Dec. 19, 2009
Peace on earth?
I was listening to a story about some of the origins of traditions of Christmas as well as frequenting the message boards, forums etc that the discussion of course every single year gets brought about Christmas. The people who celebrate it and the people who do not.
I realized while thinking about it that people have been arguing about this season for as long as history has been recorded. I wonder sometimes if in the arguing we forget "Peace on earth. Goodwill toward men." as the angels said when He was born. Some people argue it is not the right time of year..... and I wonder is there ever a wrong time a year to love others?
Forget Christmas, forget the traditions, the trees, the lights or whatever it is that you have problems with. Just look at it as a chance to be able to minister to others, a chance to love people in a world where so many awful things happen.
Plus my head can't take any more arguing! 
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Dec. 17, 2009
Not alot of sleep here....
lately, so my brain feels like it is semi mush!!!
I sit down and feel like I don't want to get back up!!! I started a fun book today. It is called Fools Rush in and is about a Italian family and a young woman trying to run a wedding place.....it looks like it will be good for some laughs and I sure could use some of those!
I am trying to plan out my menu for the week and have not had time to really go grocery shopping! I finally went to the store tonight and got a couple things!! I got to go out with a friend tonight, which was really fun. They decided to go to this little tex/mex type place which was really nice as it was cheap for each of us. I got a whole dinner and it was less than $5.
Wednesday: Homemade mac 'n cheese/ Salad
Thursday: Bean and meat burritos
Friday: Biscuits and gravy, green beans, peach cobbler
Saturday: Spaghetti/ salad
Sunday: Pizza pockets (made the day before and reheated)
Monday: Leftovers
Tuesday: Tuna noodle casserole, salad
Let's hope I can stick to it!
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Dec. 17, 2009
The Sheriff's Surrender by Susan Davis
My Review:
When the sheriff is found dead in his station, another young man of the town is pressed into service and finds himself trying to solve not only the Sheriff's murder's, but others as well. Meanwhile, the town is in an uproar over the ladies of the town forming a shooting club to learn how to protect themselves. From the pastor's wife the the dance hall girls, they are all lining up to learn how to shoot!!!
Award-winning author Susan Page Davis is a mother of six who lives in Maine with her husband, Jim. She worked as a newspaper correspondent for more than twenty-five years in addition to home-schooling her children. She writes historical romances and cozy mysteries and is a member of ACFW. Visit her Web site at
Visit the author's website.
Product Details:
List Price: $10.97
Paperback: 320 pages
Publisher: Barbour Books (December 1, 2009)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 1602605629
ISBN-13: 978-1602605626
AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:
This was a cute story! I found it an enjoyable light, read and really enjoyed it without a lot of romance in it, just fun story! - Martha
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!
Today's Wild Card author is:
and the book:
Barbour Books (December 1, 2009)
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Award-winning author Susan Page Davis is a mother of six who lives in Maine with her husband, Jim. She worked as a newspaper correspondent for more than twenty-five years in addition to home-schooling her children. She writes historical romances and cozy mysteries and is a member of ACFW. Visit her Web site at
Visit the author's website.
Product Details:
List Price: $10.97
Paperback: 320 pages
Publisher: Barbour Books (December 1, 2009)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 1602605629
ISBN-13: 978-1602605626
AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:
Fergus, Idaho
May 1885
Gert Dooley aimed at the scrap of red calico and squeezed the trigger. The Spencer rifle she held cracked, and the red cloth fifty yards away shivered.
“I’d say your shooting piece is in fine order.” She lowered the rifle and passed it to the owner, Cyrus Fennel. She didn’t particularly like Fennel, but he always paid her brother, the only gunsmith in Fergus, with hard money.
He nodded. “Thank you, Miss Dooley.” He shoved his hand into his pocket.
Gert knew he was fishing out a coin. This was the part her brother hated most—taking payment for his work. She turned away. Hiram would be embarrassed enough without her watching. She picked up the shawl she had let fall to the grass a few minutes earlier.
“That’s mighty fine shooting, Gert,” said Hiram’s friend, rancher Ethan Chapman. He’d come by earlier to see if Hiram would help him string a fence the next day. When Cyrus Fennel had arrived to pick up his repaired rifle, Ethan had sat down on the chopping block to watch Gert demonstrate the gun.
“Thank you kindly.” Gert accepted praise for shooting as a matter of course. Now, if Ethan had remarked that she looked fine today or some such pretty thing, she’d have been flustered. But he would never say anything like that. And shooting was just work.
Fennel levered the rifle’s action open and peered at the firing pin. “Looks good as new. I should be able to pick off those rats that are getting in my grain bins.”
“That’s quite a cannon for shooting rats,” Gert said.
Ethan stood and rested one foot on the chopping block, leaning forward with one arm on his knee. “You ought to hire Gert to shoot them for you.”
Gert scowled. “Why’d I want to do that? He can shoot his own rats.”
Hiram, who had pocketed his pay as quickly as possible, moved the straw he chewed from one side of his mouth to the other. He never talked much. Men brought him their firearms to fix. Hiram listened to them tell him what the trouble was while eyeing the piece keenly. Then he’d look at Gert. She would tell them, “Come back next week.” Hiram would nod, and that was the extent of the conversation. Since his wife, Violet, had died eight years ago, the only person Hiram seemed to talk to much was Ethan.
Fennel turned toward her with a condescending smile. “Folks say you’re the best shot in Fergus, Miss Dooley.”
Gert shrugged. It wasn’t worth debating. She had sharp eyes, and she’d fired so many guns for Hiram to make sure they were in working order that she’d gotten good at it, that was all.
Ethan’s features, however, sprang to life. “Ain’t it the truth? Why, Gert can shoot the tail feathers off a jay at a hundred yards with a gun like that. Mighty fine rifle.” He nodded at Fennel’s Spencer, wincing as though he regretted not having a gun as fine.
“Well, now, I’m a fair shot myself,” Fennel said. “I could maybe hit that rag, too.”
“Let’s see you do it,” Ethan said.
Fennel jacked a cartridge into the Spencer, smiling as he did. The rag still hung limp from a notched stick and was silhouetted against the distant dirt bank across the field. He put his left foot forward and swung the butt of the stock up to his shoulder, paused motionless for a second, and pulled the trigger.
Gert watched the cloth, not the shooter. The stick shattered just at the bottom of the rag. She frowned. She’d have to find another stick next time. At least when she tested a gun, she clipped the edge of the cloth so her stand could be used again.
Hiram took the straw out of his mouth and threw it on the ground. Without a word, he strode to where the tattered red cloth lay a couple of yards from the splintered stick and brought the scrap back. He stooped for a piece of firewood from the pile he’d made before Fennel showed up. The stick he chose had split raggedly, and Hiram slid the bit of cloth into a crack.
Ethan stood beside Gert as they watched Hiram walk across the field, all the way to the dirt bank, and set the piece of firewood on end.
“Hmm.” Fennel cleared his throat and loaded several cartridges into the magazine. When Hiram was back beside them, he raised the gun again, held for a second, and fired. The stick with the bit of red stood unwavering.
“Let Gert try,” Ethan said.
“No need,” she said, looking down at her worn shoe tips peeping out beneath the hem of her skirt.
“Oh, come on.” Ethan’s coaxing smile tempted her.
Fennel held the rifle out. “Be my guest.”
Gert looked to her brother. Hiram gave the slightest nod then looked up at the sky, tracking the late afternoon sun as it slipped behind a cloud. She could do it, of course. She’d been firing guns for Hiram for ten years—since she came to Fergus and found him grieving the loss of his wife and baby. Folks had brought him more work than he could handle. They felt sorry for him, she supposed, and wanted to give him a distraction. Gert had begun test firing the guns as fast as he could fix them. She found it satisfying, and she’d kept doing it ever since. Thousands upon thousands of rounds she’d fired, from every type of small firearm, unintentionally building herself a reputation of sorts.
She didn’t usually make a show of her shooting prowess, but Fennel rubbed her the wrong way. She knew he wasn’t Hiram’s favorite patron either. He ran the Wells Fargo office now, but back when he ran the assay office, he’d bought up a lot of failed mines and grassland cheap. He owned a great deal of land around Fergus, including the spread Hiram had hoped to buy when he first came to Idaho. Distracted by his wife’s illness, Hiram hadn’t moved quickly enough to file claim on the land and had missed out. Instead of the ranch he’d wanted, he lived on his small lot in town and got by on his sporadic pay as a gunsmith.
Gert let her shawl slip from her fingers to the grass once more and took the rifle. As she focused on the distant stick of firewood, she thought, That junk of wood is you, Mr. Rich Land Stealer. And that little piece of cloth is one of your rats.
She squeezed gently. The rifle recoiled against her shoulder, and the far stick of firewood jumped into the air then fell to earth, minus the red cloth.
“Well, I’ll be.” Fennel stared at her. “Are you always this accurate?”
“You ain’t seen nothing,” Ethan assured him.
Hiram actually cracked a smile, and Gert felt the blood rush to her cheeks even though Ethan hadn’t directly complimented her. She loved to see Hiram smile, something he seldom did.
“Mind sharing your secret, Miss Dooley?” Fennel asked.
Ethan chuckled. “I’ll tell you what it is. Every time she shoots, she pretends she’s aiming at something she really hates.”
“Aha.” Fennel smiled, too. “Might I ask what you were thinking of that time, ma’am?”
Gert’s mouth went dry. Never had she been so sorely tempted to tell a lie.
“Likely it was that coyote that kilt her rooster last month,” Hiram said.
Gert stared at him. He’d actually spoken. She knew when their eyes met that her brother had known exactly what she’d been thinking.
Ethan and Fennel both chuckled.
Of course, I wouldn’t really think of killing him, Gert thought, even though he stole the land right out from under my grieving brother. The Good Book says don’t kill and don’t hate. Determined to heap coals of fire on her adversary’s head, she handed the Spencer back to him. “You’re not too bad a shot yourself, Mr. Fennel.”
His posture relaxed, and he opened his mouth all smiley, like he might say something pleasant back, but suddenly he stiffened. His eyes focused beyond Gert, toward the dirt street. “Who is that?”
Gert swung around to look as Ethan answered. “That’s Millicent Peart.”
“Don’t think I’ve seen her since last fall.” Fennel shook his head. “She sure is showing her age.”
“I don’t think Milzie came into town much over the winter,” Gert said.
For a moment, they watched the stooped figure hobble along the dirt street toward the emporium. Engulfed in a shapeless old coat, Milzie Peart leaned on a stick with each step. Her mouth worked as though she were talking to someone, but no one accompanied her.
“How long since her man passed on?” Ethan asked.
“Long time,” Gert said. “Ten years, maybe. She still lives at their cabin out Mountain Road.”
Fennel grimaced as the next house hid the retreating figure from view. “Pitiful.”
Ethan shrugged. “She’s kinda crazy, but I reckon she likes living on their homestead.”
Gert wondered how Milzie got by. It must be lonesome to have no one, not even a nearly silent brother, to talk to out there in the foothills.
“Supper in half an hour.” She turned away from the men and headed for the back porch of the little house she shared with Hiram. She hoped Fennel would take the hint and leave. And she hoped Ethan would stay for supper, but of course she would never say so.
May 1885
Gert Dooley aimed at the scrap of red calico and squeezed the trigger. The Spencer rifle she held cracked, and the red cloth fifty yards away shivered.
“I’d say your shooting piece is in fine order.” She lowered the rifle and passed it to the owner, Cyrus Fennel. She didn’t particularly like Fennel, but he always paid her brother, the only gunsmith in Fergus, with hard money.
He nodded. “Thank you, Miss Dooley.” He shoved his hand into his pocket.
Gert knew he was fishing out a coin. This was the part her brother hated most—taking payment for his work. She turned away. Hiram would be embarrassed enough without her watching. She picked up the shawl she had let fall to the grass a few minutes earlier.
“That’s mighty fine shooting, Gert,” said Hiram’s friend, rancher Ethan Chapman. He’d come by earlier to see if Hiram would help him string a fence the next day. When Cyrus Fennel had arrived to pick up his repaired rifle, Ethan had sat down on the chopping block to watch Gert demonstrate the gun.
“Thank you kindly.” Gert accepted praise for shooting as a matter of course. Now, if Ethan had remarked that she looked fine today or some such pretty thing, she’d have been flustered. But he would never say anything like that. And shooting was just work.
Fennel levered the rifle’s action open and peered at the firing pin. “Looks good as new. I should be able to pick off those rats that are getting in my grain bins.”
“That’s quite a cannon for shooting rats,” Gert said.
Ethan stood and rested one foot on the chopping block, leaning forward with one arm on his knee. “You ought to hire Gert to shoot them for you.”
Gert scowled. “Why’d I want to do that? He can shoot his own rats.”
Hiram, who had pocketed his pay as quickly as possible, moved the straw he chewed from one side of his mouth to the other. He never talked much. Men brought him their firearms to fix. Hiram listened to them tell him what the trouble was while eyeing the piece keenly. Then he’d look at Gert. She would tell them, “Come back next week.” Hiram would nod, and that was the extent of the conversation. Since his wife, Violet, had died eight years ago, the only person Hiram seemed to talk to much was Ethan.
Fennel turned toward her with a condescending smile. “Folks say you’re the best shot in Fergus, Miss Dooley.”
Gert shrugged. It wasn’t worth debating. She had sharp eyes, and she’d fired so many guns for Hiram to make sure they were in working order that she’d gotten good at it, that was all.
Ethan’s features, however, sprang to life. “Ain’t it the truth? Why, Gert can shoot the tail feathers off a jay at a hundred yards with a gun like that. Mighty fine rifle.” He nodded at Fennel’s Spencer, wincing as though he regretted not having a gun as fine.
“Well, now, I’m a fair shot myself,” Fennel said. “I could maybe hit that rag, too.”
“Let’s see you do it,” Ethan said.
Fennel jacked a cartridge into the Spencer, smiling as he did. The rag still hung limp from a notched stick and was silhouetted against the distant dirt bank across the field. He put his left foot forward and swung the butt of the stock up to his shoulder, paused motionless for a second, and pulled the trigger.
Gert watched the cloth, not the shooter. The stick shattered just at the bottom of the rag. She frowned. She’d have to find another stick next time. At least when she tested a gun, she clipped the edge of the cloth so her stand could be used again.
Hiram took the straw out of his mouth and threw it on the ground. Without a word, he strode to where the tattered red cloth lay a couple of yards from the splintered stick and brought the scrap back. He stooped for a piece of firewood from the pile he’d made before Fennel showed up. The stick he chose had split raggedly, and Hiram slid the bit of cloth into a crack.
Ethan stood beside Gert as they watched Hiram walk across the field, all the way to the dirt bank, and set the piece of firewood on end.
“Hmm.” Fennel cleared his throat and loaded several cartridges into the magazine. When Hiram was back beside them, he raised the gun again, held for a second, and fired. The stick with the bit of red stood unwavering.
“Let Gert try,” Ethan said.
“No need,” she said, looking down at her worn shoe tips peeping out beneath the hem of her skirt.
“Oh, come on.” Ethan’s coaxing smile tempted her.
Fennel held the rifle out. “Be my guest.”
Gert looked to her brother. Hiram gave the slightest nod then looked up at the sky, tracking the late afternoon sun as it slipped behind a cloud. She could do it, of course. She’d been firing guns for Hiram for ten years—since she came to Fergus and found him grieving the loss of his wife and baby. Folks had brought him more work than he could handle. They felt sorry for him, she supposed, and wanted to give him a distraction. Gert had begun test firing the guns as fast as he could fix them. She found it satisfying, and she’d kept doing it ever since. Thousands upon thousands of rounds she’d fired, from every type of small firearm, unintentionally building herself a reputation of sorts.
