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Saturday, December 19, 2009
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
Tales of the Heart (3-in-1 Collection: Bridget’s Bargain; Kate Ties the Knot; Follow the Leader) by Loree Lough
Tour Date: December 18, 2009
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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!
A prolific writer, Loree Lough has more than seventy-one books, sixty-three short stories, and 2,500 articles in print. Her stories have earned dozens of industry and Reader’s Choice awards. A frequent guest speaker for writers’ organizations, book clubs, private and government institutions, corporations, college and high school writing programs, and more, Loree has encouraged thousands with her comedic approach to “learned-the-hard-way” lessons about the craft and industry. Loree and her husband split their time between Baltimore suburbs and a cabin in the Allegheny Mountains.
Visit the author's website.
Product Details:
List Price: $9.99
Paperback: 400 pages
Publisher: Whitaker House (January 2010)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 1603741674
ISBN-13: 978-1603741675 :
AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:
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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:
Tales of the Heart (3-in-1 Collection: Bridget’s Bargain; Kate Ties the Knot; Follow the Leader)
Whitaker House (January 2010)
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
A prolific writer, Loree Lough has more than seventy-one books, sixty-three short stories, and 2,500 articles in print. Her stories have earned dozens of industry and Reader’s Choice awards. A frequent guest speaker for writers’ organizations, book clubs, private and government institutions, corporations, college and high school writing programs, and more, Loree has encouraged thousands with her comedic approach to “learned-the-hard-way” lessons about the craft and industry. Loree and her husband split their time between Baltimore suburbs and a cabin in the Allegheny Mountains. Visit the author's website.
Product Details:
List Price: $9.99
Paperback: 400 pages
Publisher: Whitaker House (January 2010)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 1603741674
ISBN-13: 978-1603741675 :
AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:
Magnolia Grange, south of Richmond, Virginia
1866
Chapter One
“It’s hard to believe you’ve been with us four years, Bridget.”
Winking one thick-lashed blue eye, the maid grinned. “Aye, Mr. Auburn.” She blew a tendril of flaming red hair away from her eye and secured a gigantic white satin bow to the railing. “Time has passed like a runaway engine.”
Fumbling with his collar, Chase chuckled. “You’ve always been a joy to have in the house, and your way with words is but one of the reasons.”
Bridget slid the ribbon up and down until it exactly matched the height of the decoration on the other side of the porch. In response to the great gulp of air he took in, she straightened from her work. “Were you this nervous the first time you were a bridegroom, sir?”
He leaned a shoulder against the pillar nearest him. “To tell the truth, I don’t recall.” And, raising both brows imploringly, he pointed at the lopsided knot at his throat. “Would you mind…?”
She stepped up to the man who’d been more of a big brother than an employer to her these past years. “Wouldn’t mind a bit.” And to think that during her long sea voyage from Ireland to Virginia, she’d envisioned him a brute and a monster!
Standing on tiptoe, Bridget repaired the damage he’d done to his black string tie. “There, now,” she said, brushing imaginary lint from his broad shoulders, “that’s got it.”
His hand trembling, he dug a gold watch from his pocket. “The guests will begin arriving soon. Is everything—?”
“All’s well, Mr. Auburn, so I pray ye’ll relax. Else ye’ll need another bath!” Gathering her bow-making materials, Bridget hustled through the front door. From the other side of the screen, she said, “I’ve a few things to see to in the kitchen, and then I’ll be lookin’ in on yer bride-to-be.” She started toward the parlor, then stopped and faced him again. “Mr. Auburn, sir?”
He stopped rubbing his temples to say, “Yes?”
“I set aside a pitcher of lemonade. Might be just the thing to calm your nerves. Now, why don’t you settle down there while I fetch you a nice tall glass?”
As she made her way toward the kitchen, she heard the unmistakable squeak of the porch swing. “Hard to believe you ever thought that dear, sweet man capable of beating his servants bloody.”
“What’s that?”
Scissors, ribbons, needles, and thread flew into the air, then rained down upon her at the sound of the rich, masculine voice. “Goodness gracious, sakes alive!” she gasped, hands flattened to her chest. “You just shaved ten years off m’life!”
“Sorry,” said the tall intruder. “Didn’t mean to frighten you.”
Rolling her eyes, Bridget stooped to retrieve the fallen articles. “No harm done, I suppose.” Then, narrowing one eye, she sent him a half smile. “Provided you help me clean up the mess ye’re responsible for.”
Immediately, he was on his hands and knees, and once they’d untangled the ribbon, she put it all in the linen cupboard. “Don’t recall seein’ you around here before.”
“Just arrived last evening.” He nodded toward the barn. “I’m bunking in the loft. Chase…uh, Mr. Auburn is hoping I can improve the lineage of his quarter horses.”
“Ah,” she said, returning the sewing supplies to their proper shelf, “so you’re the new stable hand we’ve all been hearing about.” Dusting off her hands, she started up the stairs, stopping on the bottom step to give him a quick once-over. “Don’t know why, but I thought you’d be older.”
Leaning both burly arms on the newel post, he frowned slightly. “The proper title is ‘stable master’.”
“Is that a fact, Mr. Big-for-His-Britches?” Grinning good-naturedly, she added, “Tack whatever fancy name ye choose to the work. You’re still the hired help, same as me, ’cept you’re likely more at home with a muck shovel in your hand than a mop or broom.”
For a moment, a look of embarrassment darkened his handsome face, but, to his credit, he shook it off. “It’s honest work, and the horses are my full responsibility, so they might as well be my very own.”
She scrutinized him carefully. “All right, then, so you’ve got the master’s horses, but have ye the horse sense to go with ’em?” Halfway up the curving staircase, she leaned over the landing banister. “And what might your name be, Mr. I’m-So-Sure-of-Myself…just so I’m sure to address you properly next time we meet?”
“Lance,” he said. “Lance York.”
Bridget’s smile disappeared. “You’re—you’re English?”
Another nod. “But only half.” The frown above his gray eyes deepened. “Why do you look as though you’ve just smelled something unpleasant? Is there something wrong with being English?”
Only if you’re a poor tenant farmer in County Donegal, Ireland, she thought, continuing up the stairs. Since they both worked for Mr. Auburn, she’d likely run into this fellow often, and she had no intention of behaving like one of those uppity town girls who were so difficult to get along with. “Well,” she said coolly, “I suppose we all have to be something, now, don’t we?”
Her peripheral vision told her he hadn’t budged as she reached the next landing. Bridget would not allow herself to look at him. What, and give him the satisfaction of knowing an Englishman had humiliated yet another Irishman? Not in a million Sundays!
Bridget hurried up the remaining stairs and set her mind on seeing what, if anything, Drewry might need, because in no time at all, she’d become Mrs. Chase Auburn. No doubt she’d be at least as fidgety as her bridegroom.
Funny, she thought, how folks tend to pair off at weddings. Most of the servants had spouses to accompany them to the shindig. All but Bridget and the hired hands’ children. More’s the pity the stableman has the blood of those thievin’ English flowin’ in his veins, she thought, ’cause he’d make a right handsome companion….
***
Bridget watched as the servants and hired hands of Magnolia Grange raced around, putting the finishing touches on the wedding preparations. How handsome they all looked dressed in their regal best, thanks to Chase Auburn’s generosity.
She remembered the day, not so long ago, when he’d stood beside the big buckboard, ushering every member of his staff into the back of the vehicle, oblivious to their slack-jawed, wide-eyed protests. “Magnolia Grange has survived locusts and storms and the Civil War, so I hardly think our little trip into town will cause its ruination.” Grabbing the reins, he’d added, “When we get to Richmond, every last one of you will choose a proper wedding outfit. And remember, money is no object.”
The wagon wheels had ground along the gritty road, drowning out the shocked whispers of his hired help. “Been with that boy since he was born,” Matilda had said behind a wrinkled black hand, “an’ I ain’t never seen him smile so bright.”
“I do believe he done lost his mind, Matty,” Simon had said. “This is gonna cost a fortune.”
“You just worry ’bout tending the fields,” she’d shot back, “an’ let Mistah Chase worry ’bout what he can afford.”
In town, the maid, the housekeeper, the foreman, and the field hands had quickly discovered that every Richmond shopkeeper had been instructed to put the suits, gowns, shoes, and baubles chosen by Auburn employees on Chase’s personal account. At first, they’d shied away from quality materials, picking through the bins for dresses of cotton and shirts of muslin. Until Chase had gotten wind of their frugality, that is.
“You’ll not attend my wedding dressed like that!” he’d gently admonished them, snatching a pair of dungarees from Claib’s hands. Holding some gabardine trousers in front of the tall, thin man, he’d said, “You’ve earned this.” Then, looking at each employee in turn, he had said, “You’ve all earned this. Why, Magnolia Grange wouldn’t be what it is without you!” With that, he’d disappeared into the bustling Richmond street.
Now, Bridget stepped into the full-skirted gown she’d chosen that day at Miss Dalia’s Dress Shop. Ma’s cameo would have looked lovely at the throat, she thought, buttoning its high, lace-trimmed collar. But the pin had long ago been handed over to the ruthless landlord Conyngham when he’d raised the rent yet again.
Slipping into slippers made from fabric the same shade of pink as the dress, Bridget recalled that in one of her mother’s leather-bound volumes—before Conyngham had demanded those, too—she’d seen a pen-and-ink sketch of a ballerina. According to the book, ballet originated in Renaissance Italy, where, as the nobility began to see themselves as superior to the peasantry, they rejected the robust and earthy steps of traditional dance. Emulating the slower, statelier movements of the ballerinas, they believed, accentuated their own elegance. Her arms forming a graceful circle over her head, the beautiful lady’s torso had curved gently to the right. Her dark hair had been pulled back tightly from her face, and on her head had been a tiny, sparkling crown. Long, shapely legs had peeked out from beneath a gauzy, knee-length gown, and on her feet had been satin slippers.
Smiling at the memory, Bridget stood at the mirror. Gathering her cinnamony hair atop her head, she secured it with a wide ribbon that matched her shoes. Lifting her skirt, she stuck out her right foot and, looking about to see if she were truly alone, grinned as mischief danced in her eyes. How long had it been since she’d struck this particular ballerina pose? Five years? Six? Then, feeling both giddy and girlish, Bridget covered her face with both hands and giggled. Ye’d better count yer blessin’s that nobody can see you, Bridget McKenna, for they’d cart y’off to the loony bin, to be sure!
The big grandfather clock in the hall began counting out the hour. Goodness gracious me, she thought, hurrying to the door, how can it be midday already? And with only an hour till the weddin’!
When Bridget entered Drewry’s room, she found the bride standing in front of a big, oval mirror like the one in her own room, smiling as Matilda pinned a white poinsettia in her long, dark hair. “You do make a lovely bride,” said the housekeeper. “Mistah Chase be one lucky fella, gettin’ a wife as fetchin’ as you.”
Blushing, Drewry hugged the woman. “Thank you, Matilda. But I’m the lucky one.”
“Not lucky,” Bridget said, closing the door behind her. “Blessed.”
