

Bud laughed. I remembered him from the days when I attended Big Lake High. He worked as the school janitor. Even then he seemed ancient, although he must have been only twenty years or so older than I was. Thin, with kind blue eyes and a hunch in his back, he’d drag his yellow mop bucket around the halls singing Christmas carols, even in May.

“Maybe this will be the year they go to state,” he said, pulling on his giant head. “They’ve got some good players.” He gave me a little wink, as if to suggest Kevin might be one of them.

I smiled, but inside I longed for his words to be true.

State champions. The Super Bowl of high school sports. I could barely think the words.

Bud moved up the field, where he stood at the gate, waiting for the team to pour out onto the field. I waved to friends as the stands filled. In a town of 1,300, a Friday night football game is the hot ticket. A coolness nipped the air, spiced with the bouquet of decaying leaves and someone grilling their last steaks of the season.

The band, a motley crew that took up four rows of seats, assembled. I hummed along as they warmed up with the school fight song.

Town grocer Gil Anderson manned the booth behind me and announced the team. I leaped to my feet in a display of disbelief and joy as the Trouts surged out of the school and onto the playing field.

Each player’s hand connected with one of Bud’s fins on the way to the field.

I spotted Kevin right off, big number 33. He looked enormous with his pads. As he stretched, I noted how lean and strong he’d become over the past six weeks of training. I held my breath as he took the sidelines, wishing for a start for him. To my shock, he took the field after the kickoff, just behind the offensive line.

I’ve never been one to hold back when it comes to football. I cheered my lungs out, pretty sure the team needed my sideline coaching. And when Kevin got the ball and ran it in for a touchdown, I pounded Gretchen Gilstrap on the shoulders in front of me. “That’s my son!”

She gave me a good-natured thumbs-up.

We won the game by two touchdowns and a field goal. As Kevin pulled off his helmet and looked for me in the stands, his blond hair sweaty and plastered to his face, I heard Bud’s words again: “Maybe this will be the year they go to state.”

What is it they always say? Be careful what you wish for?

***

“Amazing run on Friday!”

“I didn’t know your son could play football!”

“Kevin has his father’s moves—I remember when Mike took them all the way to state!”

I love my church. I stood in the foyer, receiving accolades for birthing such a stupendous athlete, smiling now and again at Kevin, who was closing up shop at the sound board that he ran every Sunday. Mike had already gone to get the car—his favorite “giddyap and out of church” maneuver. I still had more compliments to gather.

After all, Kevin had been a ten-pound baby. I get some credit.

I worked my way to the fellowship hall to pick up my empty pan. With eighty members, sixty attendees on a good Sunday, we took turns hosting the midmorning coffee break. I had whipped up a batch of my grandmother’s almond coffee cake.

Pastor Backlund stood by the door, and when I finally reached him, he grinned widely. “Great game, Marianne.”

“Thanks. I’ll tell Kevin you said so.”

“Must be strange to have your youngest be a senior this year.”

I was trying not to think about that, but yes, although I was thrilled to see Kevin move off the sofa and onto the playing field, I was dreading the inevitable quiet that would invade our home next year. I smiled tightly.

“I hope that will leave you more time to get involved at church?” His eyebrow quirked up, as if I’d been somehow delinquent over the past twenty-five years. I was mentally doing the math, summing up just how many years in a row I’d taught Sunday school, when he added, “Would you consider taking on the role of hospitality chairperson?”

“Hey, Mom!” Kevin appeared beside me. “Can I head over to Coach’s for lunch? A bunch of guys are getting together to talk about the game.”

I glanced at him, back to the pastor. “Sure.”

“Perfect,” Kevin said, disappearing out the door.

“Wonderful,” Pastor Backlund said, reaching for his next parishioner.

Mike, now spotting me, leaned on his horn.

I’d have to call the pastor later and politely decline his offer to let me take command of the weekly coffee break, the quarterly potluck, and most importantly, the annual Christmas Tea. The hospitality position came staffed with women decades older than I, who could teach even Martha Stewart a few things about stretching a budget and creating centerpieces. I’d rather lead a camping trip for two hundred toddlers through a mosquito-infested jungle.