She didn’t usually make a show of her shooting prowess, but Fennel rubbed her the wrong way. She knew he wasn’t Hiram’s favorite patron either. He ran the Wells Fargo office now, but back when he ran the assay office, he’d bought up a lot of failed mines and grassland cheap. He owned a great deal of land around Fergus, including the spread Hiram had hoped to buy when he first came to Idaho. Distracted by his wife’s illness, Hiram hadn’t moved quickly enough to file claim on the land and had missed out. Instead of the ranch he’d wanted, he lived on his small lot in town and got by on his sporadic pay as a gunsmith.
Gert let her shawl slip from her fingers to the grass once more and took the rifle. As she focused on the distant stick of firewood, she thought, That junk of wood is you, Mr. Rich Land Stealer. And that little piece of cloth is one of your rats.
She squeezed gently. The rifle recoiled against her shoulder, and the far stick of firewood jumped into the air then fell to earth, minus the red cloth.
“Well, I’ll be.” Fennel stared at her. “Are you always this accurate?”
“You ain’t seen nothing,” Ethan assured him.
Hiram actually cracked a smile, and Gert felt the blood rush to her cheeks even though Ethan hadn’t directly complimented her. She loved to see Hiram smile, something he seldom did.
“Mind sharing your secret, Miss Dooley?” Fennel asked.
Ethan chuckled. “I’ll tell you what it is. Every time she shoots, she pretends she’s aiming at something she really hates.”
“Aha.” Fennel smiled, too. “Might I ask what you were thinking of that time, ma’am?”
Gert’s mouth went dry. Never had she been so sorely tempted to tell a lie.
“Likely it was that coyote that kilt her rooster last month,” Hiram said.
Gert stared at him. He’d actually spoken. She knew when their eyes met that her brother had known exactly what she’d been thinking.
Ethan and Fennel both chuckled.
Of course, I wouldn’t really think of killing him, Gert thought, even though he stole the land right out from under my grieving brother. The Good Book says don’t kill and don’t hate. Determined to heap coals of fire on her adversary’s head, she handed the Spencer back to him. “You’re not too bad a shot yourself, Mr. Fennel.”
His posture relaxed, and he opened his mouth all smiley, like he might say something pleasant back, but suddenly he stiffened. His eyes focused beyond Gert, toward the dirt street. “Who is that?”
Gert swung around to look as Ethan answered. “That’s Millicent Peart.”
“Don’t think I’ve seen her since last fall.” Fennel shook his head. “She sure is showing her age.”
“I don’t think Milzie came into town much over the winter,” Gert said.
For a moment, they watched the stooped figure hobble along the dirt street toward the emporium. Engulfed in a shapeless old coat, Milzie Peart leaned on a stick with each step. Her mouth worked as though she were talking to someone, but no one accompanied her.
“How long since her man passed on?” Ethan asked.
“Long time,” Gert said. “Ten years, maybe. She still lives at their cabin out Mountain Road.”
Fennel grimaced as the next house hid the retreating figure from view. “Pitiful.”
Ethan shrugged. “She’s kinda crazy, but I reckon she likes living on their homestead.”
Gert wondered how Milzie got by. It must be lonesome to have no one, not even a nearly silent brother, to talk to out there in the foothills.
“Supper in half an hour.” She turned away from the men and headed for the back porch of the little house she shared with Hiram. She hoped Fennel would take the hint and leave. And she hoped Ethan would stay for supper, but of course she would never say so.
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Dec. 16, 2009
Wisdom Hunter by Randall Arthur
My Review:
I have read some really good books this past week, but this one is going to go on my top books to recommend people read! I have never read anything by this author before, but it will not be the last. This is a fictional story that is not mushy, warm fuzzies, but more real life dealing with issues that face many of us.
Randall Arthur is the bestselling author of Jordan’s Crossing and Brotherhood of Betrayal. He and his wife have served as missionaries to Europe for over thirty years. From 1976 till 1998, he lived in Norway and Germany as a church planter. Since 2000, he has taken numerous missions teams from the United States on trips all over Europe. Arthur is also the founder of the AOK (Acts of Kindness) Bikers’ Fellowship, a group of men who enjoy the sport of motorcycling. He and his family live in Atlanta, Georgia.
Product Details:
List Price: $13.99
Paperback: 336 pages
Publisher: Multnomah Books (September 20, 2003)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 1590522591
ISBN-13: 978-1590522592
AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:
Jason Faircloth is a prominent pastor in Atlanta, one of the best. His church is growing, he is doing well. He knows what he believes and strictly carries it out, never minding feelings that may get hurt in the meantime, even to his family. Every night he prays his runaway daughter, Hannah, will return home. And then, tragedy hits him. When Jason loses everything he held dear and near to him and even what he thought he rightfully should have is withheld from him, he goes on a search for something he thinks is tangible, but in reality, he is searching for his soul. He searches deep within himself for what is really important to God, what truths he can believe about God and the how behind the why's. His search takes him all over the world and through dangerous places, getting him into trouble he had no intention of getting into. Will he find what he seeks? Or does he have to lose himself to find himself?
This book will challenge you like it did me, to examine the important things in life. It shows some of the problems in our churches that even though they are doing well, can have many issues. It deals with forgiveness, healing even when you cannot make what you did right. This is a really good book, well written and I have half a dozen people already I wish I could buy a copy for!! This is a book that will get you thinking. - Martha
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!
Today's Wild Card author is:
and the book:
Multnomah Books (September 20, 2003)
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Randall Arthur is the bestselling author of Jordan’s Crossing and Brotherhood of Betrayal. He and his wife have served as missionaries to Europe for over thirty years. From 1976 till 1998, he lived in Norway and Germany as a church planter. Since 2000, he has taken numerous missions teams from the United States on trips all over Europe. Arthur is also the founder of the AOK (Acts of Kindness) Bikers’ Fellowship, a group of men who enjoy the sport of motorcycling. He and his family live in Atlanta, Georgia.Product Details:
List Price: $13.99
Paperback: 336 pages
Publisher: Multnomah Books (September 20, 2003)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 1590522591
ISBN-13: 978-1590522592
AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:
PART 1: 1971-1972
Jason cleared his throat. His wife knew what was coming next, and the pain within her rose again. At every evening meal for the last five hundred and fifteen days he had prayed aloud for their daughter, always working his way slowly through the prayer, emphasizing each word as if to prove his sincerity.
"0 God," he said tonight, "wherever Hannah might be right now, we ask that she'll know your protection. Thank you for watching over her. And thank you even more that one day you'll honor our faith and bring her home."
He paused, as if to arrest the Almighty's attention, then continued with a faltering voice. "Just-just make it soon. We miss her... "
LYING ON THE living room couch, Hannah Freedman proudly realized once again that she was the reason Cody had emerged from his loneliness. He was absolutely consumed by her-and the thought was enthralling. Admiring her diamond-studded wedding band, she gratified herself with the reminder that Cody always treated her like a princess, as if by royal decree she had somehow granted him a new life.
At this very moment, alone in their suburban Miami home, she could feel his infatuation. It lingered in every room, echoing in the easy recall of Cody's loving words and embraces.
Hannah turned heavily upon her side, the baby in her womb preventing her from rolling all the way over onto her stomach. She smiled. It was like a fairy tale. She and Cody had met only ten months ago-she a runaway, not yet eighteen; and he a well-bred, 25 year-old professional. Now they were together forever. How could it be real? How could they have it so good?
She reached over her head, retrieving from behind her a framed photograph of Cody that sat alone on the end table. The picture had been taken only weeks before she met him. It was the same handsome face, the same green-eyed, ash-blond man who was now her husband-but he had been so different then. There was a smile on the face, but it was hiding a sense of loss that had governed his life ever since the death of his parents in a plane crash two years earlier. From that seemingly unshakable disorientation, she had rescued him. Likewise, Cody had taken her from a miserable existence and placed her on a lofty pedestal of fulfillment beyond her wildest dreams.
Her spirit soared with gratefulness as she pressed the photograph to her chest. Lost in blissful thoughts, she relived for the thousandth time the nonstop passion of the last ten months. First, the explosive romance-the instant chemistry, like gunpowder contacting fire. Then came the unplanned but welcomed pregnancy, followed by the exchange of wedding vows seven and a half months ago. Every day had been glorious. If she could live all of it over, she would not change a single detail.
A wall clock across the room began to chime the hour, and Hannah closed her eyes and stilled her thoughts to listen: Four o'clock. It was four o'clock, Friday afternoon, December 15th. The "Christmas spirit" with its commercialism was in full swing-and she, Hannah Freedman, had everything in life a woman ever dreamed of: a large and beautiful home, a flaming love life, and emotional security. In only forty minutes her lover would be home from a day's work at his veterinary clinic, ready for their usual early and intimate dinner together. And in only fourteen days, according to the doctor's calculations, she and Cody would cuddle their first child.
She lifted the photograph and contentedly stared through tears at Cody's picture. For the first time in her eighteen years, she knew what it was to live and to love.
She slowly reached over her head and carefully returned the photograph to its place. She contemplated getting up from the couch. But due to an early morning burst of energy she had already put in a full day of cleaning house and baking Christmas cookies, and the work had left her exhausted. Her small frame, now carrying an extra twenty-six pounds, simply refused to rise.
AT 4:40, CODY came in the back door. He slipped quickly through the kitchen, moving his six-foot-three, 170-pound athletic body with the fluidity of a cat, and began singing: "Jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle all the way. Oh what fun it is to live with a blue-eyed Georgia girl, hey!"
On the living room couch Hannah awoke from her light sleep, and broke into a smile as Cody continued singing heartily off-key: "Jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle all the way. Oh what fun it is to love my blue-eyed Georgia girl!"
When Cody poked his head around the corner, Hannah was applauding. "Coe," she said, extending tired but inviting arms, "you can love this blue-eyed Georgia girl anytime you want to."
Like a moth to a flame, Cody was drawn into her arms. Kneeling on the plush gray carpet beside her, he kissed her full, moist lips as if he had been starving for her for weeks. When he finally withdrew, he looked into her eyes and said with intensity, "Hannah, you're so beautiful-even when you're tired"
So often before he had told her she was beautiful-and had never stopped, even after her pregnancy began showing. Spreading her arms playfully like wings, Hannah nodded toward her body. "You like it, huh?"
Cody smiled his reply, then ran his fingers slowly through her long, thick auburn hair. "Hannah," he moaned in earnest, "I'm missing you, bad."
"How much?" she asked with delight.
"You really want to know?"
"Yeah."
Cody grinned. "Well, I'll tell you. I accidentally gave overdoses of antibiotics to four different dogs today and killed them all," he joked, "simply because I couldn't get my mind off you. All I've done today is dream about being with you."
Feeling aroused, Hannah slowly pulled him into another fiery kiss.
It took every ounce of self-control Cody could muster to keep from going further. When Hannah finally released him, he fell reluctantly to the floor and stretched out on his back. "Just you wait," he said with gusto, "till we're able to be together again. I'm going to make it unforgettable."
Hannah laughed seductively. "Are you sure you can hold out until then?"
With surprise, she watched Cody's mood turn sober. He rose to kneel beside her again, and took her hands in his. "Hannah, if I had to, I'd be willing to wait the rest of my life for you."
There was no doubt in Hannah's mind that he meant every word. She felt his sincerity as certainly as if it were rain pouring down on her. Instinctively she pulled him into another tight embrace.
“Cody,” she confided in his ear, “this will be the best Christmas I've ever had. And the reason is you…”
AFTER DINNER Cody raved as Hannah placed the tray of Christmas cookies on the dining room table beside him. "Better looking than Mother's used to be," he said. Taking a bite, he nodded, "And every bit as good!"
An LP of instrumental Christmas music was playing softly in the background. Hannah sat down to hear Cody finish telling her about his day: setting a German shepherd's broken leg, diagnosing an old tomcat that was refusing to eat, bobtailing a four-day old boxer, and giving an array of shots.
"And Mrs. Gravitt brought in her Dalmatian again," he said, then paused.
"And?" Hannah asked.
"And it should be the last time!" he smiled with satisfaction. "He's fully recovered, and Mrs. Gravitt is as happy as any client I've ever had."
"She should be," Hannah reassured him. "That dog was nearly dead two months ago when she first brought him to you. It was a miracle anyone could save him. But what can I say? You're the best!"
"Well, maybe not the best… But..."Cody tucked his thumbs beneath imaginary suspenders, in a mocking pose of greatness. They both erupted into laughter.
"Say," he said after finishing another cookie, "I called Reed's Travel Agency this morning. They promised they could reserve the cabin-"
Before he could complete the sentence, he saw Hannah suddenly gasp for breath, tense in her chair, then let out a low groan. Cody was immediately face to face with her, gripping her shoulders. "Are you all right?" he demanded.
She finally began breathing, then looked him in the eye and gave the most surprisingly beautiful smile he had ever seen. "I think so... I... uh... yeah, I'm okay," she answered. "My water just broke." She could feel the warm fluid puddling around her buttocks and running down her leg. For a moment she was embarrassed, but the feeling was quickly overcome by an acute surge of pain.
Still trying to figure out what to do, Cody saw Hannah tense again. He gripped her hand in silence, stunned by the piercing hurt locked on her face.
Several seconds later, Hannah relaxed and took a deep breath. "I'm not positive," she said, "but if that was my first contraction, we may be mommy and daddy two weeks earlier than we thought."
Elated, Cody held her in a big hug and said, "Can you believe it?" He started dancing around the table. "We're going to be a family!" he shouted, as Hannah laughed.
THEIR CELEBRATION was soon tempered by the quickly recurring pains, and the rush to leave for the hospital. Within twenty-five minutes from the time Hannah's water had broken, she was seated beside Cody in their Ford station wagon. He was timing her contractions, which now came at less than three-minute intervals. The quickly paced labor pains, coming so soon, made Cody nervous. He tried to relax, but it was all so new. And this was his wife, his baby.
This is happening too fast, he thought, calculating that the trip to the hospital would normally take twenty-five to thirty minutes. This time, he decided, it would have to be less than twenty. No stranger to speeding, he was confident he could meet the challenge.
He glanced at his wristwatch-5:51-just as they were leaving their residential area and approaching the nearest main road. One look ahead quickly confirmed a rising worry: It was rush hour. Traffic on the main road was packed, moving at only a fraction of the normal speed.
For the first time, Cody felt panic. To hide it, he forced a grin and said to Hannah, “I love adventure, but this is a little too much of the good stuff.”
She smiled briefly, before yielding to the start of yet another contraction.
Soon the eruptions of pain were less than two minutes apart. Hannah bravely fought back. Everything's under control, she kept telling herself. Be strong, be strong. Impossible as it seemed, each contraction hurt worse than the last, worse than anything she had ever felt in her life.
"Just hang in there, babe," Cody said. "I'll get you there."
The line of cars crept forward to an intersection which he realized was approximately their halfway point to the hospital. The flow of traffic halted again as he saw the same set of stoplights change to red for the second time. With mounting fear he looked at his watch: 6:16.
Suddenly, Hannah leaned forward, grabbed the dashboard with both hands, and screamed. Cody reached out and touched her shoulder. He was now almost beside himself with panic. "Are you going to make it?"
When her pain had passed its peak, she found her breath and shot back, "I don't know... Just hurry!"
He knew then what he had to do. And on impulse, as if the adrenaline surging through him had switched on a machine, he did it.
Trying to take charge of this desperate situation, he lurched the station wagon out of their traffic lane. Sounding his horn and flashing his headlights, he charged through the intersection and down the avenue, straddling the middle line.
Hannah did little more than flinch. The thought of how crazy it all seemed flashed in and out of her mind.
"I'll get you there," she heard Cody say again.