The curious glances exchanged by the bride and housekeeper told Bridget that her interruption had stunned them. True, she’d never been overly chatty, but lately….
Several months ago, Mr. Auburn had walked into the kitchen as she’d been ciphering. When she’d admitted that she’d saved almost enough to send for her family, he’d promised to find work for her father and four siblings. And just this morning, a little more ciphering told Bridget that in six months, maybe eight, she’d finally have what she needed to bring them here from Ireland. If that didn’t put her in a chatty mood, a wedding was sure to do it!
“You’re so right,” Drewry said, grasping Bridget’s hand. “Luck had nothing to do with it. It was the good Lord who brought Chase and me together.”
“And He’ll keep you together, too.”
“Seems our gal here know as much about the Good Book as anyone,” Matilda said.
Bridget remembered another day, not long after her arrival at Magnolia Grange, when Mr. Auburn had invited her to join the family in prayer. “How many times must I tell you, Bridget McKenna,” he’d thundered, “that it’s not a sin to read the Scriptures!” He’d picked up the large, leather-bound Bible and opened it for the household’s morning devotions. On the other side of the big, wooden table, Bridget had begun to weep. It had been Drewry, the children’s nanny, who had passed her a lace-edged hanky.
“But Mr. Auburn, sir,” she’d cried, “my ma taught us that readin’ the Holy Scriptures is a sin and a crime. Learnin’ like that…it’s only for the clergy, who are blessed by God to understand what they read.” Trembling, she’d hidden her face in Drewry’s hanky. “Oh, please, sir…I don’t want to go to hell!”
Softening his tone, Chase had said, “I hate to disagree with your sweet mother, but I’m afraid she was mistaken.”
His comment had only served to cause a fresh torrent of tears, inspiring Drewry to scoot along the bench and drape an arm around Bridget. “Mr. Auburn is right, Bridget,” she’d said, her dark eyes shining and sweet voice soothing. “Our reading the Scriptures pleases God. Why else would He have given them to us?”
Bridget stopped crying and studied Drewry’s face. “But…how d’ye know for sure that it’s true, ma’am?”
“Because the Lord Jesus Himself said, ‘Man shall not live by bread alone, but by every word that proceedeth out of the mouth of God.’ “You see, going to church on Sunday and hearing about Jesus is but one way of growing closer to the Lord. Reading His Word for ourselves, why, there’s no better way!” And from that moment on, life at Magnolia Grange had changed for Bridget. Having access to the comfort of God’s Word was a key that unlocked a world of hope.
“So, what you think, li’l Miss Bridget?” Matilda said. “You knows the Bible as good as anybody?”
“Hardly!” she said, laughing. “The more I learn,” she admitted, “the more I realize how little I know.” Then she wagged a finger at the bride. “Now, you’d best be gettin’ yourself downstairs, Miss Drew. Pastor Tillman has arrived, and the guests are gatherin’ in the chapel. It’s a mighty pretty day for a wedding, ’specially for December!”
“I have God to thank for that, too,” Drewry admitted, tugging at the long snug sleeves of her white velvet gown. With arms extended, she took a deep breath as Matilda fastened the tiny pearl buttons on each cuff. After fastening her mother’s cameo at the high, stand-up collar, Drewry picked up the bouquet fashioned of red roses, white poinsettias, and greenery from Chase’s hothouse, which he had delivered at dawn.
“You gonna carry that to the altar, Miss Drew?”
“I most certainly am, Matilda. Perhaps Chase and I will start a trend…bridegrooms delivering flowers to their brides, and brides carrying the bouquets to the altar.” She punctuated her statement with a merry giggle. “Well, I’m as ready as I’m ever going to be, so I suppose we should get this wedding started!”
With Matilda leading the way, the women walked down the wide, curving staircase and onto the porch. Bridget saw that Claib had parked the carriage out front. He’d polished its chassis until the enamel gleamed like a black mirror. The farmhand cut quite a dashing figure in his long-tailed morning suit, and Bridget planned to tell him so the minute they returned to the kitchen to serve the guests at the reception. Bending low at the waist, Claib swept a gloved hand in front of him. “Your carriage awaits, m’lady,” he said, mimicking Pastor Tillman’s English butler.
The sounds of laughter and chatter grew louder as the buggy neared the chapel. “They’re here!” a woman shouted.
“Start the music!” hollered a man.
As the four-piece string ensemble began to play Beethoven’s Ninth, Drewry stood beside her Uncle James at the back of the chapel. Such a lovely bride, Bridget thought. And this little church in the woods is lovely, too. The red holly berries trimming the roof winked merrily, and a soft garland filled the air with the fresh, clean scent of pine. Massive arrangements of red and white poinsettias, along with evergreen boughs, flanked the altar, where Mr. Auburn waited alone.
But not for long.
Bridget and Matilda, in their new store-bought frocks, stepped importantly down the aisle in time to the music and took their places in the Auburn family pew. Chase’s daughter, Sally, stepped up in front of Drewry, one hand in her basket, prepared to sprinkle rose petals along the path that her new mother’s high-topped white boots would take. Behind Sally, her brother, Sam, held the white satin pillow that cushioned the wedding band. Bridget smiled as he tugged at the collar of his shirt and smiled adoringly up at Drewry.
The children love her so, and so does Mr. Auburn, Bridget thought. And it’s plain to see she loves them, too.
Just then, the throbbing strains of the “Wedding March” poured from the organ’s pipes, filling the chapel as Pastor Tillman took his place at the altar. Bridget watched Chase, resplendent in his black suit, as he focused on Drewry, the object of his hopes and dreams and promises soon to be fulfilled. “I love you,” he mouthed to her.
Bridget turned in her seat just in time to see the bride answer with a wink and a smile. Will I ever know love like that? she wondered, facing front again. Sighing, she felt her shoulders sag. Not likely, since all I do is work, work, work and save, save, save…. A feeling of guilt washed over Bridget, and she chastised herself for allowing such self-centered thoughts to enter her head. She had much to be grateful for, and this was Drewry and Chase’s day, after all!
Still, the bride and groom’s for-our-eyes-only communication made her yearn for a love like theirs—a love that reached beyond the bounds of family, binding man to woman and woman to man, cloaking them in trust, friendship, and companionship forever.
A chilly wind blew through the chapel, making Bridget shiver. Hugging herself, she focused on the rough-hewn cross that hung above the altar and, closing her eyes, prayed silently. Dear Lord, if it’s in Your plan, I wouldn’t mind havin’ a bit of love like that, for I’m weary of being cold and alone.
***
Drewry’s Uncle James and his lady friend, Joy, had arrived two days earlier. In many ways, the handsome couple reminded Bridget of Chase and Drewry.
Bridget and Joy had chatted while decorating the mansion. Joy, Bridget discovered, had been raised up north, near Baltimore. “Why, there’s a Baltimore, Ireland, too!” she’d said, excited at all she had in common with her new friend.
Bridget hadn’t had as many opportunities to talk with Drewry’s uncle, so when she saw him during the reception, standing alone under the willow tree, she didn’t know quite how to approach him. His grief was raw and real, that much was plain to see. And she knew precisely what had destroyed his previous high-spirited mood. For as she’d been gathering plates and cups nearby, she’d overheard the conversation….
James had dropped to one knee and taken Joy’s hand in his, then looked deep into her eyes and whispered hoarsely, “Miss Naomi Joy McGuire, will you do me the honor of becoming my bride?”
So romantic! Bridget had thought. She’d been taught better than to eavesdrop, but if she’d made any attempt to move just then, she would have alerted them to her presence, and what if that destroyed the whole mood? Then Joy had blinked, swallowed hard, and stiffened her back. “I can’t, James,” she’d said. Then, snatching back her hand, she’d lifted the billowing blue satin of her skirt and raced across the lawn to the house.
Hours passed before Bridget returned to collect the last of the dishes and glasses scattered about by the guests. Yet he still stood alone where she’d last seen him. “Is there anything I can do for you, sir?”
Without looking up, James shook his head.
“Won’t you come inside and let me brew you a cup of tea?”
But he only shook his head again.
“But sir, ye’re pale as a ghost, and I can’t in good conscience leave you here alone. I’ll make a pest of myself, if I must, to get you inside, where it’s warm.” She gestured toward the yard. “Ye’ll catch yer death if you stay out here.”
When he gave no response, she linked her arm with his and led him to the house, chattering nonstop the whole way about the way Pastor Tillman had nearly choked on a wad of tobacco before pronouncing Drewry and Chase husband and wife; about the perfect weather, the delicious food, the pretty decorations…anything but the ceremony itself. “My name is Bridget, sir,” she said as they approached the front porch. “Bridget McKenna.”
The way he climbed the steps, Bridget couldn’t help but picture the tin soldiers lined up on the shelf at McDoogle’s Store back home. The poor man had found the woman he wanted to spend the rest of his days with, and her refusal had broken his spirit. Surely, Joy had a good reason for saying no, but that didn’t stop Bridget from feeling sorry for him.
Once inside, she stopped at the parlor door. “Why not have a seat there by the fire? I’ll fetch you a nice hot cup of tea.”
“I think I’d rather just go to bed.”
As she opened the door to his room, she said, “If you need anything, anything at all, just ring for me.”
Though he nodded as he stepped into the room, Bridget had a feeling he wouldn’t ring. In fact, something told her she might not see him at all before he returned to Baltimore. “Well,” she muttered as he closed the door, “I don’t suppose all matches are made in heaven….”
“Like Drewry and Chase, you mean?”
A tiny shriek escaped her lungs. “Land sakes, man,” she said, recognizing Lance. “Ye’ll be the death of me, sure!” Bridget regarded him with a wary eye. “Ye’ve got cat’s paws for feet. How else can I explain how you slink around without making a sound?”
Chuckling, Lance pocketed both hands. “I wasn’t slinking. You were so deep in thought, a herd of cattle could have thundered through here, and you wouldn’t have noticed until the dust cleared.”
Bridget raised an eyebrow. “Oh, I might’ve noticed a wee bit before then.” Pointing at his feet, she said, “There’d have been the stink of the stuff you’ve tracked across my clean floor to bring me around.” Planting both fists on her hips, she met his eyes. “Perhaps you have been raised as fine as those fancy airs you put on, Mr. York, for no self-respecting stable hand would enter the master’s house without first puttin’ his soles to the boot scrape by the servants’ entrance!”
***
Lance glanced down at his boots and the telltale clumps of mud and horse manure that showed the path he’d taken since entering the foyer. Feeling strangely like an errant child caught sneaking cookies before dinner, he was about to inform her that although this was indeed a grand mansion, it sat upon fertile pastureland. Did she really expect everyone who entered to wipe his boots? And who did she think she was, anyway, scolding him as if he were an ordinary—
Yet the moment he looked into her eyes to deliver his rebuttal, Lance’s ire abated. She was perhaps the loveliest creature he’d ever seen, tiny and feminine and just scrappy enough to be reckoned with. A mass of shining brick-red waves framed her heart-shaped face, and even after a long day of tending to and tidying up after wedding guests, her milky skin glowed with healthy radiance, making the pale freckles sprinkling her nose even more noticeable.