“Be back by supper!” I hollered to Kevin as he slid into his friend’s sedan. He didn’t even look back.

I climbed into our SUV next to Mike. His thoughts had already moved on, probably to the training he would attend next weekend. Or maybe just to lunch. We rode home in silence. I noticed how the brilliant greens of the poplar trees had turned brown, the maples to red, the oaks to orange. The wind had already stripped some of the trees naked.

I could admit that my leaves had started to turn. But I wasn’t ready to shed them yet.

I pressed my lips together and silently begged the winter winds to tarry.

Excerpted from The Great Christmas Bowl by Susan May Warren. Copyright © 2009 by Susan May Warren. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved.

Inexpensive Christmas gifts

2009-11-14T00:01:00.001-08:00

Captain's Log, Stardate 11.14.2009

I’m at Girls, God, and the Good Life talking about inexpensive Christmas gifts. Check out my ideas and leave any of your own!

Excerpt - The Prisoner of Versaille by Golden Parsons

2009-11-13T21:35:00.000-08:00

This week, the
Christian Fiction Blog Alliance
is introducing
A Prisoner of Versaille
Thomas Nelson (September 1, 2009)
by
Golden Keyes Parsons

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

In her deep plowing of the heart, moving from tears one moment to laughter the next, Golden will touch your heart with her dynamic Bible teaching, combined with her vivid personal examples, moving from tears one moment, to laughter the next, all the while communicating the message that God is faithful--keep trusting Him. She has a passion to communicate the Word of God in such a manner that will lead to godly living.

Golden, and her husband, Blaine, have just retired as pastors at Faith Mountain Fellowship Church in Red River, NM. They have three grown daughters and eight grandchildren. Her testimony and myriad of life experiences lend a touch of authenticity to her teaching. She loves to speak for women's conferences, seminars, luncheons, retreats and Mother/Daughter events.

If deep Bible teaching that brings the Scriptures alive is what you want, Golden is the speaker you need.

ABOUT THE BOOK

Madeleine's faith puts her at odds with an intimidating rival: King Louis XIV.

Having fled their homeland of France because of the persecution by Louis XIV, the Clavell family seeks refuge in Switzerland. However, the king is not about to let the recently widowed Madeleine, his childhood sweetheart, escape that easily. He sends musketeers to kidnap her and her oldest son, Philippe, holding them captive in his opulent palace. King Louis is suspicious that Philippe could be his son, and he's enraged by the growing affection of one of his courtiers for Madeleine.

Will Madeleine escape the king with her life or lose everything that she's fought so hard to keep?

Excerpt of chapter one:


Buy		Read

Daddy's Rules for Dating

2009-11-13T00:06:00.000-08:00

Daddy's Rules for Dating
…10 simple rules for dating my daughter

Rule #1
If you pull into my driveway and honk you'd better be delivering a
package, because you're sure not picking anything up.

Rule #2
Do not touch my daughter in front of me. You may glance at her, so
long as you do not peer at anything below her neck. If you cannot
keep your eyes or hands off of my daughter's body, I will remove them.

Rule #3
I am aware that it is considered fashionable for boys of your age to
wear their trousers so loosely that they appear to be falling off
their hips. Please don't take this as an insult, but you and all of
your friends are complete idiots. Still, I want to be fair and open
minded about this issue, so I propose this compromise. You may come
to the door with your underwear showing and your pants ten sizes too
big, and I will not object. However, in order to ensure that your
clothes do not, in fact come off during the course of your date with
my daughter, I will take my electric nail gun and fasten your
trousers securely in place to your waist.

Rule #4
I'm sure you've been told that in today's world, sex without
utilizing a 'Barrier method' of some kind can kill you. Let me
elaborate, when it comes to sex, I am the barrier, and I will kill
you.

Rule #6
It is usually understood that in order for us to get to know each
other, we should talk about sports, politics, and other issues of the
day. Please do not do this. The only information I require from you
is an indication of when you expect to have my daughter safely back
at my house, and the only word I need from you on this subject
is: 'early.'