Jason cleared his throat. His wife knew what was coming next, and the pain within her rose again. At every evening meal for the last five hundred and fifteen days he had prayed aloud for their daughter, always working his way slowly through the prayer, emphasizing each word as if to prove his sincerity.
"0 God," he said tonight, "wherever Hannah might be right now, we ask that she'll know your protection. Thank you for watching over her. And thank you even more that one day you'll honor our faith and bring her home."
He paused, as if to arrest the Almighty's attention, then continued with a faltering voice. "Just-just make it soon. We miss her... "
LYING ON THE living room couch, Hannah Freedman proudly realized once again that she was the reason Cody had emerged from his loneliness. He was absolutely consumed by her-and the thought was enthralling. Admiring her diamond-studded wedding band, she gratified herself with the reminder that Cody always treated her like a princess, as if by royal decree she had somehow granted him a new life.
At this very moment, alone in their suburban Miami home, she could feel his infatuation. It lingered in every room, echoing in the easy recall of Cody's loving words and embraces.
Hannah turned heavily upon her side, the baby in her womb preventing her from rolling all the way over onto her stomach. She smiled. It was like a fairy tale. She and Cody had met only ten months ago-she a runaway, not yet eighteen; and he a well-bred, 25 year-old professional. Now they were together forever. How could it be real? How could they have it so good?
She reached over her head, retrieving from behind her a framed photograph of Cody that sat alone on the end table. The picture had been taken only weeks before she met him. It was the same handsome face, the same green-eyed, ash-blond man who was now her husband-but he had been so different then. There was a smile on the face, but it was hiding a sense of loss that had governed his life ever since the death of his parents in a plane crash two years earlier. From that seemingly unshakable disorientation, she had rescued him. Likewise, Cody had taken her from a miserable existence and placed her on a lofty pedestal of fulfillment beyond her wildest dreams.
Her spirit soared with gratefulness as she pressed the photograph to her chest. Lost in blissful thoughts, she relived for the thousandth time the nonstop passion of the last ten months. First, the explosive romance-the instant chemistry, like gunpowder contacting fire. Then came the unplanned but welcomed pregnancy, followed by the exchange of wedding vows seven and a half months ago. Every day had been glorious. If she could live all of it over, she would not change a single detail.
A wall clock across the room began to chime the hour, and Hannah closed her eyes and stilled her thoughts to listen: Four o'clock. It was four o'clock, Friday afternoon, December 15th. The "Christmas spirit" with its commercialism was in full swing-and she, Hannah Freedman, had everything in life a woman ever dreamed of: a large and beautiful home, a flaming love life, and emotional security. In only forty minutes her lover would be home from a day's work at his veterinary clinic, ready for their usual early and intimate dinner together. And in only fourteen days, according to the doctor's calculations, she and Cody would cuddle their first child.
She lifted the photograph and contentedly stared through tears at Cody's picture. For the first time in her eighteen years, she knew what it was to live and to love.
She slowly reached over her head and carefully returned the photograph to its place. She contemplated getting up from the couch. But due to an early morning burst of energy she had already put in a full day of cleaning house and baking Christmas cookies, and the work had left her exhausted. Her small frame, now carrying an extra twenty-six pounds, simply refused to rise.
AT 4:40, CODY came in the back door. He slipped quickly through the kitchen, moving his six-foot-three, 170-pound athletic body with the fluidity of a cat, and began singing: "Jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle all the way. Oh what fun it is to live with a blue-eyed Georgia girl, hey!"
On the living room couch Hannah awoke from her light sleep, and broke into a smile as Cody continued singing heartily off-key: "Jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle all the way. Oh what fun it is to love my blue-eyed Georgia girl!"
When Cody poked his head around the corner, Hannah was applauding. "Coe," she said, extending tired but inviting arms, "you can love this blue-eyed Georgia girl anytime you want to."
Like a moth to a flame, Cody was drawn into her arms. Kneeling on the plush gray carpet beside her, he kissed her full, moist lips as if he had been starving for her for weeks. When he finally withdrew, he looked into her eyes and said with intensity, "Hannah, you're so beautiful-even when you're tired"
So often before he had told her she was beautiful-and had never stopped, even after her pregnancy began showing. Spreading her arms playfully like wings, Hannah nodded toward her body. "You like it, huh?"
Cody smiled his reply, then ran his fingers slowly through her long, thick auburn hair. "Hannah," he moaned in earnest, "I'm missing you, bad."
"How much?" she asked with delight.
"You really want to know?"
"Yeah."
Cody grinned. "Well, I'll tell you. I accidentally gave overdoses of antibiotics to four different dogs today and killed them all," he joked, "simply because I couldn't get my mind off you. All I've done today is dream about being with you."
Feeling aroused, Hannah slowly pulled him into another fiery kiss.
It took every ounce of self-control Cody could muster to keep from going further. When Hannah finally released him, he fell reluctantly to the floor and stretched out on his back. "Just you wait," he said with gusto, "till we're able to be together again. I'm going to make it unforgettable."
Hannah laughed seductively. "Are you sure you can hold out until then?"
With surprise, she watched Cody's mood turn sober. He rose to kneel beside her again, and took her hands in his. "Hannah, if I had to, I'd be willing to wait the rest of my life for you."
There was no doubt in Hannah's mind that he meant every word. She felt his sincerity as certainly as if it were rain pouring down on her. Instinctively she pulled him into another tight embrace.
“Cody,” she confided in his ear, “this will be the best Christmas I've ever had. And the reason is you…”
AFTER DINNER Cody raved as Hannah placed the tray of Christmas cookies on the dining room table beside him. "Better looking than Mother's used to be," he said. Taking a bite, he nodded, "And every bit as good!"
An LP of instrumental Christmas music was playing softly in the background. Hannah sat down to hear Cody finish telling her about his day: setting a German shepherd's broken leg, diagnosing an old tomcat that was refusing to eat, bobtailing a four-day old boxer, and giving an array of shots.
"And Mrs. Gravitt brought in her Dalmatian again," he said, then paused.
"And?" Hannah asked.
"And it should be the last time!" he smiled with satisfaction. "He's fully recovered, and Mrs. Gravitt is as happy as any client I've ever had."
"She should be," Hannah reassured him. "That dog was nearly dead two months ago when she first brought him to you. It was a miracle anyone could save him. But what can I say? You're the best!"
"Well, maybe not the best… But..."Cody tucked his thumbs beneath imaginary suspenders, in a mocking pose of greatness. They both erupted into laughter.
"Say," he said after finishing another cookie, "I called Reed's Travel Agency this morning. They promised they could reserve the cabin-"
Before he could complete the sentence, he saw Hannah suddenly gasp for breath, tense in her chair, then let out a low groan. Cody was immediately face to face with her, gripping her shoulders. "Are you all right?" he demanded.
She finally began breathing, then looked him in the eye and gave the most surprisingly beautiful smile he had ever seen. "I think so... I... uh... yeah, I'm okay," she answered. "My water just broke." She could feel the warm fluid puddling around her buttocks and running down her leg. For a moment she was embarrassed, but the feeling was quickly overcome by an acute surge of pain.
Still trying to figure out what to do, Cody saw Hannah tense again. He gripped her hand in silence, stunned by the piercing hurt locked on her face.
Several seconds later, Hannah relaxed and took a deep breath. "I'm not positive," she said, "but if that was my first contraction, we may be mommy and daddy two weeks earlier than we thought."
Elated, Cody held her in a big hug and said, "Can you believe it?" He started dancing around the table. "We're going to be a family!" he shouted, as Hannah laughed.
THEIR CELEBRATION was soon tempered by the quickly recurring pains, and the rush to leave for the hospital. Within twenty-five minutes from the time Hannah's water had broken, she was seated beside Cody in their Ford station wagon. He was timing her contractions, which now came at less than three-minute intervals. The quickly paced labor pains, coming so soon, made Cody nervous. He tried to relax, but it was all so new. And this was his wife, his baby.
This is happening too fast, he thought, calculating that the trip to the hospital would normally take twenty-five to thirty minutes. This time, he decided, it would have to be less than twenty. No stranger to speeding, he was confident he could meet the challenge.
He glanced at his wristwatch-5:51-just as they were leaving their residential area and approaching the nearest main road. One look ahead quickly confirmed a rising worry: It was rush hour. Traffic on the main road was packed, moving at only a fraction of the normal speed.
For the first time, Cody felt panic. To hide it, he forced a grin and said to Hannah, “I love adventure, but this is a little too much of the good stuff.”
She smiled briefly, before yielding to the start of yet another contraction.
Soon the eruptions of pain were less than two minutes apart. Hannah bravely fought back. Everything's under control, she kept telling herself. Be strong, be strong. Impossible as it seemed, each contraction hurt worse than the last, worse than anything she had ever felt in her life.
"Just hang in there, babe," Cody said. "I'll get you there."
The line of cars crept forward to an intersection which he realized was approximately their halfway point to the hospital. The flow of traffic halted again as he saw the same set of stoplights change to red for the second time. With mounting fear he looked at his watch: 6:16.
Suddenly, Hannah leaned forward, grabbed the dashboard with both hands, and screamed. Cody reached out and touched her shoulder. He was now almost beside himself with panic. "Are you going to make it?"
When her pain had passed its peak, she found her breath and shot back, "I don't know... Just hurry!"
He knew then what he had to do. And on impulse, as if the adrenaline surging through him had switched on a machine, he did it.
Trying to take charge of this desperate situation, he lurched the station wagon out of their traffic lane. Sounding his horn and flashing his headlights, he charged through the intersection and down the avenue, straddling the middle line.
Hannah did little more than flinch. The thought of how crazy it all seemed flashed in and out of her mind.
"I'll get you there," she heard Cody say again.
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Dec. 14, 2009
Joyce Meyer: A life of redemption and Destiny
My Review: I have been so behind on my reading again with busy life going on, but this book is for sure on my to be read shelf. This looks like an amazing story of God's redemption when life hands you the really hard things! - Martha
An educator, businessman, and 5th generation minister, Young’s previously published biographies include: The Rise of Lakewood Church and Joel Osteen, The Journey of T. D. Jakes, and Messengers of Healing -- the story of Charles and Frances Hunter written with his wife, Brenda. The Youngs live in Oklahoma City. They have three children and ten grandchildren.
Product Details:
List Price: $13.99
Paperback: 185 pages
Publisher: Whitaker House (October 6, 2009)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 1603741127
ISBN-13: 978-1603741125
AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:
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!
Today's Wild Card author is:
and the book:
Joyce Meyer: A Life of Redemption and Destiny
Whitaker House (October 6, 2009)
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
An educator, businessman, and 5th generation minister, Young’s previously published biographies include: The Rise of Lakewood Church and Joel Osteen, The Journey of T. D. Jakes, and Messengers of Healing -- the story of Charles and Frances Hunter written with his wife, Brenda. The Youngs live in Oklahoma City. They have three children and ten grandchildren.
Product Details:
List Price: $13.99
Paperback: 185 pages
Publisher: Whitaker House (October 6, 2009)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 1603741127
ISBN-13: 978-1603741125
AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:
The Ashes
I shall not die, but live. (Psalm 118:17)
Our past experiences may have made us the way we are, but we don’t have to stay that way. —Joyce Meyer
By 1943, America had been at war for a year and a half. It would be two more years before her soldiers would return from the battlefields of Europe and the Pacific. On June 4, in the midst of this time of turmoil and sacrifice, Pauline Joyce Hutchison entered into the world. Although Pauline was her given name, it didn’t stick. Within the first few months, her family began calling her Joyce. Unknown to her parents were the two prophetic, if not ironic, aspects of that name. First, Joyce was a name from the Middle Ages originally only given only to men. Second, it was eventually made popular as a woman’s name because of its meaning: “one who rejoices.” Another ironic aspect to Joyce’s young life was that those war years were to be the most peaceful of Joyce’s entire childhood because the day after she was born, her father left to join the military, where he would serve for the next three years.
Joyce’s mother was raised on a Missouri farm many miles away from the urban streets of St. Louis. Joyce’s mother was only seventeen years old when she married—in many ways, still a child herself. With no job skills or trade, she was totally dependent on her husband for financial support. Joyce recalls that her mother frequently struggled with issues of self-esteem and never considered herself to be a person of value. Because of this, Joyce’s mother lived in fear of the fact that, in her mind, she would never be able to survive it if anything were to happen to her husband.
Joyce’s father had been raised deep in the hills of Kentucky. Because he was a blue collar worker with only a basic education, he supported the family by working hard manual labor jobs. By the time he returned home from the war, he was an extremely angry and bitter man, short tempered and seemingly unhappy with everything in his life. Besides his rage, he also returned home with a serious drinking problem. Whenever he drank, any self-control he had left, and his inner demons took over in ways usually directed at Joyce and her mother.
The Nightmare Begins
Today, Joyce does not remember a time in her early life when her father1 did not molest her. She assumes it began within months of his return from the military. He worked the swing shift from the middle of the afternoon until late in the evening. As a usual routine, he arrived home around midnight and began to drink. Joyce and her mother lived in such fear that even the sound of a key turning in the lock was enough to wake them, causing them to lie perfectly still in their beds hoping and praying to be left alone but knowing that was unlikely. As Joyce’s father began to drink, he would use the most foul and obscene language imaginable. He understood how to intimidate his family by the way he walked, the countenance of his face, and the words that came out of his mouth.
On many nights, Joyce and her mother would watch and listen for him to come up the front steps. As soon as they heard his stumbling footsteps, they would sneak out the backdoor in their nightgowns regardless of whether there was ice and snow or heat and humidity. There they would huddle together waiting for him to pass out in a drunken stupor so they could slink back into their beds. Joyce’s father controlled every moment of their lives, even when he wasn’t at home. He decided when they went to bed and when they awoke. He determined what they ate and when they ate it. He determined when they went out and when they stayed home. He decided what they watched on television. Sometimes he would scream and yell when Joyce’s mother spent money on food or other household necessities. Other times he would shower them with gifts and give them money to go shopping. They never knew which man would be coming home after work or which man would wake up in the morning. It was truly a Jekyll-and-Hyde-type of existence.
Joyce witnessed her father administer savage beatings to her mother under the influence of his alcoholic demons. Each day found the two women through a minefield around this man who could go from passive to explosive in an instant. He was like a piece of dynamite in the home and nobody knew if the fuse was lit or not. On some nights, there was an explosion, and on other nights, there was not. The lack of violence, however, did not mean there was ever peace in the home. The tension was constant.
Although her father never hit her, Joyce suffered for years from his sexual abuse. Joyce has described her father’s early life in this way: “He was born in the hills—way back in the hills. In his family, incest was just part of the culture.”1 Joyce’s grandparents on her father’s side were first cousins. In that time, and in that culture, the occasional sexual relations between cousins, siblings, and other family members were endured as an unaddressed “dirty little secret.” There were very few accusations, fewer investigations, and virtually no public convictions for these “private family matters.”
Today, most experts agree that a person’s personality is primarily formed in the first five years of life. If that is true, it is a miracle that Joyce survived those early years without becoming a severely disturbed human being. Fear was her constant companion. Through it all, her father was always careful not to do anything that would leave visual, physical evidence that would be noticed by her mother, teachers, or doctors.
The sheltered and demented world the Joyce grew up in taught her that this was something that every father and daughter did. Her father often told her that what they were doing was natural and good and that she was lucky to have a father who loved her so much. On one occasion, however, Joyce went to stay the night with her cousins. While there, she and one of her male cousins began to fondle each other. Not knowing any better, Joyce told this to her father, causing him to explode in anger. He made it clear to Joyce that this was only an activity shared between father and daughter and that she was never to do these things with anyone else. Without really understanding, Joyce did what her father said.