And those eyes! He’d seen her before, both up close and from a distance. Why hadn’t he noticed how large and thickly lashed they were?
“So, there’s another lesson yer ma obviously didn’t teach you. First, you thoughtlessly mess up the floors, and then, you stare like a simpleton.”
Lance blinked, then frowned in response to her anger. “What? I—I wasn’t—”
“You were, and you still are,” she interrupted him, crossing her arms over her chest as she lifted her chin.
If he didn’t know better, he’d say she was daring him to disagree!
Lance had no earthly idea where the thought came from, but, suddenly, he wanted nothing more than to grasp the narrow shoulders she’d thrown back in defiance and kiss her square on those full, pink lips. Sweet Jesus, he prayed, keep me true to my vow….
Newly resolved and strengthened, he straightened to his full five-foot eleven-inch height. “I didn’t mean to track dirt into the house,” he said at last. “If you like, I’ll help you clean it up. And you have my word, it won’t happen again.”
Grinning, she wiggled her perfectly arched brows. “Oh, that won’t be necessary.” Then, “I suppose I could have been a mite gentler with you, now, couldn’t I?” On the heels of a deep breath, Bridget added, “It’s been a long, hard day, not that that’s a good excuse for my harshness.” With one hand up to silence his denial, she continued, “I set aside a bit of cake and lemonade. Will you let me get it for you, as a peace offerin’?”
Truth was, he’d stuffed himself at the reception and had no idea where he’d put another bite of food, so his answer surprised him. “Only if you’ll share it with me.”
She turned on her heel and, wiggling a finger over her shoulder, said, “Then follow me, English.”
He did, too, like a pup on his boy’s heels. As they made their way down the stairs, she said, “What you said earlier….”
Lance fell into step beside her. “In response to your ‘not all matches are made in heaven’ comment?”
Rounding the corner into the kitchen, she nodded. “How’d you know that’s what I meant?”
He straddled a stool and leaned both elbows on the table. No woman had ever willingly served him before, unless he counted roadside tavern maids. Lance rather enjoyed watching Bridget bustling about, preparing the snack that had been her idea. “I overheard what went on between Drewry’s uncle and his lady friend, too,” he said. His smile became a frown. “Sad, the way she treated the bloke.”
Bridget laid a neatly folded napkin near his left elbow and unceremoniously plopped a silver fork atop it. “Now, let’s not be too quick to judge, English. We have no way of knowing why she said what she did.”
By the time she set the tall goblet of lemonade near the tines of his fork, he was all but scowling. “It’s been my experience,” he began, “that women don’t need a reason to be cruel.” He sat up straighter and feigned a dainty pose. “You’re such a darling man,” he sighed in a high-pitched falsetto. “Is that your heart?” he asked, pointing a dainty finger at his imaginary tablemate’s chest. Then, his hand formed an ugly claw as he pretended to tear into the invisible man’s rib cage. “I’ve got it!” he all but shouted, pretending to stuff it into his mouth.
Bridget stood gawking with one hand on her hip and then wrinkled her nose. “After ye’ve learned to wipe yer feet,” she said, sliding the cake plate in front of him, “we’ll have a go at teachin’ you how to make interesting table conversation.” After taking a sip of her own lemonade, she sat down across from him. “A body could only guess from that sorry demonstration that you’ve been wounded a time or two by love.”
“Not really,” he said around a bite of frosting. “And I’m sorry for the outburst.”
Smiling, she pressed a hand to his forearm. “You can apologize for scarin’ the soul from m’body, for dirtyin’ my floor.” Leaning closer, Bridget narrowed her eyes. “But don’t ever let me hear you say you’re sorry for what you feel, English.”
Resting his elbow on the table, Lance let the empty fork dangle from his hand. “What have you got against the English, if you don’t mind my asking?” Slicing off another hunk of cake, he added, “Keep in mind, I’m English only on my father’s side….”
Sighing, Bridget sat back. “Have you ever been to Ireland?”
Lance shook his head.
“And what do you know about the way your people dealt with the Irish during the famine?”
In place of an answer, Lance only shrugged.
She folded her hands on the tabletop. “Now, I’ll warn ye, ’tisn’t a pretty story.” Winking, she looked from side to side, as if in search of a spy. “And there’s a good chance you’ll dislike your folks as much as I do when I’ve finished.” Pausing, she said, “You sure you want me to go on?”
“I’m sure,” he said with a grin.
And for the next hour, she held him spellbound with her tale.
1866
Chapter One
“It’s hard to believe you’ve been with us four years, Bridget.”
Winking one thick-lashed blue eye, the maid grinned. “Aye, Mr. Auburn.” She blew a tendril of flaming red hair away from her eye and secured a gigantic white satin bow to the railing. “Time has passed like a runaway engine.”
Fumbling with his collar, Chase chuckled. “You’ve always been a joy to have in the house, and your way with words is but one of the reasons.”
Bridget slid the ribbon up and down until it exactly matched the height of the decoration on the other side of the porch. In response to the great gulp of air he took in, she straightened from her work. “Were you this nervous the first time you were a bridegroom, sir?”
He leaned a shoulder against the pillar nearest him. “To tell the truth, I don’t recall.” And, raising both brows imploringly, he pointed at the lopsided knot at his throat. “Would you mind…?”
She stepped up to the man who’d been more of a big brother than an employer to her these past years. “Wouldn’t mind a bit.” And to think that during her long sea voyage from Ireland to Virginia, she’d envisioned him a brute and a monster!
Standing on tiptoe, Bridget repaired the damage he’d done to his black string tie. “There, now,” she said, brushing imaginary lint from his broad shoulders, “that’s got it.”
His hand trembling, he dug a gold watch from his pocket. “The guests will begin arriving soon. Is everything—?”
“All’s well, Mr. Auburn, so I pray ye’ll relax. Else ye’ll need another bath!” Gathering her bow-making materials, Bridget hustled through the front door. From the other side of the screen, she said, “I’ve a few things to see to in the kitchen, and then I’ll be lookin’ in on yer bride-to-be.” She started toward the parlor, then stopped and faced him again. “Mr. Auburn, sir?”
He stopped rubbing his temples to say, “Yes?”
“I set aside a pitcher of lemonade. Might be just the thing to calm your nerves. Now, why don’t you settle down there while I fetch you a nice tall glass?”
As she made her way toward the kitchen, she heard the unmistakable squeak of the porch swing. “Hard to believe you ever thought that dear, sweet man capable of beating his servants bloody.”
“What’s that?”
Scissors, ribbons, needles, and thread flew into the air, then rained down upon her at the sound of the rich, masculine voice. “Goodness gracious, sakes alive!” she gasped, hands flattened to her chest. “You just shaved ten years off m’life!”
“Sorry,” said the tall intruder. “Didn’t mean to frighten you.”
Rolling her eyes, Bridget stooped to retrieve the fallen articles. “No harm done, I suppose.” Then, narrowing one eye, she sent him a half smile. “Provided you help me clean up the mess ye’re responsible for.”
Immediately, he was on his hands and knees, and once they’d untangled the ribbon, she put it all in the linen cupboard. “Don’t recall seein’ you around here before.”
“Just arrived last evening.” He nodded toward the barn. “I’m bunking in the loft. Chase…uh, Mr. Auburn is hoping I can improve the lineage of his quarter horses.”
“Ah,” she said, returning the sewing supplies to their proper shelf, “so you’re the new stable hand we’ve all been hearing about.” Dusting off her hands, she started up the stairs, stopping on the bottom step to give him a quick once-over. “Don’t know why, but I thought you’d be older.”
Leaning both burly arms on the newel post, he frowned slightly. “The proper title is ‘stable master’.”
“Is that a fact, Mr. Big-for-His-Britches?” Grinning good-naturedly, she added, “Tack whatever fancy name ye choose to the work. You’re still the hired help, same as me, ’cept you’re likely more at home with a muck shovel in your hand than a mop or broom.”
For a moment, a look of embarrassment darkened his handsome face, but, to his credit, he shook it off. “It’s honest work, and the horses are my full responsibility, so they might as well be my very own.”
She scrutinized him carefully. “All right, then, so you’ve got the master’s horses, but have ye the horse sense to go with ’em?” Halfway up the curving staircase, she leaned over the landing banister. “And what might your name be, Mr. I’m-So-Sure-of-Myself…just so I’m sure to address you properly next time we meet?”
“Lance,” he said. “Lance York.”
Bridget’s smile disappeared. “You’re—you’re English?”
Another nod. “But only half.” The frown above his gray eyes deepened. “Why do you look as though you’ve just smelled something unpleasant? Is there something wrong with being English?”
Only if you’re a poor tenant farmer in County Donegal, Ireland, she thought, continuing up the stairs. Since they both worked for Mr. Auburn, she’d likely run into this fellow often, and she had no intention of behaving like one of those uppity town girls who were so difficult to get along with. “Well,” she said coolly, “I suppose we all have to be something, now, don’t we?”
Her peripheral vision told her he hadn’t budged as she reached the next landing. Bridget would not allow herself to look at him. What, and give him the satisfaction of knowing an Englishman had humiliated yet another Irishman? Not in a million Sundays!
Bridget hurried up the remaining stairs and set her mind on seeing what, if anything, Drewry might need, because in no time at all, she’d become Mrs. Chase Auburn. No doubt she’d be at least as fidgety as her bridegroom.
Funny, she thought, how folks tend to pair off at weddings. Most of the servants had spouses to accompany them to the shindig. All but Bridget and the hired hands’ children. More’s the pity the stableman has the blood of those thievin’ English flowin’ in his veins, she thought, ’cause he’d make a right handsome companion….
***
Bridget watched as the servants and hired hands of Magnolia Grange raced around, putting the finishing touches on the wedding preparations. How handsome they all looked dressed in their regal best, thanks to Chase Auburn’s generosity.
She remembered the day, not so long ago, when he’d stood beside the big buckboard, ushering every member of his staff into the back of the vehicle, oblivious to their slack-jawed, wide-eyed protests. “Magnolia Grange has survived locusts and storms and the Civil War, so I hardly think our little trip into town will cause its ruination.” Grabbing the reins, he’d added, “When we get to Richmond, every last one of you will choose a proper wedding outfit. And remember, money is no object.”
The wagon wheels had ground along the gritty road, drowning out the shocked whispers of his hired help. “Been with that boy since he was born,” Matilda had said behind a wrinkled black hand, “an’ I ain’t never seen him smile so bright.”
“I do believe he done lost his mind, Matty,” Simon had said. “This is gonna cost a fortune.”
“You just worry ’bout tending the fields,” she’d shot back, “an’ let Mistah Chase worry ’bout what he can afford.”
In town, the maid, the housekeeper, the foreman, and the field hands had quickly discovered that every Richmond shopkeeper had been instructed to put the suits, gowns, shoes, and baubles chosen by Auburn employees on Chase’s personal account. At first, they’d shied away from quality materials, picking through the bins for dresses of cotton and shirts of muslin. Until Chase had gotten wind of their frugality, that is.