Rule #6
I have no doubt you are a popular fellow, with many opportunities to
date other girls. This is fine with me as long as it is okay with my
daughter. Otherwise, once you have gone out with my little girl, you
will continue to date no one but her until she is finished with you.
If you make her cry, I will make you cry.

Rule #7
As you stand in my front hallway, waiting for my daughter to appear,
and more than an hour goes by, do not sigh and fidget. If you want
to be on time for the movie, you should not be dating. My daughter
is putting on her makeup, a process than can take longer than
painting the Golden Gate Bridge. Instead of just standing there, why
don't you do something useful, like changing the oil in my car?

Rule #8
The following places are not appropriate for a date with my
daughter. Places where there are beds, sofas, or anything softer
than a wooden stool. Places where there is darkness. Places where
there is dancing, holding hands, or happiness. Places where the
ambient temperature is warm enough to induce my daughter to wear
shorts, tank tops, midriff T-shirts, or anything other than overalls,
a sweater, and a goose down parka zipped up to her throat. Movies
with a strong romantic or sexual themes are to be avoided. Movies
which feature chain saws are okay. Hockey games are okay. Old-folks
homes are better.

Rule #9
Do not lie to me. I may appear to be a potbellied, balding, middle-
aged, dimwitted has-been. But on issues relating to my daughter, I
am the all-knowing, merciless god of your universe. If I ask you
where you are going and with whom, you have one chance to tell me the
truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. I have a shotgun,
a shovel, and five acres behind the house. Do not trifle with me.

Rule #10
Be afraid. Be very afraid. It takes very little for me to mistake
the sound of your car in the driveway for a chopper coming in over a
rice paddy near Hanoi . When my Agent Orange starts acting up, the
voices in my head frequently tell me to clean the guns as I wait for
you to bring my daughter home. As soon as you pull into the driveway
you should exit the car with both hands in plain sight. Speak the
perimeter password, announce in a clear voice that you have brought
my daughter home safely and early, then return to your car - there is
no need for you to come inside. The camouflaged face at the window
is mine.

Interview and excerpt - THE BARTERED BRIDE by Erica Vetsch

2009-11-12T00:01:00.000-08:00

Captain's Log, Stardate 11.12.2009

Aside from the fact she’s an excellent category coordinator for me for the ACFW Genesis contest, Erica is one of the nicest people I know! And today I get to feature an excerpt of her debut novel!

The Bartered Bride
by
Erica Vetsch

Duluth, Minnesota in 1905 boasts more millionaires than any other U.S. city. Tycoon Abraham Kennebrae intends to marry his grandsons off to three of the wealthiest heiresses in town and allow Kennebrae Shipping to gain control of Duluth Harbor.

Tempests rage, in the board room, the ball room, and on treacherous Lake Superior. Will hearts and helms survive? Will God prove Himself sovereign over wind, waves, and weddings?

Jonathan Kennebrae, oldest of the three Kennebrae brothers, finds himself backed into a corner. Marry heiress Melissa Brooke or lose his own considerable inheritance. Can he find a legitimate reason to avoid the wedding and still keep his fortune? But as the wedding day approaches, does he want to escape?

Melissa Brooke, only heir to her father’s empire, is bartered by her parents into a marriage contract to a man she’s never met. Can she trust him with her deepest secret? Can she trust him with her heart?

Excerpt of chapter one:

test

Chapter One

“The idea’s preposterous, and I’ll have nothing to do with it.”
Jonathan Kennebrae bolted from his chair and stalked across
the office. “You won’t manipulate me like this. And I doubt
Noah or Eli will go along with the scheme either.”

His grandfather, Abraham Kennebrae, sat ramrod straight
behind the walnut desk. For a man confined to an invalid
chair these past eight years, his voice still rang with authority
and vigor. “I’ve spent a lifetime building up this family’s
fortune and power, and I want to die knowing it will continue.
If not through you, then through your brothers. The best
way to ensure this is to marry you boys off well. You act as if
contracted marriage was something new. It’s been going on
for centuries.”