To the outside world, Joyce appeared to be a tough and bold little girl. As she grew older, it appeared to the world that Joyce couldn’t care less what people thought about her. On the inside, however, she was absolutely controlled by fear. She went so far as to create a pretend personality so that people would not see her true self. She did this partially to mask the pain but also as a way to protect herself. She did not enjoy what was going on, but in her mind, it was the only choice.
As she grew older, Joyce started going to school but was careful about making friends. At one point, Joyce befriended a little girl. During one of her overnight visits, this friend was also molested by Joyce’s father. Soon, her friend stopped coming over to visit, but she never told her parents about what happened. Joyce now knew that she could never develop a close friendship with any of the other girls at school. She didn’t want that to happen ever again. When Joyce became interested in boys, her father would ruin things by becoming jealous that she had “another man” in her life. Typically, her father either ran the boys off or Joyce broke up with them out of fear that her father might physically harm them.
Turning Points
Three things happened when Joyce turned nine years old. First, she finally worked up the courage to tell her mother about what her father had been doing to her. Looking back, it would be easy to assume that her mother must have known what was going on in her own home. After all, what did she think was happening whenever her husband made his frequent visits into Joyce’s room? Their lives were a twenty-four-hour house of horrors in which there was never any peace or relief. Perhaps all Joyce’s mother was able to recognize in those moments was that at least she wasn’t being beaten again.
After Joyce finally revealed her dark secret, her mother examined her for any physical signs of the abuse. When her father came home, she confronted him. He denied everything and insisted that Joyce was lying. After a long and heated discussion, Joyce’s mother chose to believe her husband, perhaps not wanting to face such a painful reality. This was a defining moment in Joyce’s life. She now felt betrayed by both her father and her mother. As an adult, Joyce has tried to rationalize her mother’s decision. If she had chosen to believe Joyce, it would have put them on the streets with no ability to work in order to put a roof over their heads or food on their table.
The second thing that happened at this time was that Joyce’s mother became pregnant. Although Joyce was thrilled with the expectation of a new brother or sister, she actually prayed for a sister who might divert her father’s deviate attention. Such an admission reveals the depths of pain that Joyce felt as a nine-year-old child who only wanted the pain to stop.
In time, her mother gave birth to a boy, David. Because they were nearly ten years apart in age, Joyce and David didn’t know each other very well growing up. He was still a child when she left home. By the time David was born, Joyce’s mother was running a boardinghouse to make extra money for the family. There were two tenants at that time: a lady named Arlene; and a man called Cotton, so named because his hair was so blonde that it seemed almost white. Joyce’s father accused her mother of having an affair with Cotton and, for a long time, denied that David was his son, only adding to the family’s tension level.
The third thing happened while Joyce was visiting the home of one of her cousins. They went to church, something that Joyce’s family never did. Because they had several visitors at the time, her cousin’s family first decided to skip church, but Joyce insisted that they go. She had been there before and had a specific reason for going on this particular Sunday. She knew that at the end of the service there was always a call for people to come forward and accept Jesus Christ as Savior. That was precisely what Joyce planned to do. She would later describe the event as a “glorious cleansing.”
Wouldn’t you know it, the pastor didn’t give an altar call that night. I sat there in my pew as long as I could, then I grabbed my two cousins’ hands and dragged them with me—“Come on, we’re going to get saved!” Through her tears, Joyce stammered to the surprised pastor, “Can you save me?” As she prayed, she felt the cleansing power of the Lord in her life. 2
All of her life, Joyce had endured the stain of incest. Now, for the first time in her nine-year-old life, she finally felt cleansed. “I always felt dirty. I was always washing, bathing, trying to get clean. And in this one moment, Jesus washed me, and He never left me.”3
The next day, while playing a game of hide-and-seek with her cousins, she cheated. Immediately, a feeling washed over her suggesting that she had betrayed God. She feared that because of her act of “sin,” the cleansing she had experienced would go away. By the time she was back at home, any feelings of being cleansed that she had found in church were gone. She would later say that she thought she had lost Jesus.
The Night Grows Darker
Things at home did not change. Now that her mother was pregnant, Joyce’s father only stepped up his perverse behavior. Whenever he demanded that Joyce meet him in the basement or the garage, she felt she had to go or else risk making him angry at her mother. When she went, the abuse became more and more deviant. He began to expose himself to her around the house, forced her to view pornography, and increased his physical contact with her.
By the time Joyce reached her teens, her father would announce to her mother that he was going to take her out for a driving lesson. Instead of driving, however, he would take her to a nearby cemetery where he would rape her in the backseat. This happened on several occasions. One night, they were actually caught in the act by a policeman. Joyce’s father lied and told the policeman that Joyce was his cousin and that she had “talked him into it”—as if that should have made a difference. Today, some consider the 1950s to be a time of innocence. In many ways, they were also a time of ignorance. Today, any older man having sexual relations with an underage girl, especially a family member, would be immediately arrested and forever branded as a sexual predator. Instead, incredibly, the policeman agreed to ignore the situation if he, too, could be intimate with Joyce. Her father agreed. An arrangement was made for Joyce to meet the policeman in a café. In a rare turn of fortune for Joyce, the policeman was called away by his police radio and she avoided having to go through with the vile plan.
Her father’s perversions were not limited to his daughter. Joyce’s aunt, her father’s own younger sister, was forced to join them in the cemetery during her stay with the family, proving that there were no limits to the demented state of her father’s mind and the actions it spawned. He was a man so controlled by his own selfish lusts that it did not matter to him whom he hurt.
Teen Years
Joyce began working at a job when she was thirteen. She didn’t want to depend on her father for anything. She also needed to establish something she could control in her chaotic life. If she could make even a little bit of money, it would be something she could control. Obviously, her father was not a man attuned to the needs of others, especially a daughter’s needs for pretty things, makeup, and getting her hair done. He had no desire for her to do anything that would make her less dependent on him or more attractive to others.
Because Joyce was a minor, she lied about her age. She was tall and mature looking for her age and easily passed for someone a few years older. She landed a job at the local dime store, and she also waited tables at small diners and cafes, which paid better because of tips. Besides getting her first taste of independence away from the controlling influence of her father, this also instilled in Joyce the importance of being able to manage her money wisely.
During this time, Joyce began to steal anything she could. She stole from her employers when no one was looking. She stole from family and friends when the opportunity presented itself. She once stole a pair of glasses from the mother of one of her friends even though she couldn’t use them without being discovered. She not only stole things, but she also lied constantly about anything and everything. As a young teen, it was her form of rebellion and made her feel smarter than other people.
When Joyce was fourteen, her mother walked in as her father was sexually abusing her. Joyce immediately thought, Thank God! Now she will put an end to it! Unfortunately, her mother stopped, momentarily stunned by the scene before her, then, as if she had seen nothing, picked up her purse and walked out. A few hours later, she returned but said absolutely nothing. It was as if the incident had never happened. In fact, her mother didn’t talk about it until many years later, long after Joyce had left home. When she did talk about it, she simply said that she had not known what to do, so she had done nothing. Without the courage to stand on her own two feet, Joyce’s mother felt that she had no choice but to live in denial. To acknowledge openly what she had witnessed would leave her with no option other than to leave her husband, and in her mind, divorce was not something she could consider. Thus, she sacrificed her daughter’s welfare and chose to remain silent.
When her mother became ill and went to the hospital, Joyce wrote her father a note begging him to stop molesting her. Because he worked nights, she put it on the kitchen table, where he would be sure to find it, and went to bed. When he got home and found the note, he became enraged, woke her out of a sound sleep, screamed at her, and shook his fist in her face. He warned her never to write anything like that ever again or she would regret it for the rest of her life.
High School Years
Joyce attended O’Fallon Technical High School in St. Louis, an institution that did not see its role as preparing students for college but rather for a life in trade professions. Students at O’Fallon were not considered “college material”—especially the women. For them, it was assumed that they would either get married right after graduation or work in menial, low-paying positions. Joyce was featured in the school yearbook, The Flame and Steel, with the June graduating class of the clerical department. It stated that she was trained in bookkeeping and listed her extracurricular activities as girls’ softball, student government, and Honorama—an honor society for students who excelled in scholarship, service, and attendance.
Many of her peers regarded Joyce as a leader. She was often sought out for advice. Others saw her, as one classmate recalled, as the “sharp-tongued” leader of a small but very close “in crowd” of girls who seemed more concerned with their hair and makeup than anything else. This provided Joyce with great cover and was a distraction from her home life. Later, one of her classmates would remark, “Getting out in front and leading the parade, that’s where she always wanted to be.”4
Despite the heinous environment in which she was imprisoned for so many years, Joyce was somehow demonstrating, even as a teen, some of the traits that would serve her so well in the years to come. She was determined not to allow her father’s abuse—or her mother’s betrayal—to determine who she would become in life. Joyce’s childhood would have destroyed many people, leaving them without the self-esteem or confidence to achieve anything in life. Although there would be many more hardships and poor choices ahead, Joyce was starting to emerge from decades of darkness and beginning to overcome the horrors she had endured. She was determined to not become the “trash” that her father had always claimed her to be. As she graduated from high school, Joyce began to take the first small steps toward breaking out of her situation and taking control of her life.
I shall not die, but live. (Psalm 118:17)
Our past experiences may have made us the way we are, but we don’t have to stay that way. —Joyce Meyer
By 1943, America had been at war for a year and a half. It would be two more years before her soldiers would return from the battlefields of Europe and the Pacific. On June 4, in the midst of this time of turmoil and sacrifice, Pauline Joyce Hutchison entered into the world. Although Pauline was her given name, it didn’t stick. Within the first few months, her family began calling her Joyce. Unknown to her parents were the two prophetic, if not ironic, aspects of that name. First, Joyce was a name from the Middle Ages originally only given only to men. Second, it was eventually made popular as a woman’s name because of its meaning: “one who rejoices.” Another ironic aspect to Joyce’s young life was that those war years were to be the most peaceful of Joyce’s entire childhood because the day after she was born, her father left to join the military, where he would serve for the next three years.
Joyce’s mother was raised on a Missouri farm many miles away from the urban streets of St. Louis. Joyce’s mother was only seventeen years old when she married—in many ways, still a child herself. With no job skills or trade, she was totally dependent on her husband for financial support. Joyce recalls that her mother frequently struggled with issues of self-esteem and never considered herself to be a person of value. Because of this, Joyce’s mother lived in fear of the fact that, in her mind, she would never be able to survive it if anything were to happen to her husband.
Joyce’s father had been raised deep in the hills of Kentucky. Because he was a blue collar worker with only a basic education, he supported the family by working hard manual labor jobs. By the time he returned home from the war, he was an extremely angry and bitter man, short tempered and seemingly unhappy with everything in his life. Besides his rage, he also returned home with a serious drinking problem. Whenever he drank, any self-control he had left, and his inner demons took over in ways usually directed at Joyce and her mother.
The Nightmare Begins
Today, Joyce does not remember a time in her early life when her father1 did not molest her. She assumes it began within months of his return from the military. He worked the swing shift from the middle of the afternoon until late in the evening. As a usual routine, he arrived home around midnight and began to drink. Joyce and her mother lived in such fear that even the sound of a key turning in the lock was enough to wake them, causing them to lie perfectly still in their beds hoping and praying to be left alone but knowing that was unlikely. As Joyce’s father began to drink, he would use the most foul and obscene language imaginable. He understood how to intimidate his family by the way he walked, the countenance of his face, and the words that came out of his mouth.
On many nights, Joyce and her mother would watch and listen for him to come up the front steps. As soon as they heard his stumbling footsteps, they would sneak out the backdoor in their nightgowns regardless of whether there was ice and snow or heat and humidity. There they would huddle together waiting for him to pass out in a drunken stupor so they could slink back into their beds. Joyce’s father controlled every moment of their lives, even when he wasn’t at home. He decided when they went to bed and when they awoke. He determined what they ate and when they ate it. He determined when they went out and when they stayed home. He decided what they watched on television. Sometimes he would scream and yell when Joyce’s mother spent money on food or other household necessities. Other times he would shower them with gifts and give them money to go shopping. They never knew which man would be coming home after work or which man would wake up in the morning. It was truly a Jekyll-and-Hyde-type of existence.
Joyce witnessed her father administer savage beatings to her mother under the influence of his alcoholic demons. Each day found the two women through a minefield around this man who could go from passive to explosive in an instant. He was like a piece of dynamite in the home and nobody knew if the fuse was lit or not. On some nights, there was an explosion, and on other nights, there was not. The lack of violence, however, did not mean there was ever peace in the home. The tension was constant.
Although her father never hit her, Joyce suffered for years from his sexual abuse. Joyce has described her father’s early life in this way: “He was born in the hills—way back in the hills. In his family, incest was just part of the culture.”1 Joyce’s grandparents on her father’s side were first cousins. In that time, and in that culture, the occasional sexual relations between cousins, siblings, and other family members were endured as an unaddressed “dirty little secret.” There were very few accusations, fewer investigations, and virtually no public convictions for these “private family matters.”
Today, most experts agree that a person’s personality is primarily formed in the first five years of life. If that is true, it is a miracle that Joyce survived those early years without becoming a severely disturbed human being. Fear was her constant companion. Through it all, her father was always careful not to do anything that would leave visual, physical evidence that would be noticed by her mother, teachers, or doctors.
The sheltered and demented world the Joyce grew up in taught her that this was something that every father and daughter did. Her father often told her that what they were doing was natural and good and that she was lucky to have a father who loved her so much. On one occasion, however, Joyce went to stay the night with her cousins. While there, she and one of her male cousins began to fondle each other. Not knowing any better, Joyce told this to her father, causing him to explode in anger. He made it clear to Joyce that this was only an activity shared between father and daughter and that she was never to do these things with anyone else. Without really understanding, Joyce did what her father said.
To the outside world, Joyce appeared to be a tough and bold little girl. As she grew older, it appeared to the world that Joyce couldn’t care less what people thought about her. On the inside, however, she was absolutely controlled by fear. She went so far as to create a pretend personality so that people would not see her true self. She did this partially to mask the pain but also as a way to protect herself. She did not enjoy what was going on, but in her mind, it was the only choice.
As she grew older, Joyce started going to school but was careful about making friends. At one point, Joyce befriended a little girl. During one of her overnight visits, this friend was also molested by Joyce’s father. Soon, her friend stopped coming over to visit, but she never told her parents about what happened. Joyce now knew that she could never develop a close friendship with any of the other girls at school. She didn’t want that to happen ever again. When Joyce became interested in boys, her father would ruin things by becoming jealous that she had “another man” in her life. Typically, her father either ran the boys off or Joyce broke up with them out of fear that her father might physically harm them.
Turning Points
Three things happened when Joyce turned nine years old. First, she finally worked up the courage to tell her mother about what her father had been doing to her. Looking back, it would be easy to assume that her mother must have known what was going on in her own home. After all, what did she think was happening whenever her husband made his frequent visits into Joyce’s room? Their lives were a twenty-four-hour house of horrors in which there was never any peace or relief. Perhaps all Joyce’s mother was able to recognize in those moments was that at least she wasn’t being beaten again.
After Joyce finally revealed her dark secret, her mother examined her for any physical signs of the abuse. When her father came home, she confronted him. He denied everything and insisted that Joyce was lying. After a long and heated discussion, Joyce’s mother chose to believe her husband, perhaps not wanting to face such a painful reality. This was a defining moment in Joyce’s life. She now felt betrayed by both her father and her mother. As an adult, Joyce has tried to rationalize her mother’s decision. If she had chosen to believe Joyce, it would have put them on the streets with no ability to work in order to put a roof over their heads or food on their table.
The second thing that happened at this time was that Joyce’s mother became pregnant. Although Joyce was thrilled with the expectation of a new brother or sister, she actually prayed for a sister who might divert her father’s deviate attention. Such an admission reveals the depths of pain that Joyce felt as a nine-year-old child who only wanted the pain to stop.