“You’ll not attend my wedding dressed like that!” he’d gently admonished them, snatching a pair of dungarees from Claib’s hands. Holding some gabardine trousers in front of the tall, thin man, he’d said, “You’ve earned this.” Then, looking at each employee in turn, he had said, “You’ve all earned this. Why, Magnolia Grange wouldn’t be what it is without you!” With that, he’d disappeared into the bustling Richmond street.
Now, Bridget stepped into the full-skirted gown she’d chosen that day at Miss Dalia’s Dress Shop. Ma’s cameo would have looked lovely at the throat, she thought, buttoning its high, lace-trimmed collar. But the pin had long ago been handed over to the ruthless landlord Conyngham when he’d raised the rent yet again.
Slipping into slippers made from fabric the same shade of pink as the dress, Bridget recalled that in one of her mother’s leather-bound volumes—before Conyngham had demanded those, too—she’d seen a pen-and-ink sketch of a ballerina. According to the book, ballet originated in Renaissance Italy, where, as the nobility began to see themselves as superior to the peasantry, they rejected the robust and earthy steps of traditional dance. Emulating the slower, statelier movements of the ballerinas, they believed, accentuated their own elegance. Her arms forming a graceful circle over her head, the beautiful lady’s torso had curved gently to the right. Her dark hair had been pulled back tightly from her face, and on her head had been a tiny, sparkling crown. Long, shapely legs had peeked out from beneath a gauzy, knee-length gown, and on her feet had been satin slippers.
Smiling at the memory, Bridget stood at the mirror. Gathering her cinnamony hair atop her head, she secured it with a wide ribbon that matched her shoes. Lifting her skirt, she stuck out her right foot and, looking about to see if she were truly alone, grinned as mischief danced in her eyes. How long had it been since she’d struck this particular ballerina pose? Five years? Six? Then, feeling both giddy and girlish, Bridget covered her face with both hands and giggled. Ye’d better count yer blessin’s that nobody can see you, Bridget McKenna, for they’d cart y’off to the loony bin, to be sure!
The big grandfather clock in the hall began counting out the hour. Goodness gracious me, she thought, hurrying to the door, how can it be midday already? And with only an hour till the weddin’!
When Bridget entered Drewry’s room, she found the bride standing in front of a big, oval mirror like the one in her own room, smiling as Matilda pinned a white poinsettia in her long, dark hair. “You do make a lovely bride,” said the housekeeper. “Mistah Chase be one lucky fella, gettin’ a wife as fetchin’ as you.”
Blushing, Drewry hugged the woman. “Thank you, Matilda. But I’m the lucky one.”
“Not lucky,” Bridget said, closing the door behind her. “Blessed.”
The curious glances exchanged by the bride and housekeeper told Bridget that her interruption had stunned them. True, she’d never been overly chatty, but lately….
Several months ago, Mr. Auburn had walked into the kitchen as she’d been ciphering. When she’d admitted that she’d saved almost enough to send for her family, he’d promised to find work for her father and four siblings. And just this morning, a little more ciphering told Bridget that in six months, maybe eight, she’d finally have what she needed to bring them here from Ireland. If that didn’t put her in a chatty mood, a wedding was sure to do it!
“You’re so right,” Drewry said, grasping Bridget’s hand. “Luck had nothing to do with it. It was the good Lord who brought Chase and me together.”
“And He’ll keep you together, too.”
“Seems our gal here know as much about the Good Book as anyone,” Matilda said.
Bridget remembered another day, not long after her arrival at Magnolia Grange, when Mr. Auburn had invited her to join the family in prayer. “How many times must I tell you, Bridget McKenna,” he’d thundered, “that it’s not a sin to read the Scriptures!” He’d picked up the large, leather-bound Bible and opened it for the household’s morning devotions. On the other side of the big, wooden table, Bridget had begun to weep. It had been Drewry, the children’s nanny, who had passed her a lace-edged hanky.
“But Mr. Auburn, sir,” she’d cried, “my ma taught us that readin’ the Holy Scriptures is a sin and a crime. Learnin’ like that…it’s only for the clergy, who are blessed by God to understand what they read.” Trembling, she’d hidden her face in Drewry’s hanky. “Oh, please, sir…I don’t want to go to hell!”
Softening his tone, Chase had said, “I hate to disagree with your sweet mother, but I’m afraid she was mistaken.”
His comment had only served to cause a fresh torrent of tears, inspiring Drewry to scoot along the bench and drape an arm around Bridget. “Mr. Auburn is right, Bridget,” she’d said, her dark eyes shining and sweet voice soothing. “Our reading the Scriptures pleases God. Why else would He have given them to us?”
Bridget stopped crying and studied Drewry’s face. “But…how d’ye know for sure that it’s true, ma’am?”
“Because the Lord Jesus Himself said, ‘Man shall not live by bread alone, but by every word that proceedeth out of the mouth of God.’ “You see, going to church on Sunday and hearing about Jesus is but one way of growing closer to the Lord. Reading His Word for ourselves, why, there’s no better way!” And from that moment on, life at Magnolia Grange had changed for Bridget. Having access to the comfort of God’s Word was a key that unlocked a world of hope.
“So, what you think, li’l Miss Bridget?” Matilda said. “You knows the Bible as good as anybody?”
“Hardly!” she said, laughing. “The more I learn,” she admitted, “the more I realize how little I know.” Then she wagged a finger at the bride. “Now, you’d best be gettin’ yourself downstairs, Miss Drew. Pastor Tillman has arrived, and the guests are gatherin’ in the chapel. It’s a mighty pretty day for a wedding, ’specially for December!”
“I have God to thank for that, too,” Drewry admitted, tugging at the long snug sleeves of her white velvet gown. With arms extended, she took a deep breath as Matilda fastened the tiny pearl buttons on each cuff. After fastening her mother’s cameo at the high, stand-up collar, Drewry picked up the bouquet fashioned of red roses, white poinsettias, and greenery from Chase’s hothouse, which he had delivered at dawn.
“You gonna carry that to the altar, Miss Drew?”
“I most certainly am, Matilda. Perhaps Chase and I will start a trend…bridegrooms delivering flowers to their brides, and brides carrying the bouquets to the altar.” She punctuated her statement with a merry giggle. “Well, I’m as ready as I’m ever going to be, so I suppose we should get this wedding started!”
With Matilda leading the way, the women walked down the wide, curving staircase and onto the porch. Bridget saw that Claib had parked the carriage out front. He’d polished its chassis until the enamel gleamed like a black mirror. The farmhand cut quite a dashing figure in his long-tailed morning suit, and Bridget planned to tell him so the minute they returned to the kitchen to serve the guests at the reception. Bending low at the waist, Claib swept a gloved hand in front of him. “Your carriage awaits, m’lady,” he said, mimicking Pastor Tillman’s English butler.
The sounds of laughter and chatter grew louder as the buggy neared the chapel. “They’re here!” a woman shouted.
“Start the music!” hollered a man.
As the four-piece string ensemble began to play Beethoven’s Ninth, Drewry stood beside her Uncle James at the back of the chapel. Such a lovely bride, Bridget thought. And this little church in the woods is lovely, too. The red holly berries trimming the roof winked merrily, and a soft garland filled the air with the fresh, clean scent of pine. Massive arrangements of red and white poinsettias, along with evergreen boughs, flanked the altar, where Mr. Auburn waited alone.
But not for long.
Bridget and Matilda, in their new store-bought frocks, stepped importantly down the aisle in time to the music and took their places in the Auburn family pew. Chase’s daughter, Sally, stepped up in front of Drewry, one hand in her basket, prepared to sprinkle rose petals along the path that her new mother’s high-topped white boots would take. Behind Sally, her brother, Sam, held the white satin pillow that cushioned the wedding band. Bridget smiled as he tugged at the collar of his shirt and smiled adoringly up at Drewry.
The children love her so, and so does Mr. Auburn, Bridget thought. And it’s plain to see she loves them, too.
Just then, the throbbing strains of the “Wedding March” poured from the organ’s pipes, filling the chapel as Pastor Tillman took his place at the altar. Bridget watched Chase, resplendent in his black suit, as he focused on Drewry, the object of his hopes and dreams and promises soon to be fulfilled. “I love you,” he mouthed to her.
Bridget turned in her seat just in time to see the bride answer with a wink and a smile. Will I ever know love like that? she wondered, facing front again. Sighing, she felt her shoulders sag. Not likely, since all I do is work, work, work and save, save, save…. A feeling of guilt washed over Bridget, and she chastised herself for allowing such self-centered thoughts to enter her head. She had much to be grateful for, and this was Drewry and Chase’s day, after all!
Still, the bride and groom’s for-our-eyes-only communication made her yearn for a love like theirs—a love that reached beyond the bounds of family, binding man to woman and woman to man, cloaking them in trust, friendship, and companionship forever.
A chilly wind blew through the chapel, making Bridget shiver. Hugging herself, she focused on the rough-hewn cross that hung above the altar and, closing her eyes, prayed silently. Dear Lord, if it’s in Your plan, I wouldn’t mind havin’ a bit of love like that, for I’m weary of being cold and alone.
***
Drewry’s Uncle James and his lady friend, Joy, had arrived two days earlier. In many ways, the handsome couple reminded Bridget of Chase and Drewry.
Bridget and Joy had chatted while decorating the mansion. Joy, Bridget discovered, had been raised up north, near Baltimore. “Why, there’s a Baltimore, Ireland, too!” she’d said, excited at all she had in common with her new friend.
Bridget hadn’t had as many opportunities to talk with Drewry’s uncle, so when she saw him during the reception, standing alone under the willow tree, she didn’t know quite how to approach him. His grief was raw and real, that much was plain to see. And she knew precisely what had destroyed his previous high-spirited mood. For as she’d been gathering plates and cups nearby, she’d overheard the conversation….
James had dropped to one knee and taken Joy’s hand in his, then looked deep into her eyes and whispered hoarsely, “Miss Naomi Joy McGuire, will you do me the honor of becoming my bride?”
So romantic! Bridget had thought. She’d been taught better than to eavesdrop, but if she’d made any attempt to move just then, she would have alerted them to her presence, and what if that destroyed the whole mood? Then Joy had blinked, swallowed hard, and stiffened her back. “I can’t, James,” she’d said. Then, snatching back her hand, she’d lifted the billowing blue satin of her skirt and raced across the lawn to the house.
Hours passed before Bridget returned to collect the last of the dishes and glasses scattered about by the guests. Yet he still stood alone where she’d last seen him. “Is there anything I can do for you, sir?”
Without looking up, James shook his head.
“Won’t you come inside and let me brew you a cup of tea?”
But he only shook his head again.
“But sir, ye’re pale as a ghost, and I can’t in good conscience leave you here alone. I’ll make a pest of myself, if I must, to get you inside, where it’s warm.” She gestured toward the yard. “Ye’ll catch yer death if you stay out here.”
When he gave no response, she linked her arm with his and led him to the house, chattering nonstop the whole way about the way Pastor Tillman had nearly choked on a wad of tobacco before pronouncing Drewry and Chase husband and wife; about the perfect weather, the delicious food, the pretty decorations…anything but the ceremony itself. “My name is Bridget, sir,” she said as they approached the front porch. “Bridget McKenna.”