Jonathan clasped his hands behind his back under his
coattails and stared out the window of Grandfather’s library.
Two acres of emerald grass stretched below to the shoreline.
Lake Superior spread before him, cobalt blue under an
azure sky. The Lady Genevieve, the family yacht named for
his grandmother, bobbed gently along the dock beside the
boathouse. Her white hull gleamed, her mast pointed to the
cloudless heavens. He wished he stood at her wheel, skimming
over the waves, away from this incredible conversation.

“It’s all arranged, Jonathan. Three weddings, three sound
marriages, and the consolidation of four of the wealthiest
families in Duluth. And not only that, but it brings together
under one name all you need to control every aspect of this
harbor: shipping, grain, ore, and lumber.”

Jonathan turned and leaned against the windowsill. The
morning sun fell through the stained glass of the upper
windows, shattering rainbows on the Persian rug. He crossed
his ankles, trying to appear casual. “All arranged? You and
your cronies have everything mapped out? And Noah, Eli,
and I have no say? Have you decided who is to marry whom,
or were you just going to have us draw straws?”

His jaw ached, and the pain between his eyebrows increased.
An image of Grandfather and his bewhiskered, cigar-smoking
circle of friends bending over charts and arguing the relative
merits of their offspring wavered before his eyes. “I have no
intention of marrying an empty-headed showpiece chosen
by you. Are your grandsons no more than pawns to be
shuffled about at your command? Whose idea was this?” His
throat ached with the desire to yell, but years of training and
deference to the man before him kept his voice controlled.
“Now, lad”—Grandfather made a dismissing motion—“you
make it sound worse than it is.”

“I don’t see how that’s possible. I feel like a horse at auction.
Did you sell us to the highest bidders?” Sarcasm dripped out,
laced with exasperation.

Grandfather wagged a gnarled finger. “Don’t take that tone
with me. I’m still the head of this household. I made a sound
business decision for this family. You’ll accede to my wishes in
this. You’re nearly thirty. It’s past time you were married and
setting up your household. As a member of the aristocracy of
this city and this state, you have an obligation to marry well.”

“Shades of the Four Hundred.” Jonathan jammed his hands
into his pockets. “This is 1905, and your ideas are outdated.
This isn’t New York City. It’s Duluth. I’m not marrying
someone so I can be invited to better parties and promenade
through Newport every afternoon during ‘The Season.’ And
I’m certainly not interested in any female who wishes to
marry for those reasons either.”

“You couldn’t be further from the truth. You aren’t marrying
into the salons of Fifth Avenue. You’re marrying to gain
control of the harbor.” He waved his hand in a sweeping
motion toward the lake. “Control that harbor, and you control
millions of dollars. Control millions, and you control the
politicians in St. Paul and Washington. Control St. Paul
and Washington, and you control the power to make more
millions. Don’t you see it?”

“What if I don’t want to control the harbor? What if I’m
content with what I have: a solid business with an excellent
reputation and a sound financial base?”

“Then you’re a fool. You’ll have wasted everything I’ve spent
my life building up. Now is the time to strike. Of the four
richest families in Duluth, I’m the only one with male heirs.
Lawrence Brooke, Phillip Michaels, and Radcliffe Zahn have
only daughters. And don’t forget, a marriage to Lawrence
Brooke’s daughter brings not just the grain docks in the harbor
but the railroad that hauls the grain from the Dakotas, too.”

Jonathan ran his hand over his hair. “You still haven’t convinced
me. I don’t even know these women. Why would I
want to marry any of them?”

Grandfather thumped the blotter. “Stop being obtuse. I’ll
make it as plain as possible. You will court and marry the
daughter of Lawrence Brooke, you will gain control of the grain
docks in Duluth harbor, and you will do so before Christmas.”

“Before Christmas? That’s impossible. Christmas is less
than three months away. Isn’t that a bit quick?”