In time, her mother gave birth to a boy, David. Because they were nearly ten years apart in age, Joyce and David didn’t know each other very well growing up. He was still a child when she left home. By the time David was born, Joyce’s mother was running a boardinghouse to make extra money for the family. There were two tenants at that time: a lady named Arlene; and a man called Cotton, so named because his hair was so blonde that it seemed almost white. Joyce’s father accused her mother of having an affair with Cotton and, for a long time, denied that David was his son, only adding to the family’s tension level.
The third thing happened while Joyce was visiting the home of one of her cousins. They went to church, something that Joyce’s family never did. Because they had several visitors at the time, her cousin’s family first decided to skip church, but Joyce insisted that they go. She had been there before and had a specific reason for going on this particular Sunday. She knew that at the end of the service there was always a call for people to come forward and accept Jesus Christ as Savior. That was precisely what Joyce planned to do. She would later describe the event as a “glorious cleansing.”
Wouldn’t you know it, the pastor didn’t give an altar call that night. I sat there in my pew as long as I could, then I grabbed my two cousins’ hands and dragged them with me—“Come on, we’re going to get saved!” Through her tears, Joyce stammered to the surprised pastor, “Can you save me?” As she prayed, she felt the cleansing power of the Lord in her life. 2
All of her life, Joyce had endured the stain of incest. Now, for the first time in her nine-year-old life, she finally felt cleansed. “I always felt dirty. I was always washing, bathing, trying to get clean. And in this one moment, Jesus washed me, and He never left me.”3
The next day, while playing a game of hide-and-seek with her cousins, she cheated. Immediately, a feeling washed over her suggesting that she had betrayed God. She feared that because of her act of “sin,” the cleansing she had experienced would go away. By the time she was back at home, any feelings of being cleansed that she had found in church were gone. She would later say that she thought she had lost Jesus.
The Night Grows Darker
Things at home did not change. Now that her mother was pregnant, Joyce’s father only stepped up his perverse behavior. Whenever he demanded that Joyce meet him in the basement or the garage, she felt she had to go or else risk making him angry at her mother. When she went, the abuse became more and more deviant. He began to expose himself to her around the house, forced her to view pornography, and increased his physical contact with her.
By the time Joyce reached her teens, her father would announce to her mother that he was going to take her out for a driving lesson. Instead of driving, however, he would take her to a nearby cemetery where he would rape her in the backseat. This happened on several occasions. One night, they were actually caught in the act by a policeman. Joyce’s father lied and told the policeman that Joyce was his cousin and that she had “talked him into it”—as if that should have made a difference. Today, some consider the 1950s to be a time of innocence. In many ways, they were also a time of ignorance. Today, any older man having sexual relations with an underage girl, especially a family member, would be immediately arrested and forever branded as a sexual predator. Instead, incredibly, the policeman agreed to ignore the situation if he, too, could be intimate with Joyce. Her father agreed. An arrangement was made for Joyce to meet the policeman in a café. In a rare turn of fortune for Joyce, the policeman was called away by his police radio and she avoided having to go through with the vile plan.
Her father’s perversions were not limited to his daughter. Joyce’s aunt, her father’s own younger sister, was forced to join them in the cemetery during her stay with the family, proving that there were no limits to the demented state of her father’s mind and the actions it spawned. He was a man so controlled by his own selfish lusts that it did not matter to him whom he hurt.
Teen Years
Joyce began working at a job when she was thirteen. She didn’t want to depend on her father for anything. She also needed to establish something she could control in her chaotic life. If she could make even a little bit of money, it would be something she could control. Obviously, her father was not a man attuned to the needs of others, especially a daughter’s needs for pretty things, makeup, and getting her hair done. He had no desire for her to do anything that would make her less dependent on him or more attractive to others.
Because Joyce was a minor, she lied about her age. She was tall and mature looking for her age and easily passed for someone a few years older. She landed a job at the local dime store, and she also waited tables at small diners and cafes, which paid better because of tips. Besides getting her first taste of independence away from the controlling influence of her father, this also instilled in Joyce the importance of being able to manage her money wisely.
During this time, Joyce began to steal anything she could. She stole from her employers when no one was looking. She stole from family and friends when the opportunity presented itself. She once stole a pair of glasses from the mother of one of her friends even though she couldn’t use them without being discovered. She not only stole things, but she also lied constantly about anything and everything. As a young teen, it was her form of rebellion and made her feel smarter than other people.
When Joyce was fourteen, her mother walked in as her father was sexually abusing her. Joyce immediately thought, Thank God! Now she will put an end to it! Unfortunately, her mother stopped, momentarily stunned by the scene before her, then, as if she had seen nothing, picked up her purse and walked out. A few hours later, she returned but said absolutely nothing. It was as if the incident had never happened. In fact, her mother didn’t talk about it until many years later, long after Joyce had left home. When she did talk about it, she simply said that she had not known what to do, so she had done nothing. Without the courage to stand on her own two feet, Joyce’s mother felt that she had no choice but to live in denial. To acknowledge openly what she had witnessed would leave her with no option other than to leave her husband, and in her mind, divorce was not something she could consider. Thus, she sacrificed her daughter’s welfare and chose to remain silent.
When her mother became ill and went to the hospital, Joyce wrote her father a note begging him to stop molesting her. Because he worked nights, she put it on the kitchen table, where he would be sure to find it, and went to bed. When he got home and found the note, he became enraged, woke her out of a sound sleep, screamed at her, and shook his fist in her face. He warned her never to write anything like that ever again or she would regret it for the rest of her life.
High School Years
Joyce attended O’Fallon Technical High School in St. Louis, an institution that did not see its role as preparing students for college but rather for a life in trade professions. Students at O’Fallon were not considered “college material”—especially the women. For them, it was assumed that they would either get married right after graduation or work in menial, low-paying positions. Joyce was featured in the school yearbook, The Flame and Steel, with the June graduating class of the clerical department. It stated that she was trained in bookkeeping and listed her extracurricular activities as girls’ softball, student government, and Honorama—an honor society for students who excelled in scholarship, service, and attendance.
Many of her peers regarded Joyce as a leader. She was often sought out for advice. Others saw her, as one classmate recalled, as the “sharp-tongued” leader of a small but very close “in crowd” of girls who seemed more concerned with their hair and makeup than anything else. This provided Joyce with great cover and was a distraction from her home life. Later, one of her classmates would remark, “Getting out in front and leading the parade, that’s where she always wanted to be.”4
Despite the heinous environment in which she was imprisoned for so many years, Joyce was somehow demonstrating, even as a teen, some of the traits that would serve her so well in the years to come. She was determined not to allow her father’s abuse—or her mother’s betrayal—to determine who she would become in life. Joyce’s childhood would have destroyed many people, leaving them without the self-esteem or confidence to achieve anything in life. Although there would be many more hardships and poor choices ahead, Joyce was starting to emerge from decades of darkness and beginning to overcome the horrors she had endured. She was determined to not become the “trash” that her father had always claimed her to be. As she graduated from high school, Joyce began to take the first small steps toward breaking out of her situation and taking control of her life.
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Dec. 11, 2009
My 31st birthday
was last week.....I am getting old!!
My sister made me a lemon pie!!! You have to never mind the mess behind us!
This was taken a couple of weeks ago by another friend!!!
My sister made me a lemon pie!!! You have to never mind the mess behind us! This was taken a couple of weeks ago by another friend!!!
There...two pictures of me in a row.....for me who hates pictures, that is pretty good! I am really thankful to have some wonderful friends who all wished me alot of happy birthdays and wonderful family to spend the day with and show me how much they care! I have loved this last year being able to review more books which gives me more chances to have to read!!! It is a "job" now!!! What a great thing!!
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Dec. 10, 2009
Rocky Mountain Oasis by Lynette Bonner
My Review:
I have never really read an eBook before like this, but I have to say this book was worth any inconvenience of having to read it on the computer. This is an excellent historical fiction!!!
(Of course, if you buy the book, it comes in regular form, I just got it in e form to review it!)
A story of self-sacrifice and love, along with murder, romance and mail order brides all set with mystery and intrigue!
When Sky learns his cousin Jason has sent for a mail order bride, he feels duty bound to stop the marriage. His cousin is not a very nice man and Sky feels that he must intervene. Brooke Baker, the intended bride, is feels that no matter how horrible the marriage, it would have to be better than living with her abusive uncle as well as other past experiences. Marrying a complete stranger without baggage is hard enough, but Sky sacrifices his ideals to help a total stranger. While Sky and Brooke set out on this difficult marriage filled with misunderstandings and danger from a threatening stranger, you will feel the pain in Brooke's heart as she meets her in-laws, for Sky as you see how he wants to do what is right and cry for the pain they have suffered as well as laugh at some of the things.
LYNNETTE BONNER, the daughter of missionaries, was born and raised in Malawi, Africa, graduated high school from Rift Valley Academy, a boarding school in Kenya, and attended Northwest University in Washington, where she met her husband, Marty. A few years after their marriage, they moved to Pierce, Idaho. While studying the history of their little town, Lynnette was inspired to begin The Shepherd’s Heart Series with Rocky Mountain Oasis.
Visit the author's website.
Product Details:
List Price: $18.95
Paperback: 300 pages
Publisher: OakTara (July 17, 2009)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 1602902143
ISBN-13: 978-1602902145
AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:
This book is very well written, I really enjoyed every word of it! This book touches on some very key issues that relate in marriage that I am sure were huge issues with mail order brides. There is a wonderful story intermixed as well as the story of Jenny Chang and her husband. The love she had for the man although he was such an awful person, yet her forgiveness was amazing to read about. For me, I married someone I barely knew, so I tend to relate to mail order brides a bit....although I did know my husband 2 months before we married, I really related to Brooke's feelings and emotions. Lynette does an excellent job making you feel the fear and the trauma from past abuse in her life and how it greatly effected each aspect of her future life as well as how hard it is to break through that. Plus the suspense part, just really keeps you on the edge of your seat!!! This is a great historical, mail order bride read......I highly recommend it! - Martha
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!
Today's Wild Card author is:
and the book:
OakTara (July 17, 2009)
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
LYNNETTE BONNER, the daughter of missionaries, was born and raised in Malawi, Africa, graduated high school from Rift Valley Academy, a boarding school in Kenya, and attended Northwest University in Washington, where she met her husband, Marty. A few years after their marriage, they moved to Pierce, Idaho. While studying the history of their little town, Lynnette was inspired to begin The Shepherd’s Heart Series with Rocky Mountain Oasis. Visit the author's website.
Product Details:
List Price: $18.95
Paperback: 300 pages
Publisher: OakTara (July 17, 2009)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 1602902143
ISBN-13: 978-1602902145
AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:
Pierce City, Idaho Territory, August 1885
Evening shadows stretched long as Sky placed the last of the supplies onto his pack mule. The leather of the packs creaked as he settled them into place, cinching them down and making sure everything was in proper order. He stood in front of Fraser’s Mercantile for a moment scratching the mule behind its long gray ears, surveying Main Street.
A lone pine tree stood in the middle of the dusty street at the south end of town, its shadow falling due east. Summer crickets chirped lustily from the bushes nearby, and he could hear the occasional tink of bottle on shot glass emanating from Roo’s Saloon across the street.
From an upper story window in the Joss house, a Chinese woman emptied a pail of water onto the street, splattering mud on Gaffney’s Pioneer Hotel next door and leaving a small muddy patch in the alley between the buildings.
“Sky! You comin’ in here? Food’s gonna be cold ‘fore you ever set down to table!” A rough gravely voice interrupted his perusal of the town. He glanced up at the friendly, round face of Jed Swanson who leaned over the rail in front of his boarding house. “Food ain’t gonna be fit for hogs if’n you don’t get in here,” Jed complained, rubbing a plump hand down the front of his greasy, apron-clad belly.
A smile lit Sky’s face. Jed’s food always fell somewhere between cardboard and leather, but Jed invariably claimed that was because it had been left sitting too long.
“Your food? Fit for Hogs?” Sky asked sarcastically, unable to pass up the opportunity to tease his old friend.
“Hmmph!” Jed shook his wooden spoon at Sky and continued, “Mind your manners or you won’t be gettin’ any o’ my fine fixin’s.” He turned away, slamming the door as he went inside.
Giving the mule a friendly slap on the neck, and leaving him tied to the rail, Sky made his way up the steps to Jed’s Boarding House, the building next door to Fraser’s Mercantile. The rough wooden door opened on squeaking hinges as Sky entered, hanging his black Stetson on a peg in the wall. He ran his hands through blond curly hair as he scanned the room.
The light in the gloomy confines of the rugged log building emanated from a small oil lamp set in the middle of the dining table and a brightly burning fire in the fire place on the back wall. The stone and mortar hearth, stacked high with logs on one side, held the wrought-iron hook by which the coffee pot could be swung into the heat of the fire. Off to the left, on the back wall, he could see the dark shadow of the doorway that led to the rooms Jed rented out. As Sky turned to the right he could see several men already seated around the coarse plank table, shoveling food into their mouths as though it might disappear before their eyes, their forks clanking loudly against tin plates. Sky’s dark brown eyes glinted as he noticed his cousin, Jason, sitting in the dim light at the end of the table, his back to the wall. Jason looked as surly as ever.
Sauntering casually to an empty chair Sky sat down, his back to the room, and began to serve his plate listening to the conversation around him.
Fraser was speaking. “This boy is a lunatic, I tell you and he wants to court my Alice. She’s only fifteen and I sent her down to Lewiston to get an education not to court boys. So I just told him straight out, when I was down to Lewiston last, that he had better stay away from her. Now, with her being over seventy-five miles from here, that in itself wouldn’t give me a whole lot of comfort, since I wouldn’t trust that boy as far as I could throw him. But I also told Judge Rand that the boy was not to come around anymore and if anyone will make sure he don’t, it’ll be the judge.”
Sky’s mind wandered to the face of Sharyah, his blonde little sister back home. He wondered if the boys were coming to call on her already. She was just about the same age as Alice Fraser. Sky smiled to himself. Knowing Sharyah and her beautiful sunny smile, the boys were lined up for a mile outside of the little white farmhouse back in Shilo. Sharyah had me wound around her little finger for years. What would be different with the boys her own age? I’ll have to write Dad to keep a special eye on her for me.
Coming out of his reverie he tuned into the conversation around him, realizing that Fraser had moved on to a new subject.
“So I went to Chang and confronted him about this bogus gold.” He paused to wipe his mouth with the back of his hand, chewing for a moment. He glanced around the table, knife and fork held vertically by his plate in suspended animation. “Do you know he had the gall to admit to the whole thing? No remorse whatsoever!” He shrugged, speaking around the food in his mouth. “I just don’t know what else I can do.” He looked back down at his plate and continued to saw through the black slab that passed as a piece of meat.
Sky listened thoughtfully as he ate. He knew Lee Chang. His character was questionable at best and downright despicable at worst.
“Hmmph,” growled Jed, “that there Chinese is one man this here town could do ‘thout. He shorly is a cussed buzzard, that’n.”
A low snort came from the other side of the table and Sky looked down to the shadows at the end. The sound had come from his cousin Jason, a large man with unwashed blond curls covering his round head. A large belly, the result of his love of beer, protruded over his huge silver belt buckle, bumping the table. He belched loudly, then spoke. “This town would be better off if we got rid of all the Chinks. I tell you, I’ve never met a respectable Celestial. Not one. Always sneakin’ and spyin’. Lazy cusses, too.” He swiped his greasy mouth on his shoulder, the stain there proof that he did so often. Max, the miner sitting next to him, made no sound but nodded his head emphatically as he shoved a huge forkful of potatoes into his mouth.