The way he climbed the steps, Bridget couldn’t help but picture the tin soldiers lined up on the shelf at McDoogle’s Store back home. The poor man had found the woman he wanted to spend the rest of his days with, and her refusal had broken his spirit. Surely, Joy had a good reason for saying no, but that didn’t stop Bridget from feeling sorry for him.
Once inside, she stopped at the parlor door. “Why not have a seat there by the fire? I’ll fetch you a nice hot cup of tea.”
“I think I’d rather just go to bed.”
As she opened the door to his room, she said, “If you need anything, anything at all, just ring for me.”
Though he nodded as he stepped into the room, Bridget had a feeling he wouldn’t ring. In fact, something told her she might not see him at all before he returned to Baltimore. “Well,” she muttered as he closed the door, “I don’t suppose all matches are made in heaven….”
“Like Drewry and Chase, you mean?”
A tiny shriek escaped her lungs. “Land sakes, man,” she said, recognizing Lance. “Ye’ll be the death of me, sure!” Bridget regarded him with a wary eye. “Ye’ve got cat’s paws for feet. How else can I explain how you slink around without making a sound?”
Chuckling, Lance pocketed both hands. “I wasn’t slinking. You were so deep in thought, a herd of cattle could have thundered through here, and you wouldn’t have noticed until the dust cleared.”
Bridget raised an eyebrow. “Oh, I might’ve noticed a wee bit before then.” Pointing at his feet, she said, “There’d have been the stink of the stuff you’ve tracked across my clean floor to bring me around.” Planting both fists on her hips, she met his eyes. “Perhaps you have been raised as fine as those fancy airs you put on, Mr. York, for no self-respecting stable hand would enter the master’s house without first puttin’ his soles to the boot scrape by the servants’ entrance!”
***
Lance glanced down at his boots and the telltale clumps of mud and horse manure that showed the path he’d taken since entering the foyer. Feeling strangely like an errant child caught sneaking cookies before dinner, he was about to inform her that although this was indeed a grand mansion, it sat upon fertile pastureland. Did she really expect everyone who entered to wipe his boots? And who did she think she was, anyway, scolding him as if he were an ordinary—
Yet the moment he looked into her eyes to deliver his rebuttal, Lance’s ire abated. She was perhaps the loveliest creature he’d ever seen, tiny and feminine and just scrappy enough to be reckoned with. A mass of shining brick-red waves framed her heart-shaped face, and even after a long day of tending to and tidying up after wedding guests, her milky skin glowed with healthy radiance, making the pale freckles sprinkling her nose even more noticeable.
And those eyes! He’d seen her before, both up close and from a distance. Why hadn’t he noticed how large and thickly lashed they were?
“So, there’s another lesson yer ma obviously didn’t teach you. First, you thoughtlessly mess up the floors, and then, you stare like a simpleton.”
Lance blinked, then frowned in response to her anger. “What? I—I wasn’t—”
“You were, and you still are,” she interrupted him, crossing her arms over her chest as she lifted her chin.
If he didn’t know better, he’d say she was daring him to disagree!
Lance had no earthly idea where the thought came from, but, suddenly, he wanted nothing more than to grasp the narrow shoulders she’d thrown back in defiance and kiss her square on those full, pink lips. Sweet Jesus, he prayed, keep me true to my vow….
Newly resolved and strengthened, he straightened to his full five-foot eleven-inch height. “I didn’t mean to track dirt into the house,” he said at last. “If you like, I’ll help you clean it up. And you have my word, it won’t happen again.”
Grinning, she wiggled her perfectly arched brows. “Oh, that won’t be necessary.” Then, “I suppose I could have been a mite gentler with you, now, couldn’t I?” On the heels of a deep breath, Bridget added, “It’s been a long, hard day, not that that’s a good excuse for my harshness.” With one hand up to silence his denial, she continued, “I set aside a bit of cake and lemonade. Will you let me get it for you, as a peace offerin’?”
Truth was, he’d stuffed himself at the reception and had no idea where he’d put another bite of food, so his answer surprised him. “Only if you’ll share it with me.”
She turned on her heel and, wiggling a finger over her shoulder, said, “Then follow me, English.”
He did, too, like a pup on his boy’s heels. As they made their way down the stairs, she said, “What you said earlier….”
Lance fell into step beside her. “In response to your ‘not all matches are made in heaven’ comment?”
Rounding the corner into the kitchen, she nodded. “How’d you know that’s what I meant?”
He straddled a stool and leaned both elbows on the table. No woman had ever willingly served him before, unless he counted roadside tavern maids. Lance rather enjoyed watching Bridget bustling about, preparing the snack that had been her idea. “I overheard what went on between Drewry’s uncle and his lady friend, too,” he said. His smile became a frown. “Sad, the way she treated the bloke.”
Bridget laid a neatly folded napkin near his left elbow and unceremoniously plopped a silver fork atop it. “Now, let’s not be too quick to judge, English. We have no way of knowing why she said what she did.”
By the time she set the tall goblet of lemonade near the tines of his fork, he was all but scowling. “It’s been my experience,” he began, “that women don’t need a reason to be cruel.” He sat up straighter and feigned a dainty pose. “You’re such a darling man,” he sighed in a high-pitched falsetto. “Is that your heart?” he asked, pointing a dainty finger at his imaginary tablemate’s chest. Then, his hand formed an ugly claw as he pretended to tear into the invisible man’s rib cage. “I’ve got it!” he all but shouted, pretending to stuff it into his mouth.
Bridget stood gawking with one hand on her hip and then wrinkled her nose. “After ye’ve learned to wipe yer feet,” she said, sliding the cake plate in front of him, “we’ll have a go at teachin’ you how to make interesting table conversation.” After taking a sip of her own lemonade, she sat down across from him. “A body could only guess from that sorry demonstration that you’ve been wounded a time or two by love.”
“Not really,” he said around a bite of frosting. “And I’m sorry for the outburst.”
Smiling, she pressed a hand to his forearm. “You can apologize for scarin’ the soul from m’body, for dirtyin’ my floor.” Leaning closer, Bridget narrowed her eyes. “But don’t ever let me hear you say you’re sorry for what you feel, English.”
Resting his elbow on the table, Lance let the empty fork dangle from his hand. “What have you got against the English, if you don’t mind my asking?” Slicing off another hunk of cake, he added, “Keep in mind, I’m English only on my father’s side….”
Sighing, Bridget sat back. “Have you ever been to Ireland?”
Lance shook his head.
“And what do you know about the way your people dealt with the Irish during the famine?”
In place of an answer, Lance only shrugged.
She folded her hands on the tabletop. “Now, I’ll warn ye, ’tisn’t a pretty story.” Winking, she looked from side to side, as if in search of a spy. “And there’s a good chance you’ll dislike your folks as much as I do when I’ve finished.” Pausing, she said, “You sure you want me to go on?”
“I’m sure,” he said with a grin.
And for the next hour, she held him spellbound with her tale.
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
The Sheriff’s Surrender by Susan Page Davis
Tour Date: December 17
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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!
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:
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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.
Monday, December 14, 2009
Wisdom Hunter by Randall Arthur
Tour Date: December 16th
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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!
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:
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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.
Sunday, December 13, 2009
Shadow Government by Grant Jeffrey
Tour Date: December 15th
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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!
Grant R. Jeffrey is the internationally known prophecy researcher, Mideast expert, and author of Countdown to the Apocalypse, The New Temple and the Second Coming, The Next World War, and twenty other best-selling books. He is also the editor of the Prophecy Study Bible. His popular television program, Bible Prophecy Revealed, airs weekly on TBN. Jeffrey earned his master’s and PhD degrees from Louisiana Baptist University. He and his wife, Kaye, live in Toronto.
Visit the author's website.
Product Details:
List Price: $13.99
Paperback: 240 pages
Publisher: WaterBrook Press (October 6, 2009)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 1400074428
ISBN-13: 978-1400074426
AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:
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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:
WaterBrook Press (October 6, 2009)
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Grant R. Jeffrey is the internationally known prophecy researcher, Mideast expert, and author of Countdown to the Apocalypse, The New Temple and the Second Coming, The Next World War, and twenty other best-selling books. He is also the editor of the Prophecy Study Bible. His popular television program, Bible Prophecy Revealed, airs weekly on TBN. Jeffrey earned his master’s and PhD degrees from Louisiana Baptist University. He and his wife, Kaye, live in Toronto.Visit the author's website.
Product Details:
List Price: $13.99
Paperback: 240 pages
Publisher: WaterBrook Press (October 6, 2009)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 1400074428
ISBN-13: 978-1400074426
AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:
Part 1
TECHNOLOGY
THAT DESTROYS
YOUR PRIVACY
Chapter 1
YOU HAVE NO MORE PRIVACY
In the War Against Privacy, You Are the Target
An undeclared but very real war is being waged on your privacy and freedom. Your movements, personal communications, preferences, loyalties, habits—all these things are no longer private. And in spite of the fact that our privacy and liberty are under attack on multiple fronts, the average citizen in the Western world seems blissfully unaware of the threat.
We assume that our privacy, “the right to be left alone,” is secure. We couldn’t be more wrong. High-tech surveillance methods used by governments responding to the threats of terrorism, drug trafficking, tax evasion, and organized crime are stealing one of your most basic human rights—the right to privacy, the right to be left alone.
THE ALL-SEEING EYES
An interesting metaphor for the invasive surveillance society is found in a fascinating proposal for eighteenth-century prison reform. In 1785 philosopher and legal reformer Jeremy Bentham advocated that the English government build a state-of-the-art prison to more efficiently observe and guard dangerous prisoners with twenty-four-hour surveillance. Bentham’s proposed Panopticon prison called for the use of optical instruments and mirrors to allow a very small team of guards stationed in a central tower to observe hundreds of prisoners. Bentham’s system was designed in such a way that prisoners would never know when they were under active surveillance.
The idea was that the fear of continuous surveillance would motivate inmates to police their own behavior. Tragically, the practical application of Bentham’s nightmare vision is becoming reality in the twenty-first century. Advanced surveillance technologies available to government, corporations, and even your neighbors have created a twenty-four-hour, 365-day, total-surveillance society—the same system that would have violated the privacy of British prison inmates in 1785.
The current British home secretary, Jacqui Smith, exercises political control over all UK counterintelligence operations. This includes Scotland Yard’s
Counter Terrorism Command, the Security Service (MI5), and Government Communications Headquarters (GCHQ), the British government’s global eavesdropping operation. Smith is working to establish an enormous computer database that would collect for analysis every telephone call, all Internet searches, and all e-mails being transmitted within or outside of the United Kingdom.1
Your Life on Camera
Smith’s plans are but one manifestation of the all-seeing, all-hearing surveillance. The installation of closed-circuit television (CCTV) cameras in public places makes our daily activities, including our private interactions, a matter for close examination by unseen observers. My wife, Kaye, and I conducted a research trip in the United Kingdom in 2008. Although I had previously documented the massive adoption of CCTV by local councils and national authorities in the UK, I was stunned to see the extraordinary expansion of that type of surveillance. By the end of 2008, millions of CCTV cameras were monitoring the activities of every citizen and visitor in the country. The United Kingdom, the mother of Western political freedom and democracy, is now the most obsessively watched society in the West.