“Poppycock. I see no reason to wait. Waiting only increases
the chances that something will go wrong. We must act now.
You, as the eldest, will set an example for your brothers. The
twins will fall in line. And it isn’t as if the young women won’t
receive the benefits of a sound match. Wealth, status, security,
influence. What more could a woman want?”

Jonathan snorted. “I’m no expert on the female mind. I have
no idea what they want. But what happens if I don’t do as you
say? Or what if the woman won’t have me?”

“I will disinherit you without so much as a blink.” Grandfather
regarded him with glittering eyes. “I will leave my
fortune only to those grandsons who do my bidding. Those
who will not, receive nothing. I’ve already rewritten my will to
reflect the changes.”

Anger replaced the exasperation and unbelief in Jonathan’s
chest. “You cannot be serious.”

“I’ve never been more serious in my life.” Grandfather
narrowed his eyes and pursed his lips, causing his wiry sidewhiskers
to bristle out like a badger. “Do you care to challenge
me? The will stands as long as the girl is legally free and
morally acceptable for you to wed.”

Jonathan’s mind raced, and his muscles tensed. How dare
that old reprobate? Kennebrae Shipping was his. He’d run
the company, chaired the board, and overseen the day-to-day
operations for the past eight years. He, not Grandfather, had
expanded the fleet, brokered new contracts, enticed investors.
The company was his life. He’d be dead before he’d let anyone
take it from him.

A knock sounded on the library door. The butler entered,
a silver tray in his hand. “This just arrived for you, sir.” He
extended the salver toward Grandfather.

The old man took an envelope from it and turned it in his
hands.

“Will there be a reply, sir? The gentleman who delivered it
is waiting.”

Grandfather picked up his letter opener. He slit the heavy
cream envelope and read, satisfaction spreading over his face.
His fingers drummed the desktop.

Jonathan paced between the marble fireplace and the glassfront
bookcases. Grandfather’s words were no idle threat.
He’d disinherit Jonathan without so much as a by-your-leave
should Jonathan cross him. He had seen it in the old man’s
eyes. Galling, that’s what it was. To have a bride chosen for
him based upon her wealth and connections. And worse, to be
chosen as a husband based on his.

Grandfather leaned forward and uncapped the silver
inkwell. He dipped his ebony pen in the liquid and scratched
a few words on the card. “McKay, give the gentleman this.”

“Very good, sir.”

The door had barely closed before Jonathan whirled from
contemplating the oil painting over the mantel. “Do Noah
and Eli know about this?”

“No, of course not. I’ll tell Noah when he returns to the
harbor, and I’ll tell Eli when he returns from Virginia.
Though why Eli can’t learn shipbuilding right here in Duluth
is beyond me.”

“He wanted to learn from the best, and the best shipbuilders
are on the East Coast.” Jonathan rubbed his palm against the
back of his neck. How could he get out of this? His strides
measured the room.

“Will you stop pacing like a caged wolf? You’d think I was
asking you to go to the gallows.” Grandfather backed his chair
and wheeled it around the edge of the desk. A blanket covered
his stick-thin legs from hips to ankles.

Jonathan sagged onto the horsehair settee. “From what I
can tell, marriage and hanging have a lot in common. The
man ends up dangling from the end of a string either way.”

Grandfather chuckled then shook his head. “Where’d you
get an idea like that? Your grandmother, God rest her soul,
was a fine woman.”

“What about my parents? To hear you talk, they couldn’t
be in the same room without bloodshed. How they wound up
with three sons is beyond me.”

Sadness lined Grandfather’s face. “Your parents were both
high-strung. Always convinced the other was being a fool. But
they loved each other, in their own way. I thought they’d settle
down eventually. It’s a shame you never got to know them.
Your father couldn’t live without her. The carriage accident
was a mercy. He was never the same after your mother died.
And neither were you, though you were only four at the time.”

“I have no real memories of my parents, only their portraits
in the drawing room.”

“Those were your grandmother’s idea. Had them painted
from their engagement pictures. Thought it might be nice for
you boys to have them.”

Jonathan took note of the nostalgic look in Grandfather’s
eyes. If he could just keep him talking about old times, about
Grandmother, perhaps he would forget this nonsense about
marriage.