“This town wouldn’t exist if it wasn’t for the Chinese, Jason.” Sky’s voice was nonchalant. He picked up his glass and took a drink of water, his dark eyes looking over the rim fixed on his burly cousin.
Jason snorted again, blowing through his nose. “You always were too partial to them Celestials, Sky. If you had any sense you’d realize the type of scum they really are.”
Sky changed the subject. “How have you been, Jason? Haven’t seen you for awhile.” His tone was friendly but Jason glared at him.
“You been pinin’ away for information on your beloved cousin?” he asked, his expression caustic.
Sky, accustomed to his cousin’s recent foul moods, shrugged his shoulders and turned back to his food, praying silently that one day his relationship with Jason would be restored.
Jed looked back and forth between Sky and Jason. He had known both men for a number of years and still couldn’t see how they could possibly be related. Jason was slovenly and rude, always ill-tempered and crass, but Jed had never known Sky to be any of those things. Sky had moved into the area five years ago and had been coming to Jed’s place faithfully ever since. Jed’s mind wandered back to the first time he met Sky.
While out hunting, he had shot and wounded a large cow elk. The cow had run off and Jed had followed the trail for several miles before he lost it. He was wandering about in the brush trying to recover the trail when he looked up and saw Sky standing before him. Never in all his born days had he been so surprised. Jed prided himself on being a woodsman with ears as keen as a fox, but he hadn’t heard Sky’s approach.
Clean shaven, Sky wore buckskin pants, soft leather moccasins and a beaded rawhide vest over a white, open-collared shirt. In one hand he held a long-barreled rifle. The hilt of a large knife protruded from a leather sheath at his hips, its polished deer-horn handle glimmering in the sunlight.
Sky grinned and tipped his black Stetson back on his head, revealing clean-cut curly blond hair. His dark, twinkling eyes scanned Jed for a moment before he spoke. “Lost it huh?” Switching the rifle to his left hand, he held out his right in Jed’s direction. “Name’s Skyler Jordan.”
Jed took his hand. “Jed Swanson.” Gesturing to the brush, he said, “She bled for quite a ways, but now,” he shook his head glancing around, “cain’t seem to pick up the trail.”
Sky nodded settling his hat back on his head. “Heard your shot. I was coming to lend a hand with the packing. Mind if I have a look around?”
Jed shook his head, his hand sweeping the area around them. “She’s all yours.” He figured Sky wouldn’t find anything, but he had been wrong. Within an hour they had gutted and skinned the cow and were headed back to town. Each of them packed a quarter of the animal with the other half strapped to Jed’s mule.
Jed shook his head at the memory. He had never met as skilled a woodsman as Skyler Jordan.
Bringing his mind back to the present, Jed fixed his eyes on Jason. “Ain’t you gonna tell ol’ Sky here about yer plans?” he asked sweetly, knowing full well that Jason didn’t want Sky to know what he was talking about.
The venomous look that Jason sent Jed piqued Sky’s interest. A smile twitched the corner of Jed’s mouth as Sky looked at his cantankerous cousin, one blond eyebrow raised in question.
Jason ignored him and went back to shoveling food into his mouth.
Sky turned his questioning eyes on Jed, continuing to eat calmly.
Jed spoke around a mouthful of meat. “Your cousin is soon gonna be married. Or so he’s been boastin’ all over town.”
Sky’s fork stopped half way to his mouth and he turned his brown eyes back to his cousin. What woman in her right mind would marry Jason?
Jason growled, throwing his fork onto his plate with a clatter. “Jed, some day I’ll teach you to keep yer yap shut.” He turned belligerent eyes on Sky. “That’s right. I got me a mail-order sweetheart comin’ in on tomorrow’s stage to Greer’s Ferry. I’m going to have me a purtty little wife to cook for me...and keep me warm at night.” He jabbed his elbow into Max’s ribs, a dissolute leer on his face.
Sky set his fork down quietly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Pushing away from the table, he stood and walked over to the blackened coffee pot that sat near the fire, pouring himself a cup, movements deliberate and casual. His heart went out to the poor girl. He couldn’t remember the last time he had been so surprised.
“You got a picture of this woman?” His voice was nonchalant. He hooked a thumb through his belt loop, and watched Jason through the steam drifting up from his mug as he took a sip of coffee.
Jason gave his habitual snort. “Like I’d show it to the likes o’ you. Purtty little thing though. And young, too. Means she probably ain’t never been had before.” The lewd grin was back for a moment before he stuffed a large piece of meat into his cheek.
Sky’s expression did not change but he said, “Well, let me be the first to offer you my congratulations.” He lifted his coffee mug in a toast. “To the happy groom.” No one in the room responded; he had not expected them to. Turning back he looked into the fire, its reflection dancing in his dark eyes. The silence in the room was palpable, only the crackling of the fire and the clatter of silverware disturbed the stillness.
Quietly Sky prayed. Lord what should I do? I wouldn’t give a dog I liked to Jason. You know I care for him, Lord, but.... His prayer trailed off as he tried to think of a solution. Nothing came to mind. Remembering that he still had to travel home tonight, he set his cup down.
Turning to Jed he placed a hand on his stomach and grinned, “Best hog swill I’ve had in a long time, Jed.”
Jed glared at him, waving his fork in dismissal.
Turning to Fraser he said, “Been a pleasure, Fraser. See you again soon.”
Fraser turned to him with a friendly smile as he wiped the corners of his mouth with long slender fingers. “Sky, always good doing business with you.” Sky nodded his head and Fraser’s eyes held Sky’s for a moment, questioning what he was going to do about the situation before he turned back to his food.
Sky spoke to the rest of the men at the table. “Goodnight, gentlemen.” He pulled his hat from the peg by the door and pushed it back on his head as he exited onto the now-darkened street.
His boots making no sound in the soft dust of the road bed, he walked over to the rail in front of Fraser’s Mercantile and untied his mule, leading it further down the street toward the livery. Retrieving his stallion, he mounted up and cantered the horse out of town, leading the mule behind
Evening shadows stretched long as Sky placed the last of the supplies onto his pack mule. The leather of the packs creaked as he settled them into place, cinching them down and making sure everything was in proper order. He stood in front of Fraser’s Mercantile for a moment scratching the mule behind its long gray ears, surveying Main Street.
A lone pine tree stood in the middle of the dusty street at the south end of town, its shadow falling due east. Summer crickets chirped lustily from the bushes nearby, and he could hear the occasional tink of bottle on shot glass emanating from Roo’s Saloon across the street.
From an upper story window in the Joss house, a Chinese woman emptied a pail of water onto the street, splattering mud on Gaffney’s Pioneer Hotel next door and leaving a small muddy patch in the alley between the buildings.
“Sky! You comin’ in here? Food’s gonna be cold ‘fore you ever set down to table!” A rough gravely voice interrupted his perusal of the town. He glanced up at the friendly, round face of Jed Swanson who leaned over the rail in front of his boarding house. “Food ain’t gonna be fit for hogs if’n you don’t get in here,” Jed complained, rubbing a plump hand down the front of his greasy, apron-clad belly.
A smile lit Sky’s face. Jed’s food always fell somewhere between cardboard and leather, but Jed invariably claimed that was because it had been left sitting too long.
“Your food? Fit for Hogs?” Sky asked sarcastically, unable to pass up the opportunity to tease his old friend.
“Hmmph!” Jed shook his wooden spoon at Sky and continued, “Mind your manners or you won’t be gettin’ any o’ my fine fixin’s.” He turned away, slamming the door as he went inside.
Giving the mule a friendly slap on the neck, and leaving him tied to the rail, Sky made his way up the steps to Jed’s Boarding House, the building next door to Fraser’s Mercantile. The rough wooden door opened on squeaking hinges as Sky entered, hanging his black Stetson on a peg in the wall. He ran his hands through blond curly hair as he scanned the room.
The light in the gloomy confines of the rugged log building emanated from a small oil lamp set in the middle of the dining table and a brightly burning fire in the fire place on the back wall. The stone and mortar hearth, stacked high with logs on one side, held the wrought-iron hook by which the coffee pot could be swung into the heat of the fire. Off to the left, on the back wall, he could see the dark shadow of the doorway that led to the rooms Jed rented out. As Sky turned to the right he could see several men already seated around the coarse plank table, shoveling food into their mouths as though it might disappear before their eyes, their forks clanking loudly against tin plates. Sky’s dark brown eyes glinted as he noticed his cousin, Jason, sitting in the dim light at the end of the table, his back to the wall. Jason looked as surly as ever.
Sauntering casually to an empty chair Sky sat down, his back to the room, and began to serve his plate listening to the conversation around him.
Fraser was speaking. “This boy is a lunatic, I tell you and he wants to court my Alice. She’s only fifteen and I sent her down to Lewiston to get an education not to court boys. So I just told him straight out, when I was down to Lewiston last, that he had better stay away from her. Now, with her being over seventy-five miles from here, that in itself wouldn’t give me a whole lot of comfort, since I wouldn’t trust that boy as far as I could throw him. But I also told Judge Rand that the boy was not to come around anymore and if anyone will make sure he don’t, it’ll be the judge.”
Sky’s mind wandered to the face of Sharyah, his blonde little sister back home. He wondered if the boys were coming to call on her already. She was just about the same age as Alice Fraser. Sky smiled to himself. Knowing Sharyah and her beautiful sunny smile, the boys were lined up for a mile outside of the little white farmhouse back in Shilo. Sharyah had me wound around her little finger for years. What would be different with the boys her own age? I’ll have to write Dad to keep a special eye on her for me.
Coming out of his reverie he tuned into the conversation around him, realizing that Fraser had moved on to a new subject.
“So I went to Chang and confronted him about this bogus gold.” He paused to wipe his mouth with the back of his hand, chewing for a moment. He glanced around the table, knife and fork held vertically by his plate in suspended animation. “Do you know he had the gall to admit to the whole thing? No remorse whatsoever!” He shrugged, speaking around the food in his mouth. “I just don’t know what else I can do.” He looked back down at his plate and continued to saw through the black slab that passed as a piece of meat.
Sky listened thoughtfully as he ate. He knew Lee Chang. His character was questionable at best and downright despicable at worst.
“Hmmph,” growled Jed, “that there Chinese is one man this here town could do ‘thout. He shorly is a cussed buzzard, that’n.”
A low snort came from the other side of the table and Sky looked down to the shadows at the end. The sound had come from his cousin Jason, a large man with unwashed blond curls covering his round head. A large belly, the result of his love of beer, protruded over his huge silver belt buckle, bumping the table. He belched loudly, then spoke. “This town would be better off if we got rid of all the Chinks. I tell you, I’ve never met a respectable Celestial. Not one. Always sneakin’ and spyin’. Lazy cusses, too.” He swiped his greasy mouth on his shoulder, the stain there proof that he did so often. Max, the miner sitting next to him, made no sound but nodded his head emphatically as he shoved a huge forkful of potatoes into his mouth.
“This town wouldn’t exist if it wasn’t for the Chinese, Jason.” Sky’s voice was nonchalant. He picked up his glass and took a drink of water, his dark eyes looking over the rim fixed on his burly cousin.
Jason snorted again, blowing through his nose. “You always were too partial to them Celestials, Sky. If you had any sense you’d realize the type of scum they really are.”
Sky changed the subject. “How have you been, Jason? Haven’t seen you for awhile.” His tone was friendly but Jason glared at him.
“You been pinin’ away for information on your beloved cousin?” he asked, his expression caustic.
Sky, accustomed to his cousin’s recent foul moods, shrugged his shoulders and turned back to his food, praying silently that one day his relationship with Jason would be restored.
Jed looked back and forth between Sky and Jason. He had known both men for a number of years and still couldn’t see how they could possibly be related. Jason was slovenly and rude, always ill-tempered and crass, but Jed had never known Sky to be any of those things. Sky had moved into the area five years ago and had been coming to Jed’s place faithfully ever since. Jed’s mind wandered back to the first time he met Sky.
While out hunting, he had shot and wounded a large cow elk. The cow had run off and Jed had followed the trail for several miles before he lost it. He was wandering about in the brush trying to recover the trail when he looked up and saw Sky standing before him. Never in all his born days had he been so surprised. Jed prided himself on being a woodsman with ears as keen as a fox, but he hadn’t heard Sky’s approach.
Clean shaven, Sky wore buckskin pants, soft leather moccasins and a beaded rawhide vest over a white, open-collared shirt. In one hand he held a long-barreled rifle. The hilt of a large knife protruded from a leather sheath at his hips, its polished deer-horn handle glimmering in the sunlight.
Sky grinned and tipped his black Stetson back on his head, revealing clean-cut curly blond hair. His dark, twinkling eyes scanned Jed for a moment before he spoke. “Lost it huh?” Switching the rifle to his left hand, he held out his right in Jed’s direction. “Name’s Skyler Jordan.”
Jed took his hand. “Jed Swanson.” Gesturing to the brush, he said, “She bled for quite a ways, but now,” he shook his head glancing around, “cain’t seem to pick up the trail.”
Sky nodded settling his hat back on his head. “Heard your shot. I was coming to lend a hand with the packing. Mind if I have a look around?”
Jed shook his head, his hand sweeping the area around them. “She’s all yours.” He figured Sky wouldn’t find anything, but he had been wrong. Within an hour they had gutted and skinned the cow and were headed back to town. Each of them packed a quarter of the animal with the other half strapped to Jed’s mule.
Jed shook his head at the memory. He had never met as skilled a woodsman as Skyler Jordan.
Bringing his mind back to the present, Jed fixed his eyes on Jason. “Ain’t you gonna tell ol’ Sky here about yer plans?” he asked sweetly, knowing full well that Jason didn’t want Sky to know what he was talking about.
The venomous look that Jason sent Jed piqued Sky’s interest. A smile twitched the corner of Jed’s mouth as Sky looked at his cantankerous cousin, one blond eyebrow raised in question.
Jason ignored him and went back to shoveling food into his mouth.
Sky turned his questioning eyes on Jed, continuing to eat calmly.
Jed spoke around a mouthful of meat. “Your cousin is soon gonna be married. Or so he’s been boastin’ all over town.”
Sky’s fork stopped half way to his mouth and he turned his brown eyes back to his cousin. What woman in her right mind would marry Jason?
Jason growled, throwing his fork onto his plate with a clatter. “Jed, some day I’ll teach you to keep yer yap shut.” He turned belligerent eyes on Sky. “That’s right. I got me a mail-order sweetheart comin’ in on tomorrow’s stage to Greer’s Ferry. I’m going to have me a purtty little wife to cook for me...and keep me warm at night.” He jabbed his elbow into Max’s ribs, a dissolute leer on his face.
Sky set his fork down quietly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Pushing away from the table, he stood and walked over to the blackened coffee pot that sat near the fire, pouring himself a cup, movements deliberate and casual. His heart went out to the poor girl. He couldn’t remember the last time he had been so surprised.
“You got a picture of this woman?” His voice was nonchalant. He hooked a thumb through his belt loop, and watched Jason through the steam drifting up from his mug as he took a sip of coffee.
Jason gave his habitual snort. “Like I’d show it to the likes o’ you. Purtty little thing though. And young, too. Means she probably ain’t never been had before.” The lewd grin was back for a moment before he stuffed a large piece of meat into his cheek.
Sky’s expression did not change but he said, “Well, let me be the first to offer you my congratulations.” He lifted his coffee mug in a toast. “To the happy groom.” No one in the room responded; he had not expected them to. Turning back he looked into the fire, its reflection dancing in his dark eyes. The silence in the room was palpable, only the crackling of the fire and the clatter of silverware disturbed the stillness.
Quietly Sky prayed. Lord what should I do? I wouldn’t give a dog I liked to Jason. You know I care for him, Lord, but.... His prayer trailed off as he tried to think of a solution. Nothing came to mind. Remembering that he still had to travel home tonight, he set his cup down.