Surveillance cameras followed us during every step of our passage through UK customs and British immigration at Heathrow Airport. And it didn’t stop there. We were on camera as we acquired a car at the rental car agency office and as we proceeded out of the airport parking garage. As we entered the main highway, we noticed traffic-control cameras monitoring virtually every mile and covering every road, even in small towns. More than two thousand car-recognition cameras capture photos of cars, license plates, and drivers along with their passengers. Cameras recorded us as we purchased gas and food. Recent estimates by British authorities suggest that citizens and tourists alike will be captured on camera an average of five hundred times every day. Even London’s city buses are outfitted with an astonishing sixty thousand cameras, in addition to the ten thousand CCTV cameras on subway cars and trains.
But despite the almost universal presence of CCTV, even in back alleys, law enforcement authorities report that the cameras have not suppressed violent crime as much as they have displaced it. Surveillance cameras motivate criminals to move their activities a few blocks away—to a location with less-active CCTV surveillance.
A few years ago a million CCTV systems were operating in the United Kingdom. However, a 2008 article in the Guardian stated that an astounding 4.2 million CCTV cameras were being used in the surveillance of UK citizens and tourists.2
Cameras That Hear
It now goes far beyond simple cameras mounted on utility poles. Scientists have developed “listening” cameras that, paired with artificial intelligence software, recognize particular sounds such as gunshots, car crashes, and breaking glass. In response to certain sounds, the camera rotates and captures what could be a criminal or terrorist act. Despite the enormous financial cost and the invasiveness of the CCTV system, a report by the UK Home Office concluded that better street lighting is seven times more effective in preventing crime.
If watching you and listening to what you are saying is not enough, some new versions of CCTV technology enable police supervisors to confront you verbally through a speaker system. Law enforcement personnel can issue an immediate warning if they feel you are engaging in illegal behavior. And just in case all of this has not been disturbing enough for you, some UK municipalities are broadcasting local CCTV coverage on television. They ask citizens to tune in and watch so they can inform on the activities of their neighbors. Welcome to the world of block informers, a system you thought was limited to the horrors committed by the Nazis, the Soviets, and Communist China.
CCTV surveillance doesn’t end with cameras posted in public places. Miniature security cameras designed to promote safety and control crime on private property are now used for vastly expanded purposes. Companies use CCTV for the continual surveillance of employees during work-hours. They are observed at their desks, in washrooms, and throughout the office area. Employers justify the spying operations against employees, vendors, clients, customers, and visitors as a way to combat theft and industrial espionage. No matter what reasons are used to justify the surveillance, you are losing your privacy in just about every setting imaginable.
We live in a total surveillance environment that closely resembles the horror described by George Orwell in his famous novel 1984. Orwell described a future global regime composed of three totalitarian governments. In comparison to his horrific vision, computer technologies developed in the last few decades have created a daily environment far more threatening than any faced by the character Winston in 1984.
THEY KNOW EVERYTHING ABOUT YOU
The loss of privacy goes far beyond having your public activities monitored on camera. Scott McNealy, CEO of Sun Microsystems, declared some time ago that “privacy is dead, deal with it.”3
There are legal means that individuals and businesses can use to acquire and store information about you, obtained from your use of the Internet and even from such ordinary activities as shopping for groceries, buying a movie ticket, or ordering items online. You might think that you don’t provide information to governments, law enforcement agencies, and marketers. However, you are dispensing vast amounts of personal information every time you use a check, credit card, or debit card. Every time you make a purchase using these forms of payment, you supply information on your bank account, financial history, buying habits, and product preferences.
It seems that no information about you is insignificant. Your Internet searches, your online shopping, the e-mails you send, and the Web sites you access—all of these are of interest to someone. The subjects that attract you, the causes you support, your brand preferences, the topics you research on the Web, your reading habits online—all of these are important to Web site operators. Everything you do on the Internet, including visiting Web sites and chat rooms, sending and receiving e-mail, researching health issues and medical questions, and shopping is permanently recorded in a computer database. Google, the most popular Internet search engine, has admitted that it gathers and stores information on every one of the more than 330 million Internet searches completed every day.
What’s more, every e-mail you’ve ever sent or received and all the online searches you have completed are available to police and intelligence agencies. Who is so careful in what they say in private e-mails that they would never include a statement that might someday be considered suspicious to certain government authorities? And who considers the potential damage to their future career plans or credit rating that could result from research they have done using the Internet? For example, an innocent medical search to gain information about a disease such as Alzheimer’s, even if you are doing the research for a relative or friend, could be accessed by an investigator during a background check when you apply for a job. Even the possibility of a link between a prospective employee and a devastating disease could be sufficient cause to reject your employment application.4
Your Entire History on Exhibit
Attacks on privacy are not new. Beginning in 1917, after destroying the first elected government of Russia, the new communist dictatorship of Lenin began a process of secret police surveillance of its entire society. Even in the democratic nations of the West, government intelligence and police agencies created a surveillance system to monitor citizens’ activities. Prior to this war on privacy, only the few individuals suspected of criminal activity, sabotage, or sedition were considered worthy of police surveillance. But now, with rapid advances in sophisticated surveillance devices and computer technologies, most national governments have developed an intense interest in every citizen. Governments gather enormous amounts of previously private information on the assets, activities, communications, financial transactions, health, and political and religious activities of virtually every person on earth—and with relative ease.
Many military intelligence agencies, government agencies, and large corporations have introduced sophisticated security systems requiring employees to wear a badge containing a radio frequency identification microchip. This RFID chip enables companies, agencies, and organizations to monitor the location and activity of every worker during every moment he or she is on the premises. When an employee enters the office, a computer records the exact time and begins monitoring his or her every move throughout the day. Security sensors at strategic locations throughout the office complex record the location and duration of the activities of the badge wearer.
Many office phone systems monitor all private phone calls made by employees while at work. Computerized phone systems maintain a permanent record of all known phone numbers of clients, customers, and vendors. If an employee places a personal call, the phone system records the unauthorized number and produces a report of the employee’s private calls, along with the duration of such calls. This data can be used against the employee at the next performance evaluation.5
It’s interesting that U.S. corporations are using secret employee surveillance more than businesses in any other nation. The American Civil Liberties Union has warned, “Criminals have more privacy rights than employees. Police have to get a court order [to eavesdrop on suspected criminals], whereas in the workplace, surveillance can be conducted without safeguards.”6 Computer network security supervisors in many companies go as far as to monitor the keystrokes and productivity of all employees who use a computer in their work. Employees often complain about the stress they experience knowing they are being monitored constantly throughout the day. In many companies, computer spy ware monitors an employee’s Internet activities. Add to this the growing use of random drug testing, secret cameras in washrooms, and intrusive psychological questionnaires. The bottom line is that companies are creating an adversarial and unhealthy psychological environment for workers.
You should be appalled to know that your local and state police, federal intelligence agencies, government officials, employers, and even curious neighbors and business competitors can acquire virtually all of your private information. A record of your travel destinations, the newspapers and books you read, your video rentals, your pay-TV choices, your traffic tickets, your medical tests, as well as your private purchases are recorded in computer files. Anyone with enough computer knowledge can access your information, legally or not.
There is a growing public awareness and concern about the numerous attacks on our privacy through the misuse of computer records. However, the United States Congress and Canada’s Parliament have failed to enact serious laws to protect the privacy of citizens’ medical, criminal, and financial records.
Your Secret Life Now on Camera
Security companies that work under contract for large corporations have found ways to make use of advances in surveillance devices. Virtually invisible pinhole cameras can be placed behind a wall to monitor everything that goes on in an adjacent room, both visually and audibly. The tiny lens, which is the size of a pinhead, is unnoticeable. Infrared cameras can record images silently and in near-total darkness. Another type of surveillance camera can be concealed in a mobile telephone, recording events through the tiny hole normally used for the microphone. This tool often is used for industrial espionage, stealing trade secrets from a competitor. It is also useful in gaining the upper hand in business negotiations. For example, during a face-to-face meeting in a protracted negotiation, the user of the cell phone can leave the phone in the boardroom when he exits to take a break. As the other team discusses their strategy, supposedly in private, the cell phone is recording the conversation.
Surveillance devices are also being used much more widely by individuals. For several hundred dollars, you can obtain a device that enables you to monitor every conversation that takes place in your home or office while you are away. A remote monitoring device known as the XPS-1000 allows you to listen to conversations in your office or home by using the telephone. From a remote location, you dial your phone number using a secret activation code. The phone will not ring, but from that moment on, you can monitor every sound in the room where the phone is located. Another tiny device, a micro transmitter powered for three months by a miniature battery, can be left in any room and will broadcast for a distance of up to one thousand yards to a hidden radio receiver–tape recorder.
While fascinating, the miniaturization of cameras, microphones, and recording devices has stolen what was left of our privacy. If a person is determined to monitor your activities, you can’t prevent it. You can try to guard your privacy by using a software program or device designed to protect your communications. But in doing so, you will have inadvertently alerted intelligence agencies and private investigators that you have something worth keeping private. This may cause them to increase the level of surveillance in an attempt to discover why you want to avoid it.
Abuse of Legitimate Data
All U.S. intelligence agencies, including the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms, and Explosives (ATF) and the Federal Bureau of Investigation (FBI), can access data from the National Identification Center to identify and monitor every registered gun owner in the United States. However, we have to ask this question: what else will government agencies pursue using legitimate and legally acquired data?
Two of America’s most secretive agencies, the National Reconnaissance Office (NRO) and the National Security Agency (NSA), maintain a massive global surveillance system known as Project Echelon. This system can monitor every telephone call, fax, Internet search, and e-mail transmission worldwide. (We will look more closely at the remarkable capabilities of this massive surveillance system in chapter 5.) We need to face the sobering truth that we can’t escape the growing surveillance capabilities of all governments, both East and West. These developments turn our attention to the last-days prophecy from the book of Revelation about a coming totalitarian police system. John warned that a person’s every activity will be controlled: “That no man might buy or sell, save he that had the mark, or the name of the beast, or the number of his name”
(Revelation 13:17). Remarkably, John was describing a universal population control system that would impose some kind of numerical identification on every person in order to monitor his or her financial transactions, trade, business, and ability to buy and sell. This system will enable law enforcement authorities working for the Antichrist and his partner, the False Prophet (see Revelation 13:16), to control the world’s population through a unique ID, based on the number 666, on everyone’s right hand or forehead. The recent subcutaneous pet identification chips could easily be inserted in each human being.
WHO WANTS TO CONTROL YOU?
Government authorities, national security agencies, and businesses that market and sell consumer products know far more about you than most of your friends and family will ever know. People you will never meet have compiled personal information about the details of your daily life, place of residence, type of residence, spending habits, and financial assets. Government agencies justify the invasion of your privacy by reminding us of the threats posed by international terrorism, organized crime, the influx of illegal immigrants, and citizens who defraud the government as welfare cheats or tax evaders.