“She was a saint. And what she ever saw in an old boot like
you, I’ll never know.”

“Hah! That’s just what her parents said when I came
courting. Never thought I’d amount to anything. But I
showed them. Built up the biggest shipping line on the Great
Lakes and built Kennebrae House for your grandmother, too.
Nothing was too good for her.”

“She deserved every one of the fifty-five rooms for putting
up with you.”

“Well, your new wife will, too.”

Jonathan blew out a breath. So much for getting Grandfather
off the subject. “I haven’t agreed to this madness. Anyway,
I think you’re assuming a lot. I haven’t even met this Miss
Brooke. We might not suit one another at all.”

“You’re both young and rich. You’ll suit one another just
fine. How do you feel about music?”

“What?”

“I asked how you felt about music. An evening of music
and fine food.”

What kind of sidetrack was this? Jonathan put his guard
firmly up.

The old man had a gleam in his eye, an unholy sparkle that
boded no good.

“You mean one of those parties where the hostess shoves
her daughter onstage, and the poor girl scrapes away at some
writhing violin concerto or pounds out a tortured nocturne on
the piano while the audience tries not to wince or die from
boredom? And at dinner they make up compliments over
dried-out chicken and pasty potatoes until they can make a
graceful escape?”

“I hope it isn’t as bad as you describe.”

“What are you hatching?”

“The note that came earlier. It was an invitation to Castlebrooke.
Mrs. Brooke is having an evening of music and refreshments
tonight. I sent the reply that both of us would
be delighted to attend. And you’ll have ample time to study
your bride-to-be. She’ll be the one performing the tortured
nocturnes.”

Buy from Christianbook.com
Buy from Amazon

And now, here's me and Erica!

If your heroine were a candy, what would she be and why?

Chocolate covered cherry. She's like her peers on the outside (society debutante, heir to a fortune) but inside there is a surprise. She's passionate about her cause, and willing to risk her social standing to further it.

If your hero was a car (in present day) what would he be and why?

A Land Rover...an expensive one. He's got classic lines, doesn't come cheap, but he's tough enough to get the job done.

What's your favorite scene from the book?

The scene where Jonathan discovers what Melissa's secret is, and he's torn about what to do with the knowledge.

What do you hope readers will take away from the book?

That quite often, we pray things for other people, that God will change them, that He will make them see reason, when it is ourselves who are blinded and in need of change.

What is your favorite dessert and why?

Maple Nut Blondie from Applebee's. I've never had it anywhere else, and it's just so yummy!

You're off the hotseat. Any parting words?

Thank you so much, Camy, for having me here. It's been a blast!

Camy here: Thanks so much for being here, Erica!

To find out about the differences between my blog giveaways, my newsletter giveaways, and my website contest, click here.

Pate

2009-11-11T00:03:00.000-08:00

Captain's Log, Stardate 11.11.2009

I discovered pate sometime after college. I never ate much (if any) French food growing up, and never even heard of pate except that I read about it in a novel. I think it was one by Betty Neels.

Anyway, I saw some at the store. You might know what I’m talking about—a nice slice of a pate loaf, all pinky with speckles, in shrink wrap, in the deli section along with all the fresh cheese assortments.

My first taste was absolute heaven. OMG that stuff is like crack.

I don’t know why I like it so much. I mean, it kind of looks like SPAM all ground up and then mashed together.

But then again, I’ve always loved liver, and pate is mostly liver. Oh, and fat. And I’ve always loved fat, too. :)

So anyway, I’ve been feeling sick, and I usually resort to comfort food when I’m not feeling well. So while I had abstained from eating pate (I think I haven’t had any in over a year), I bought some and some French bread a few days ago. Yummy!

The best is when I toast the bread and then spread the pate on the hot bread. Mmmmm…

Want more book giveaways? Subscribe to my newsletter!

Want more book giveaways? Subscribe to my newsletter!

Want more book giveaways? Subscribe to my newsletter!

Want more book giveaways? Subscribe to my newsletter!