Turning to Jed he placed a hand on his stomach and grinned, “Best hog swill I’ve had in a long time, Jed.”
Jed glared at him, waving his fork in dismissal.
Turning to Fraser he said, “Been a pleasure, Fraser. See you again soon.”
Fraser turned to him with a friendly smile as he wiped the corners of his mouth with long slender fingers. “Sky, always good doing business with you.” Sky nodded his head and Fraser’s eyes held Sky’s for a moment, questioning what he was going to do about the situation before he turned back to his food.
Sky spoke to the rest of the men at the table. “Goodnight, gentlemen.” He pulled his hat from the peg by the door and pushed it back on his head as he exited onto the now-darkened street.
His boots making no sound in the soft dust of the road bed, he walked over to the rail in front of Fraser’s Mercantile and untied his mule, leading it further down the street toward the livery. Retrieving his stallion, he mounted up and cantered the horse out of town, leading the mule behind
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Dec. 9, 2009
Brrr!
It is finally winter here!! I am so happy about that!!! It was -13 yesterday! It is so nice to stay home and not go anywhere, although today I am afraid I need to make a grocery list and head out to do shopping, which I am dreading. It actually dusted us with a bit of snow as well this morning.
I got really worried as my camera vanished and thankfully I found out I had left it at my sisters house, so whew.....it was found. I can post pictures later today of my nieces birthday maybe!
I am feeling really overwhelmed though with high energy boys and alot of messes. The house is messy and I am trying to stay ahead. It is hard to keep up with school and all the things that have to be done this tim of year, but I am doing pretty good with it. I did have bath salts that got thrown all over the living room. Then when I told them to clean it up, they vacuumed up stuff that should not be vacuumed and the vacuum is totally clogged up and I cannot get it unclogged, but my wonderful son kept working on it and got it out!! It was a piece of wood, a sock and paper!!!
I ended up falling asleep last night on the bed downstairs. At least I was in my pajamas, but I woke up kept remembering I needed to brush my teeth! Yeah, wonderfully restful night!
T. was reading a train book yesterday and found out that one of the fastest trains was in Japan and after plotting his trip to Japan on the globe realized we must take a plane and keeps asking when we are going to "Tokyo" with his cute lisp! I think he thinks we can just jump on a plane and go!! He had me checking plane ticket prices even!
Well, I got to get my grocery list made up before I get more distracted!!!
Menu for the week:
Wednesday: Mini meatloaves, mashed potatoes, Salad
Thursday: Enchiladas, Spanish Rice
Friday: Pork Roast, mashed potatoes, salad,
Saturday: Strips of meat in gravy over egg noodles, green beans
Sunday: Crockpot Applesauce Chicken, noodles, steamed broccoli
Monday: Leftovers, Dessert
Tuesday: Pizza Pockets, salad
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Dec. 6, 2009
Busy weekend!!
I had a wonderfully relaxing birthday on Friday, but as the evening went on it started to snow and I realized it was time for snow tires as I had a long drive on Sat. morning. I went and rushed over with the tires piled in the car to get them all changed over and then spent the evening with my sisters, enjoying pie and lots of fun. My boys and F. gave me some wonderful presents and made the day special as well as my sisters and cousin.
When I woke up early the next morning and was ready to go out the door, I realized that I had a flat tire. It was too flat to be driven even down the street to blow it up. After a very frustrating time, trying to find missing shoes (which were not found) and figuring out what to do, someone came over, pumped the tire and I headed to the shop to figure out why. I guess, they made a mistake the night before so it was fixed and I was on my way after a stop for lunch stuff at the grocery store.
It was a beautiful drive up, but my windshield wiper fluid was giving me trouble and still is....so that has to be fixed. We had a huge project to do though. We need to rent out the apartment in my parents house and it was packed full of stuff. We decided to clear out a room that was just full of a bunch of junk and make it a pantry/indoor storeroom. We cleaned, threw away tons of junk, moved, hauled, swept, pushed, pulled, and washed stuff. There is still alot of stuff to be done, but the basement looks great and and the apartment is getting there. There was a truck load and most of a trailer load of garbage though and still I am amazed at the amount of stuff.......alot of it though had not been touched in five years or more. We found some of my many lemon poppy seed letters/recipes there. We packed away and threw away ancient canned goods that were canned by my mother in law very unsafely and we did not know if we should try to save the jars even!
I spent the night and drove back today, and am tired out! We cleaned alot of stuff though and maybe it will be able to be rented, hopefully to medical students or someone nice who wants a great studio apt. with a full sized kitchen and washer and dryer hookups!
So, I am ready for an evening of relaxing....oh, but wait.... I have to bake muffins yet!!! Good night anyhow!! Maybe I will make one of the lemon poppy seed muffins!
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Dec. 3, 2009
1000th post!!!! GIVEAWAY!!
I was amazed to see that I just posted my 1000th post! Wow....did I really write that much? That was exciting!!
I thought that to celebrate, I would offer a giveaway!!
I thought I would offer two giveaways for this occasion....what are they? Why books of course!!!
I thought that to celebrate, I would offer a giveaway!!
I thought I would offer two giveaways for this occasion....what are they? Why books of course!!!
In order to enter, please comment on this blog post and tell me what is your favorite season and why?
Already Gone by Ken Ham
If you look around in your church today, two-thirds of the young people who are sitting among us have already left in their hearts; soon they will be gone for good.
This is the alarming conclusion from a study Answers in Genesis commissioned from America's Research Group, led by respected researcher Britt Beemer. The results may unnerve you - they may shake long-held assumptions to the core-but these results need to be taken seriously by the church. Already Gone reveals:
Why America's churches have lost an entire generation of believers
The views of 1,000 twenty-somethings, solidly raised in the church but no longer attending-and their reasons why
Relevant statistical data effectively teamed with powerful apologetics
The study found that we are losing our kids in elementary, middle school, and high school rather than college, and the Sunday school syndrome is contributing to the epidemic, rather than helping alleviate it. This is an alarming wake-up call for the church, showing how our programs and our children are paying the price. Though the statistics reveal a huge disconnect taking place between our children and their church experience, Already Gone shows how to fight back for our families, our churches, and our world. We can make a difference today that will affect the statistics of tomorrow in a positive and Christ-focused way!
And the second giveaway will be a surprise pack of Christian fiction of at least 2 books, but maybe more....
Please indicate when you enter the giveaway, which one you wish to enter for. Please leave your email address like this camber(at)yahoo(dot)com to prevent spammers and give me a way to contact you in case you win. If you do not answer the question or leave an email address you will not be entered.
If you would like more than one entry into either contest, post something about this contest on your blog.
Void where prohibited; the odds of winning depend on the number of entrants. Entering the giveaway is considered a confirmation of eligibility on behalf of the enterer in accord with these rules and any pertaining local/federal/international laws.
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Dec. 3, 2009
Essie in Progress- Book Review
My Review:
Essie is a busy mom of two children and a hard worker, trying to juggle many things when she finds she is expecting their third child, her husband is going through some kind of mid-life crisis, her mother does not understand her and her errant father-in-law reappears on the scene. Add to this, her struggle to support her husband, gets her a giant Hummer to drive with the toddlers, tantrums and pregnancy changes.....
Marjorie Presten is a native Georgian who has her own fair share of experience juggling career and motherhood. She lives outside of Atlanta with her husband, Tom, and their three children.
Listen to a radio interview about the book HERE.
Product Details:
List Price: $13.99
Paperback: 320 pages
Publisher: Kregel Publications (April 1, 2009)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 082543565X
ISBN-13: 978-0825435652
AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:
This book was a story that was different to try to follow. You get to see Essie's life view and her father-in-law's, who has really messed up in his lifetime, but is trying to make it right. He would love to be involved with his son's life now and his grandchildren. He lives on a boat and is a little odd though. You feel for Essie as she does not want to hurt her husband, but a Hummer for a family car?? She struggles with it, but decides that she loves her husband and letting him do this, well, it will be okay, it will not kill her and that impressed me most about this book as I thought it was the perfect example of great submission in a marriage.
The story was a bit hard for me to follow, actually. I really enjoyed pieces of it, but others I felt like I needed to go back and re-read in order to figure it out. In fact, I thought I had finished it and then realized I never had and finished the story later. It had a wonderful redemptive story between the father and son and forgiveness, doing what is right when you have really messed up though. - Martha
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!
Today's Wild Card author is:
and the book:
Kregel Publications (April 1, 2009)
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Marjorie Presten is a native Georgian who has her own fair share of experience juggling career and motherhood. She lives outside of Atlanta with her husband, Tom, and their three children.
Listen to a radio interview about the book HERE.
Product Details:
List Price: $13.99
Paperback: 320 pages
Publisher: Kregel Publications (April 1, 2009)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 082543565X
ISBN-13: 978-0825435652
AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:
Prologue
1972
In a thirty-second phone call, Hamilton Wells would make a decision that would earn him more money than he could spend in his lifetime. Everything was on the line, but he was not nervous, euphoric, or eager with anticipation. In Hamilton’s mind, the matter was not speculative, debatable, or anything less than a sure thing. Hamilton had the gift, and it had never let him down. Yet even before he made the call, he knew money wouldn’t cure the unrelenting pain of his grief. He sat at his desk with only a single orange banker’s lamp for illumination and cried silently.
Her death had been inevitable, but feelings of helplessness still overwhelmed him. His young son’s dependency on him only multiplied his grief and anger. Six-year-old Jack Wells had insisted his father do something to help Mama, but the only thing Hamilton could do was sit at her bedside and try not to cry. Now it was six weeks after her death, and Hamilton knew his son needed him to be strong, to return life to normal. A neighbor had enrolled Jack in the local church baseball league. They played a game every Wednesday afternoon. It will be good for him, they’d said. Life has to go on.
Hamilton cradled his head in his hands and groaned. The enormity of the risk he was about to take didn’t concern him. It was purely mechanical. He would surrender all he owned for just one more blissful afternoon at the lake he and his wife both loved, but now that was impossible. His wife was dead. Nothing he could do would change that.
He remembered the book of Job. Would a loving and caring God do this to the love of my life? Well, he did, Hamilton thought bitterly. Earline had lingered for months. The doctors said it was miraculous that she had endured as long as she had. Be grateful for these last days to say goodbye, they’d said. But for Hamilton, the prolonged end only added anger to his bottomless sorrow. Standing alongside his son as a helpless witness to her slow deterioration and suffering in the final weeks was more than he could bear. It was the worst time of Hamilton’s life. Nothing really mattered anymore, and it seemed he had nothing left to lose.
Under different circumstances, he might have played it safe and put the proceeds away for his son’s education, bought a new house, or perhaps invested in a bit of lake property. He could have become like the rest of the players and worn monograms on his starched cuffs so everyone could remember whose hand they were shaking. Instead, he had gone it alone. His brokerage business had few clients. He was the only big player left. Now he planned to risk everything on something happening on the other side of the world.
Ham couldn’t remember exactly when he had recognized his innate ability to pick the winner out of a crowd. It had always been there, ever since he was conscious of being alive. The talent had blossomed in the military when the card games occasionally got serious. Now, with every dollar he had to his name, Hamilton approached wheat futures with that same instinct. The Russian harvest had been a disaster, and the United States was coming to the rescue. The price of wheat was going to go through the roof, and then through the floor. He was going to make a fortune on both ends.
He picked up the phone and dialed a number on the Chicago Mercantile exchange. He listened for a few moments as the connection was made. Young Jack tugged at his father’s shirtsleeve. “Pop? Can we go now?” Jack held a baseball in his hand and a glove under his arm. Hamilton swiveled his chair, turning his back to his son.
A familiar voice announced his name. “How can I help you?”
“It’s Ham,” he said. “Short the entire position.”
“What? Everything?” the voice asked.
“Everything.” No emotion colored his voice.
Young Jack crept gingerly around the chair to face his father. “Pop,” he whispered, “come on, the game is about to start.” Hamilton shook his head and looked away.
The voice on the phone was still talking. “Most folks are still enjoying the ride, Ham. You could get hurt.”
“It’s not going a penny higher. Short it all.”
“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
“Warn me? My wife is dead. What else matters?”
The voice mumbled something about her passing.
“She didn’t pass. She’s dead. Just do what I ask.”
“OK, Ham.” The phone disconnected.
Jack was standing there in front of him, shoulders slumped. The ball hung loose at the end of his fingers, and the glove had fallen on the carpet. “Pop, can we go now?”
“Sorry, Son. Not today.”
“It’s not fair!” Jack erupted. Hot tears sprang up in his eyes. “What am I supposed to do now?”
Ham looked down, silent.
Jack hurled the ball to the floor, wiped his tears angrily, and stormed out of the house.
Ten minutes later on the futures board, wheat ticked down.
It ticked down again.
And so it would continue. Ham would be richer than he’d ever imagined. He’d never experience another financial challenge for the rest of his life. It was not really important, though. Scripture came back to him: “what good is it for a man to gain the whole world, yet forfeit his soul?”
He would trade it all to have his love, his life, back again.
But that was not an option.
Out his window, Ham could see young Jack riding his bicycle furiously down the street. He watched with a passive surrender as his son’s small frame shrank into the distance.
1972
In a thirty-second phone call, Hamilton Wells would make a decision that would earn him more money than he could spend in his lifetime. Everything was on the line, but he was not nervous, euphoric, or eager with anticipation. In Hamilton’s mind, the matter was not speculative, debatable, or anything less than a sure thing. Hamilton had the gift, and it had never let him down. Yet even before he made the call, he knew money wouldn’t cure the unrelenting pain of his grief. He sat at his desk with only a single orange banker’s lamp for illumination and cried silently.
Her death had been inevitable, but feelings of helplessness still overwhelmed him. His young son’s dependency on him only multiplied his grief and anger. Six-year-old Jack Wells had insisted his father do something to help Mama, but the only thing Hamilton could do was sit at her bedside and try not to cry. Now it was six weeks after her death, and Hamilton knew his son needed him to be strong, to return life to normal. A neighbor had enrolled Jack in the local church baseball league. They played a game every Wednesday afternoon. It will be good for him, they’d said. Life has to go on.
Hamilton cradled his head in his hands and groaned. The enormity of the risk he was about to take didn’t concern him. It was purely mechanical. He would surrender all he owned for just one more blissful afternoon at the lake he and his wife both loved, but now that was impossible. His wife was dead. Nothing he could do would change that.
He remembered the book of Job. Would a loving and caring God do this to the love of my life? Well, he did, Hamilton thought bitterly. Earline had lingered for months. The doctors said it was miraculous that she had endured as long as she had. Be grateful for these last days to say goodbye, they’d said. But for Hamilton, the prolonged end only added anger to his bottomless sorrow. Standing alongside his son as a helpless witness to her slow deterioration and suffering in the final weeks was more than he could bear. It was the worst time of Hamilton’s life. Nothing really mattered anymore, and it seemed he had nothing left to lose.
Under different circumstances, he might have played it safe and put the proceeds away for his son’s education, bought a new house, or perhaps invested in a bit of lake property. He could have become like the rest of the players and worn monograms on his starched cuffs so everyone could remember whose hand they were shaking. Instead, he had gone it alone. His brokerage business had few clients. He was the only big player left. Now he planned to risk everything on something happening on the other side of the world.
Ham couldn’t remember exactly when he had recognized his innate ability to pick the winner out of a crowd. It had always been there, ever since he was conscious of being alive. The talent had blossomed in the military when the card games occasionally got serious. Now, with every dollar he had to his name, Hamilton approached wheat futures with that same instinct. The Russian harvest had been a disaster, and the United States was coming to the rescue. The price of wheat was going to go through the roof, and then through the floor. He was going to make a fortune on both ends.