The NSA possesses detailed records of millions of U.S. citizens, including your communications, health status, medical treatments, employment status, vehicle ownership, driving record, criminal record, and real-estate holdings. In addition, all of your credit records, banking and financial transactions, credit rating, educational transcripts, and travel records are available to many major corporations and government research institutes.
Your life is also of great interest to foreign governments. Most of the Western democratic governments, as well as the governments of China and Russia, are thought to maintain enormous computer databases filled with details about millions of U.S. citizens. Data storage is just the first step. Next will be the most effective ways to organize, categorize, and use this private information. This hurdle will be removed when the government assigns a unique identification number to each citizen. Once that is accomplished, the staggering number of separate files on individual citizens in various databases can be combined into a single massive intelligence file. (We will talk more about this process in chapter 3.)
A confirmation of the consolidation of citizen data was publicized in the Canadian press on May 19, 2000. The Canadian government reluctantly confirmed that up to two thousand significant pieces of information had been assembled on virtually every Canadian citizen in a massive database known as the Longitudinal Labor Force File. As a result of strident public criticism following these revelations, the Canadian government promised to destroy the computer program that linked these files. However, the federal government admitted they still will retain computer data on more than thirty million Canadians— data that are retained in separate computer files held by a variety of government departments, including the Canadian Security Intelligence Service (CSIS), Royal Canadian Mounted Police (RCMP), Immigration, and provincial police forces.7
A SECRET CHIP IN YOUR CREDIT CARDS
Your credit and debit cards are much more than a convenient way to pay for goods and services. The magnetic strip on a credit card or debit card holds electronic data verifying your identity, as well as information validating your right to access particular computer databases, such as your bank accounts. More and more, these cards are being replaced by higher-security smart cards that contain even more information about you. A smart card contains an embedded RFID chip capable of holding millions of times more digital information than is contained in a card’s magnetic strip.
Smart cards provide high levels of security, since they are capable of storing biometric information, such as the iris pattern in the eye of the authorized user. These new cards will document the user’s identity by measuring 173 distinct characteristics from the rings, burrows, and filaments within the iris. The stored data is compared with an iris scan made by a surveillance camera that can read your iris pattern from a distance of several yards.
Other identifying data include your precise hand geometry, which involves identifying you by measuring the length of your fingers and the translucence and thickness of your skin. Infrared scanners can reveal and record the patterns of veins on your palm or the back of your hand. Voice-recognition software can confirm your identity through digital measurement of your voice tone and timbre. Incredibly, a new machine can puff air over the back of your hand, analyze your subtle body odors, and detect as many as thirty separate trace chemical elements that supply a positive identification reading.8 All of this data, and more, can be stored in an RFID chip.
Soon you will be able to replace your credit and debit cards with one very secure smart card that is virtually immune to counterfeiting and attacks by hackers. The data will be encrypted, and your unique passwords—including biometric information—will be required for you to use the card. More than two and a half billion radio frequency smart cards now in use worldwide can perform these functions:
cash transactions such as rechargeable stored-value cards that carry a predetermined monetary value
confidential transferring of medical data to paramedics and hospital in the event of a medical crisis
control of entry into high-security workplaces and computer systems
access to air travel as well as to trains, subways, and buses
These are some of the benefits of the smart card.9However, the growing use of RFID cards will make it possible for government, police, and intelligence agencies to track the activities, location, communications, and financial transactions of every citizen from cradle to grave.
AN INTERNATIONAL STANDARD FOR PRIVACY
Growing concerns over privacy have motivated representatives of member nations of the European Union (EU) to create an international standard for privacy. The basic rules are as follows:
All privacy regulations apply to both government and private organizations.
Data collection should be limited to that which can be obtained legally and with the knowledge and consent of the citizen subject, except where this is impossible or inappropriate (e.g., criminals).
Data sought on individuals should be limited to the original purpose and kept up to date. The purpose of data collection should be specified, and subsequent use of data should be limited to the original purpose.
No personal data should be disclosed to others without the consent of the subject or without a court order.
All personal data must be kept secure using all reasonable precautions.
All citizens should be able to access, review, and challenge inaccurate data held in databases.
The government agency controller of the database should be legally and criminally accountable for abiding by these privacy principles.
The policies and practices of organizations holding databases on individuals should reveal the information to those who legally inquire.
Private data collected by EU member corporations and states may not be transmitted to organizations in nations that do not have privacy regulations equal to those of the European Union.10
The introduction of similar legislation in America, Canada, and other democratic nations could provide significant protection against the abuse of our privacy. The Organization of Economic Cooperation and Development (OECD) is an international group of twenty-nine developed nations from North America, Europe, and Asia that has suggested the creation of powerful, binding privacy standards for both governments and businesses.11
The reality is that the growing attacks on our personal security are rapidly overwhelming the proposed defenses. One potential solution is to use a smart stored-value card that would allow a person to make a payment while the card restricts the merchant from accessing the purchaser’s identity. The card would also prevent merchants and anyone receiving an electronic funds transfer from tracking previous purchases made by that customer. For example, a smart card developed by Mondex International allows customers to transfer funds from their card to a merchant’s account to make a purchase. However, when the merchant’s bank accepts the transfer of funds to cover purchases made using Mondex cards, the bank is not able to identify the actual purchasers. A similar system is used by Visa International in its Visa cash card. The disposable card does not permit merchants to identify the person who used the card.
WHAT YOU CAN DO
There are hopeful signs that, after years of indifference to the threats to our privacy and financial security, the public is awakening to the heightened dangers posed by new surveillance technologies.
When it was revealed that Intel Corporation had embedded in every Pentium III chip a secret serial number that would allow the person using the computer to be identified, customers and privacy groups launched a protest.12 Additionally, Microsoft had embedded a hidden identification number in all documents produced by any computer using Microsoft software. The protests that followed forced the company to provide a free software program that eliminated the identifying number.13 However, the vast majority of computer users of Microsoft software are unaware of the privacy problem, and most lack the expertise to fix it.
If we are to protect what little privacy we still have, we should encourage a healthy debate about the relative advantages and disadvantages of each new technological development. Citizen involvement and thoughtful protest against the governmental and corporate threats to our privacy can slow down this relentless attack. We need to defend our right to maintain a personal life that is free from outside interference and intrusion.
Still, in violation of constitutional guarantees to the contrary, our society continues to move toward an all-encompassing surveillance society, which is described in the prophecies of the book of Revelation. We will live to see the time when our right to privacy and the freedom to be left alone are nothing more than distant memories.
TECHNOLOGY
THAT DESTROYS
YOUR PRIVACY
Chapter 1
YOU HAVE NO MORE PRIVACY
In the War Against Privacy, You Are the Target
An undeclared but very real war is being waged on your privacy and freedom. Your movements, personal communications, preferences, loyalties, habits—all these things are no longer private. And in spite of the fact that our privacy and liberty are under attack on multiple fronts, the average citizen in the Western world seems blissfully unaware of the threat.
We assume that our privacy, “the right to be left alone,” is secure. We couldn’t be more wrong. High-tech surveillance methods used by governments responding to the threats of terrorism, drug trafficking, tax evasion, and organized crime are stealing one of your most basic human rights—the right to privacy, the right to be left alone.
THE ALL-SEEING EYES
An interesting metaphor for the invasive surveillance society is found in a fascinating proposal for eighteenth-century prison reform. In 1785 philosopher and legal reformer Jeremy Bentham advocated that the English government build a state-of-the-art prison to more efficiently observe and guard dangerous prisoners with twenty-four-hour surveillance. Bentham’s proposed Panopticon prison called for the use of optical instruments and mirrors to allow a very small team of guards stationed in a central tower to observe hundreds of prisoners. Bentham’s system was designed in such a way that prisoners would never know when they were under active surveillance.
The idea was that the fear of continuous surveillance would motivate inmates to police their own behavior. Tragically, the practical application of Bentham’s nightmare vision is becoming reality in the twenty-first century. Advanced surveillance technologies available to government, corporations, and even your neighbors have created a twenty-four-hour, 365-day, total-surveillance society—the same system that would have violated the privacy of British prison inmates in 1785.
The current British home secretary, Jacqui Smith, exercises political control over all UK counterintelligence operations. This includes Scotland Yard’s
Counter Terrorism Command, the Security Service (MI5), and Government Communications Headquarters (GCHQ), the British government’s global eavesdropping operation. Smith is working to establish an enormous computer database that would collect for analysis every telephone call, all Internet searches, and all e-mails being transmitted within or outside of the United Kingdom.1
Your Life on Camera
Smith’s plans are but one manifestation of the all-seeing, all-hearing surveillance. The installation of closed-circuit television (CCTV) cameras in public places makes our daily activities, including our private interactions, a matter for close examination by unseen observers. My wife, Kaye, and I conducted a research trip in the United Kingdom in 2008. Although I had previously documented the massive adoption of CCTV by local councils and national authorities in the UK, I was stunned to see the extraordinary expansion of that type of surveillance. By the end of 2008, millions of CCTV cameras were monitoring the activities of every citizen and visitor in the country. The United Kingdom, the mother of Western political freedom and democracy, is now the most obsessively watched society in the West.
Surveillance cameras followed us during every step of our passage through UK customs and British immigration at Heathrow Airport. And it didn’t stop there. We were on camera as we acquired a car at the rental car agency office and as we proceeded out of the airport parking garage. As we entered the main highway, we noticed traffic-control cameras monitoring virtually every mile and covering every road, even in small towns. More than two thousand car-recognition cameras capture photos of cars, license plates, and drivers along with their passengers. Cameras recorded us as we purchased gas and food. Recent estimates by British authorities suggest that citizens and tourists alike will be captured on camera an average of five hundred times every day. Even London’s city buses are outfitted with an astonishing sixty thousand cameras, in addition to the ten thousand CCTV cameras on subway cars and trains.
But despite the almost universal presence of CCTV, even in back alleys, law enforcement authorities report that the cameras have not suppressed violent crime as much as they have displaced it. Surveillance cameras motivate criminals to move their activities a few blocks away—to a location with less-active CCTV surveillance.
A few years ago a million CCTV systems were operating in the United Kingdom. However, a 2008 article in the Guardian stated that an astounding 4.2 million CCTV cameras were being used in the surveillance of UK citizens and tourists.2
Cameras That Hear
It now goes far beyond simple cameras mounted on utility poles. Scientists have developed “listening” cameras that, paired with artificial intelligence software, recognize particular sounds such as gunshots, car crashes, and breaking glass. In response to certain sounds, the camera rotates and captures what could be a criminal or terrorist act. Despite the enormous financial cost and the invasiveness of the CCTV system, a report by the UK Home Office concluded that better street lighting is seven times more effective in preventing crime.
If watching you and listening to what you are saying is not enough, some new versions of CCTV technology enable police supervisors to confront you verbally through a speaker system. Law enforcement personnel can issue an immediate warning if they feel you are engaging in illegal behavior. And just in case all of this has not been disturbing enough for you, some UK municipalities are broadcasting local CCTV coverage on television. They ask citizens to tune in and watch so they can inform on the activities of their neighbors. Welcome to the world of block informers, a system you thought was limited to the horrors committed by the Nazis, the Soviets, and Communist China.