He picked up the phone and dialed a number on the Chicago Mercantile exchange. He listened for a few moments as the connection was made. Young Jack tugged at his father’s shirtsleeve. “Pop? Can we go now?” Jack held a baseball in his hand and a glove under his arm. Hamilton swiveled his chair, turning his back to his son.
A familiar voice announced his name. “How can I help you?”
“It’s Ham,” he said. “Short the entire position.”
“What? Everything?” the voice asked.
“Everything.” No emotion colored his voice.
Young Jack crept gingerly around the chair to face his father. “Pop,” he whispered, “come on, the game is about to start.” Hamilton shook his head and looked away.
The voice on the phone was still talking. “Most folks are still enjoying the ride, Ham. You could get hurt.”
“It’s not going a penny higher. Short it all.”
“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
“Warn me? My wife is dead. What else matters?”
The voice mumbled something about her passing.
“She didn’t pass. She’s dead. Just do what I ask.”
“OK, Ham.” The phone disconnected.
Jack was standing there in front of him, shoulders slumped. The ball hung loose at the end of his fingers, and the glove had fallen on the carpet. “Pop, can we go now?”
“Sorry, Son. Not today.”
“It’s not fair!” Jack erupted. Hot tears sprang up in his eyes. “What am I supposed to do now?”
Ham looked down, silent.
Jack hurled the ball to the floor, wiped his tears angrily, and stormed out of the house.
Ten minutes later on the futures board, wheat ticked down.
It ticked down again.
And so it would continue. Ham would be richer than he’d ever imagined. He’d never experience another financial challenge for the rest of his life. It was not really important, though. Scripture came back to him: “what good is it for a man to gain the whole world, yet forfeit his soul?”
He would trade it all to have his love, his life, back again.
But that was not an option.
Out his window, Ham could see young Jack riding his bicycle furiously down the street. He watched with a passive surrender as his son’s small frame shrank into the distance.
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Dec. 2, 2009
I feel silly.....
probably because I am sitting her thinking about all kinds of things that you are not supposed to think about late at night?
I mean who sits up and thinks about these kind of things? Like, wondering what it will be like in 20 years when I am almost 51?? If I will have gray hair and be all crochety.....
I won't be sitting here thinking it was nice to have a quiet evening with the children at church, I may be wondering what they are all doing???
Well, that got sad suddenly!
Anyhow, happy things!! I was thinking I need to check on my 52 things to do this year. I think I still have until April to complete it, but I am lagging behind, although I did try to smile at people all day today! I think I kind of forgot this morning though......
We had a fun morning though. We went on a art field trip with the children and went to this place where you paint pottery. It is expensive, so we made magnets and other small things.....it was fun and then we went out to lunch in a really, really noisy place, where we were not causing the majority of the noise. I had three really hungry boys and I forget how expensive it is to take out three hungry boys.......yeah. Well, it was still fun.
I am really anxious for snow, but I have to get my snow tires on this week, cause it is Dec. and I have to drive northwest this week and clean out my mom's basement and apartment upstairs. We are planning on trying to rent out the place, but we all a little bit terrified of the giant spiders that live in the basement. There is a bunch of junk down there and alot of good stuff no one can get to or even use the basement at all because of the fear of spiders. So, we are going to convert one of the bedrooms that for some reason no matter what we do has lots of spiders in it.....into a giant pantry/ organized storage room and that way maybe actually someone can be using the basement for something useful. I would love to tear down a couple walls and do what we wanted to do when we first built it.......but as my sister and I built the wall, maybe it has sentimental value?? Not really, so much...so who knows...
Well, time for bed....and enough silly chatter!
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Dec. 2, 2009
Christmas in the Kitchen- review
My Review: This was such a fun, cute book! It is full of great ideas on how to plan out the time around Christmas and ideas of how to use your kitchen to minister to others. It is pretty too! I have had it on my piano as part of a decorative array of items and it was so pretty! It is chock full of great recipes and ways to make things easier for all of us! Check this one out!!- Martha
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Tammy Maltby is a writer, speaker, and media personality. For eight years, she was the co-host of the Emmy Award-winning television talk show, Aspiring Women. She serves on the board of the National Women’s Ministry Association, Christian Women in Media and Arts, and Women of Courage International. She and her family live in Colorado Springs, CO.
Visit the author's website.
Product Details:
List Price: $14.99
Hardcover: 132 pages
Publisher: Howard Books (October 6, 2009)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 1416587659
ISBN-13: 978-1416587651
AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:
![""]("http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_cESuxv-WNX8/SAad94Trj7I/AAAAAAAAArA/Yn05_E4V0fY/s200/wild+card.jpg")
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!
Today's Wild Card author is:
and the book:
Howard Books (October 6, 2009)
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
![""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5410846206250810770"]("http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_cESuxv-WNX8/Sxcv9OnZfZI/AAAAAAAADdY/tBG3KJvl4oo/s1600-h/tammy+maltby.jpg")
Tammy Maltby is a writer, speaker, and media personality. For eight years, she was the co-host of the Emmy Award-winning television talk show, Aspiring Women. She serves on the board of the National Women’s Ministry Association, Christian Women in Media and Arts, and Women of Courage International. She and her family live in Colorado Springs, CO.Visit the author's website.
Product Details:
List Price: $14.99
Hardcover: 132 pages
Publisher: Howard Books (October 6, 2009)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 1416587659
ISBN-13: 978-1416587651
AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:
![""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5411105726445826322"]("http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_cESuxv-WNX8/Sxgb_SrisRI/AAAAAAAADeA/izphrCNWtyU/s320/browse+inside.jpg")
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Dec. 2, 2009
One Simple Act by Debbie Macomber
My Review:
Because of birthday season and Thanksgiving, I have gotten behind on reading. But this book looks really good and I will post a short review of it later this week!
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:
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!
Today's Wild Card author is:
and the book:
Howard Books (November 3, 2009)
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.
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.
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Dec. 1, 2009
Kindergarten art project
The local art museum offers classes for ages 2-5 year olds and do Art projects, so last month we joined in and had a great time making little teddy bears!
Happily coloring!!!
The watchman over the proceedings!!!
The other participants!!
The finished product!!
I would love to go back there as it was fun! They rushed you a little as they only left an half hour, but it was good to get them doing the art and enjoying it!
Happily coloring!!!
The watchman over the proceedings!!!The other participants!!The finished product!!I would love to go back there as it was fun! They rushed you a little as they only left an half hour, but it was good to get them doing the art and enjoying it!
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(My camera was still fuzzy here when my sister used it.....I guess John (my sister's boyfriend) was sad about something though!! Not that the pie was gone as he did not like pie, vegetables and many other thanksgiving foods)
I did not plan a menu this week and have sort of been drifting along.......it has worked out! So far, this last week was consumed by helping family out so we just added stuff to their meals. On Saturday I used the turkey broth and a couple of heads of cauliflower I got and with some broccoli my sister had, leftover canned evaporated milk, we had some yummy cream of cauliflower/broccoli soup. We served with a mishmash of leftover stuff like bread and rolls and pie.
Yesterday, we ate more leftovers and today, we probably will as well with a twist on them!!!
Nov. 30, 2009
No menu this week....and other such things!
(My camera was still fuzzy here when my sister used it.....I guess John (my sister's boyfriend) was sad about something though!! Not that the pie was gone as he did not like pie, vegetables and many other thanksgiving foods)I did not plan a menu this week and have sort of been drifting along.......it has worked out! So far, this last week was consumed by helping family out so we just added stuff to their meals. On Saturday I used the turkey broth and a couple of heads of cauliflower I got and with some broccoli my sister had, leftover canned evaporated milk, we had some yummy cream of cauliflower/broccoli soup. We served with a mishmash of leftover stuff like bread and rolls and pie.
Yesterday, we ate more leftovers and today, we probably will as well with a twist on them!!!
I did make some yummy whole wheat banana chocolate chip muffins! I had gotten some free bananas and I thought they were really ripe, but they were not brown or anything when I opened them!!! They made good snacks and breakfast, along with orange slices and hot fresh pressed apple cider.
I read Mountain of Spices today by Hannah Hurnard. It was one of my favorite books when I started reading again back when I was pregnant with H. I got different things out of it now than I did then. I love the poetry in there though!!!
Just for fun,
Do you have any favorite different spins you put on leftovers?
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Nov. 28, 2009
What a Thanksgiving week!!!
It has been quite the week. We have been busy and moving, cleaning, cooking, and helping finish up my sister's house. 
H. pulling up carpet tacks after the carpet was pulled up
F. painting in the baby's room
Painting.....the boys worked really hard cleaning, painting and learning how to work hard!!
My sisters new master bathroom! The tile is beautiful!!!
My camera was fuzzy from being in the cold too long!! I forgot to bring it in before we ate dinner, but I got some of the pies!! I did not even have time to change clothes, I was on my feet pretty much constant for the last two days! 
Lots of baby holding going on!!! It is fun to have two of them and they are going to be spoiled as they are oohed and awed over all the time. Their cousins love them and love to play with them! They are really good babies too, which is nice! They are fun to play with and hardly cry at all!
Looking into the living room from the dining room! This is looking for their old living room! 
My niece played us something she learned on the violin!! She just started and she already could play a nice song!!
The audience!!!
There is plenty of room now to play, and move around. We had 30 people in the house and it was relaxing, because of all the space!!
Anyhow, that was a bit of an overview of my week! I said I think I was probably among a minority who prepared Thanksgiving turkey with a chop saw and table saw in the kitchen!! They were still working on paint touch ups, trim, closets, putting bathrooms together yesterday. It was nice to work together!! Today we are going to put together a scrapbook room!
H. pulling up carpet tacks after the carpet was pulled up
F. painting in the baby's roomPainting.....the boys worked really hard cleaning, painting and learning how to work hard!!My sisters new master bathroom! The tile is beautiful!!!My camera was fuzzy from being in the cold too long!! I forgot to bring it in before we ate dinner, but I got some of the pies!! I did not even have time to change clothes, I was on my feet pretty much constant for the last two days! Lots of baby holding going on!!! It is fun to have two of them and they are going to be spoiled as they are oohed and awed over all the time. Their cousins love them and love to play with them! They are really good babies too, which is nice! They are fun to play with and hardly cry at all! Looking into the living room from the dining room! This is looking for their old living room! My niece played us something she learned on the violin!! She just started and she already could play a nice song!!The audience!!!There is plenty of room now to play, and move around. We had 30 people in the house and it was relaxing, because of all the space!!Anyhow, that was a bit of an overview of my week! I said I think I was probably among a minority who prepared Thanksgiving turkey with a chop saw and table saw in the kitchen!! They were still working on paint touch ups, trim, closets, putting bathrooms together yesterday. It was nice to work together!! Today we are going to put together a scrapbook room!
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Nov. 25, 2009
An Amish Christmas- Thomas Nelson book review
An Amish Christmas
December in Lancaster County
Printed Case Hardcover
By Beth Wiseman, Kathleen Fuller and Barbara Cameron
Reviewed by Martha Artyomenko
December in Lancaster County
Printed Case Hardcover
By Beth Wiseman, Kathleen Fuller and Barbara Cameron
Reviewed by Martha Artyomenko
December in Paradise.
A time of hope, redemption, and new life.
A Miracle for Miriam by Kathleen Fuller.
Seth is no longer the arrogant young man who shattered Miriam's confidence and broke her heart. But can he convince "plain" Miriam that she is truly beautiful to him?
A Choice To Forgive by Beth Wiseman.
After Daniel disappeared that long-ago Christmas Eve, Lydia built a life with his brother. But now she's a widow and Daniel has reappeared, asking for forgiveness. But can she go back to her normal life with her long-lost love as her neighbor?
I am sure you know I am not a fan of Amish fiction, however this collection of short stories is a well written collection that I felt did not make huge deals of how odd their life was, but instead just told the stories like they would any other person!
One Child by Barbara Cameron.
The birth of one child forever changed the world two thousand years ago. On a snowy Christmas night in Lancaster County, another child changes the world for two very different couples.
My Review:
This small hardcover book of three short stories of Amish couples in different circumstances, but living in the same community. While the book is called Amish Christmas because that is the time of year, the story takes place. I do not usually read novella's or mixture of novella's, but this one was well written and the stories flowed together well, instead of feeling like there were several rushed stories to hurry them to court and get married, one of the couples is a childless married couple who helps take care of stranded motorists over Christmas time.
I enjoyed this story probably the most!!! Sarah had lost her baby to miscarriage and she greatly feels the pain of this, when a stranded couple stays at their home during a snowstorm and the wife is expecting a baby. Since many Amish women have their babies at home, I liked it that this was portrayed as such.
The other two were nice stories as well. One thing bothered me in the first story, Miriam struggled with feeling ugly and doubts herself since a bullying incident on the schoolyard. Even as an adult she overhears people commenting on her ill looks. This bothered me as later other people told her how pretty she was and she herself could just not see it. I wondered why then other people seemed to comment on her being ugly so much then, it just seemed sort of odd.
This book would be a nice Christmas gift for someone you know who loves to read. It's size would make it nice to slip into a stocking! - Martha
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Nov. 21, 2009
Love finds you in Lonesome Prairie, Montana - Book review
My Review: When Julia finds herself heading west to oversee an orphan train and finds herself stuck in a tiny town in Western MT, she is confused about what she should do. Her slightly odd employer seems to have signed her up for a marriage as a mail order bride without her permission and without knowing the bridegroom was less than desirable! No money and no place to stay, Julia casts herself upon the mercy of the good people of the town for shelter and food. In exchange she work teaching the children of the town! Meanwhile, the minister of the town is stuck trying to deal with matchmakers, accidental murder, and family issues and is surprised to find himself attracted to the newcomer.
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:
I have read a few of these Love Finds you series and every single one of them has been really good! I actually went out to buy some of them because I have enjoyed them so much. This book was no exception. It is funny, one mishap after another in some ways, but also puts some great history about that part of MT in there. I have to say I did feel a bit irritated by the character of Mrs. Hamlin....she just seemed to be too absent minded and mistake prone to actually organize a successful orphan train, but maybe it was her new husband? Overall this was a great book, this humorous romance will keep you entertained and leave you happy in the end! - Martha
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!
Today's Wild Card authors are:
and the book:
Love Finds You In Lonesome Prairie, Montana
Summerside Press (December 1, 2009)
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!”
“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!”
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Nov. 20, 2009
Food......
When I drove by the fruit stand today I noticed they had oranges in, which I was excited for!!! I stopped by to see how much and ended up getting an entire box of really yummy, sweet, Navel oranges for $7!!! She also gave me some spinach and a box of pears, tomatoes and stuff that needs to be used sooner......so for all of you who want to save money on produce.....make friends with people who own a produce stand! Local people....go down there and get some good deals!!!
Also, on Freecycle, I got a whole box of peanut butter and jam, which we go through like no tomorrow! I think we got through at least 2 jars a week. It is one of our major expenses!
We had a little Thanksgiving lunch at T. preschool co-op group today. It was nice, but I was antsy and wanted to get back home. The boys ended up staying to help my BIL to pull out carpet and furniture to put a hard floor in their living room now, which will be their dining room! Their house is over 4000 sq feet now...we are all going to be working hard to get it all done by Thanksgiving!
I am going to a game night at a local church tonight, I am hoping that is going to be fun. It sounds like fun, but I have been a homebody lately!!! Yesterday, I was so, so tired out. I could barely move it seemed like and I had to go grocery shopping. It was a long day! I slept good though from like 2 am-8, so that was good!!! I need to finish up some projects here and organize stuff for birthday gifts and all. We are starting birthday season here! The first one of the season was yesterday, two more next week.
I will try to plug in the camera here and post the pictures I have not been taking! I have been really bad at taking pictures!