CCTV surveillance doesn’t end with cameras posted in public places. Miniature security cameras designed to promote safety and control crime on private property are now used for vastly expanded purposes. Companies use CCTV for the continual surveillance of employees during work-hours. They are observed at their desks, in washrooms, and throughout the office area. Employers justify the spying operations against employees, vendors, clients, customers, and visitors as a way to combat theft and industrial espionage. No matter what reasons are used to justify the surveillance, you are losing your privacy in just about every setting imaginable.
We live in a total surveillance environment that closely resembles the horror described by George Orwell in his famous novel 1984. Orwell described a future global regime composed of three totalitarian governments. In comparison to his horrific vision, computer technologies developed in the last few decades have created a daily environment far more threatening than any faced by the character Winston in 1984.
THEY KNOW EVERYTHING ABOUT YOU
The loss of privacy goes far beyond having your public activities monitored on camera. Scott McNealy, CEO of Sun Microsystems, declared some time ago that “privacy is dead, deal with it.”3
There are legal means that individuals and businesses can use to acquire and store information about you, obtained from your use of the Internet and even from such ordinary activities as shopping for groceries, buying a movie ticket, or ordering items online. You might think that you don’t provide information to governments, law enforcement agencies, and marketers. However, you are dispensing vast amounts of personal information every time you use a check, credit card, or debit card. Every time you make a purchase using these forms of payment, you supply information on your bank account, financial history, buying habits, and product preferences.
It seems that no information about you is insignificant. Your Internet searches, your online shopping, the e-mails you send, and the Web sites you access—all of these are of interest to someone. The subjects that attract you, the causes you support, your brand preferences, the topics you research on the Web, your reading habits online—all of these are important to Web site operators. Everything you do on the Internet, including visiting Web sites and chat rooms, sending and receiving e-mail, researching health issues and medical questions, and shopping is permanently recorded in a computer database. Google, the most popular Internet search engine, has admitted that it gathers and stores information on every one of the more than 330 million Internet searches completed every day.
What’s more, every e-mail you’ve ever sent or received and all the online searches you have completed are available to police and intelligence agencies. Who is so careful in what they say in private e-mails that they would never include a statement that might someday be considered suspicious to certain government authorities? And who considers the potential damage to their future career plans or credit rating that could result from research they have done using the Internet? For example, an innocent medical search to gain information about a disease such as Alzheimer’s, even if you are doing the research for a relative or friend, could be accessed by an investigator during a background check when you apply for a job. Even the possibility of a link between a prospective employee and a devastating disease could be sufficient cause to reject your employment application.4
Your Entire History on Exhibit
Attacks on privacy are not new. Beginning in 1917, after destroying the first elected government of Russia, the new communist dictatorship of Lenin began a process of secret police surveillance of its entire society. Even in the democratic nations of the West, government intelligence and police agencies created a surveillance system to monitor citizens’ activities. Prior to this war on privacy, only the few individuals suspected of criminal activity, sabotage, or sedition were considered worthy of police surveillance. But now, with rapid advances in sophisticated surveillance devices and computer technologies, most national governments have developed an intense interest in every citizen. Governments gather enormous amounts of previously private information on the assets, activities, communications, financial transactions, health, and political and religious activities of virtually every person on earth—and with relative ease.
Many military intelligence agencies, government agencies, and large corporations have introduced sophisticated security systems requiring employees to wear a badge containing a radio frequency identification microchip. This RFID chip enables companies, agencies, and organizations to monitor the location and activity of every worker during every moment he or she is on the premises. When an employee enters the office, a computer records the exact time and begins monitoring his or her every move throughout the day. Security sensors at strategic locations throughout the office complex record the location and duration of the activities of the badge wearer.
Many office phone systems monitor all private phone calls made by employees while at work. Computerized phone systems maintain a permanent record of all known phone numbers of clients, customers, and vendors. If an employee places a personal call, the phone system records the unauthorized number and produces a report of the employee’s private calls, along with the duration of such calls. This data can be used against the employee at the next performance evaluation.5
It’s interesting that U.S. corporations are using secret employee surveillance more than businesses in any other nation. The American Civil Liberties Union has warned, “Criminals have more privacy rights than employees. Police have to get a court order [to eavesdrop on suspected criminals], whereas in the workplace, surveillance can be conducted without safeguards.”6 Computer network security supervisors in many companies go as far as to monitor the keystrokes and productivity of all employees who use a computer in their work. Employees often complain about the stress they experience knowing they are being monitored constantly throughout the day. In many companies, computer spy ware monitors an employee’s Internet activities. Add to this the growing use of random drug testing, secret cameras in washrooms, and intrusive psychological questionnaires. The bottom line is that companies are creating an adversarial and unhealthy psychological environment for workers.
You should be appalled to know that your local and state police, federal intelligence agencies, government officials, employers, and even curious neighbors and business competitors can acquire virtually all of your private information. A record of your travel destinations, the newspapers and books you read, your video rentals, your pay-TV choices, your traffic tickets, your medical tests, as well as your private purchases are recorded in computer files. Anyone with enough computer knowledge can access your information, legally or not.
There is a growing public awareness and concern about the numerous attacks on our privacy through the misuse of computer records. However, the United States Congress and Canada’s Parliament have failed to enact serious laws to protect the privacy of citizens’ medical, criminal, and financial records.
Your Secret Life Now on Camera
Security companies that work under contract for large corporations have found ways to make use of advances in surveillance devices. Virtually invisible pinhole cameras can be placed behind a wall to monitor everything that goes on in an adjacent room, both visually and audibly. The tiny lens, which is the size of a pinhead, is unnoticeable. Infrared cameras can record images silently and in near-total darkness. Another type of surveillance camera can be concealed in a mobile telephone, recording events through the tiny hole normally used for the microphone. This tool often is used for industrial espionage, stealing trade secrets from a competitor. It is also useful in gaining the upper hand in business negotiations. For example, during a face-to-face meeting in a protracted negotiation, the user of the cell phone can leave the phone in the boardroom when he exits to take a break. As the other team discusses their strategy, supposedly in private, the cell phone is recording the conversation.
Surveillance devices are also being used much more widely by individuals. For several hundred dollars, you can obtain a device that enables you to monitor every conversation that takes place in your home or office while you are away. A remote monitoring device known as the XPS-1000 allows you to listen to conversations in your office or home by using the telephone. From a remote location, you dial your phone number using a secret activation code. The phone will not ring, but from that moment on, you can monitor every sound in the room where the phone is located. Another tiny device, a micro transmitter powered for three months by a miniature battery, can be left in any room and will broadcast for a distance of up to one thousand yards to a hidden radio receiver–tape recorder.
While fascinating, the miniaturization of cameras, microphones, and recording devices has stolen what was left of our privacy. If a person is determined to monitor your activities, you can’t prevent it. You can try to guard your privacy by using a software program or device designed to protect your communications. But in doing so, you will have inadvertently alerted intelligence agencies and private investigators that you have something worth keeping private. This may cause them to increase the level of surveillance in an attempt to discover why you want to avoid it.
Abuse of Legitimate Data
All U.S. intelligence agencies, including the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms, and Explosives (ATF) and the Federal Bureau of Investigation (FBI), can access data from the National Identification Center to identify and monitor every registered gun owner in the United States. However, we have to ask this question: what else will government agencies pursue using legitimate and legally acquired data?
Two of America’s most secretive agencies, the National Reconnaissance Office (NRO) and the National Security Agency (NSA), maintain a massive global surveillance system known as Project Echelon. This system can monitor every telephone call, fax, Internet search, and e-mail transmission worldwide. (We will look more closely at the remarkable capabilities of this massive surveillance system in chapter 5.) We need to face the sobering truth that we can’t escape the growing surveillance capabilities of all governments, both East and West. These developments turn our attention to the last-days prophecy from the book of Revelation about a coming totalitarian police system. John warned that a person’s every activity will be controlled: “That no man might buy or sell, save he that had the mark, or the name of the beast, or the number of his name”
(Revelation 13:17). Remarkably, John was describing a universal population control system that would impose some kind of numerical identification on every person in order to monitor his or her financial transactions, trade, business, and ability to buy and sell. This system will enable law enforcement authorities working for the Antichrist and his partner, the False Prophet (see Revelation 13:16), to control the world’s population through a unique ID, based on the number 666, on everyone’s right hand or forehead. The recent subcutaneous pet identification chips could easily be inserted in each human being.
WHO WANTS TO CONTROL YOU?
Government authorities, national security agencies, and businesses that market and sell consumer products know far more about you than most of your friends and family will ever know. People you will never meet have compiled personal information about the details of your daily life, place of residence, type of residence, spending habits, and financial assets. Government agencies justify the invasion of your privacy by reminding us of the threats posed by international terrorism, organized crime, the influx of illegal immigrants, and citizens who defraud the government as welfare cheats or tax evaders.
The NSA possesses detailed records of millions of U.S. citizens, including your communications, health status, medical treatments, employment status, vehicle ownership, driving record, criminal record, and real-estate holdings. In addition, all of your credit records, banking and financial transactions, credit rating, educational transcripts, and travel records are available to many major corporations and government research institutes.
Your life is also of great interest to foreign governments. Most of the Western democratic governments, as well as the governments of China and Russia, are thought to maintain enormous computer databases filled with details about millions of U.S. citizens. Data storage is just the first step. Next will be the most effective ways to organize, categorize, and use this private information. This hurdle will be removed when the government assigns a unique identification number to each citizen. Once that is accomplished, the staggering number of separate files on individual citizens in various databases can be combined into a single massive intelligence file. (We will talk more about this process in chapter 3.)
A confirmation of the consolidation of citizen data was publicized in the Canadian press on May 19, 2000. The Canadian government reluctantly confirmed that up to two thousand significant pieces of information had been assembled on virtually every Canadian citizen in a massive database known as the Longitudinal Labor Force File. As a result of strident public criticism following these revelations, the Canadian government promised to destroy the computer program that linked these files. However, the federal government admitted they still will retain computer data on more than thirty million Canadians— data that are retained in separate computer files held by a variety of government departments, including the Canadian Security Intelligence Service (CSIS), Royal Canadian Mounted Police (RCMP), Immigration, and provincial police forces.7
A SECRET CHIP IN YOUR CREDIT CARDS
Your credit and debit cards are much more than a convenient way to pay for goods and services. The magnetic strip on a credit card or debit card holds electronic data verifying your identity, as well as information validating your right to access particular computer databases, such as your bank accounts. More and more, these cards are being replaced by higher-security smart cards that contain even more information about you. A smart card contains an embedded RFID chip capable of holding millions of times more digital information than is contained in a card’s magnetic strip.
Smart cards provide high levels of security, since they are capable of storing biometric information, such as the iris pattern in the eye of the authorized user. These new cards will document the user’s identity by measuring 173 distinct characteristics from the rings, burrows, and filaments within the iris. The stored data is compared with an iris scan made by a surveillance camera that can read your iris pattern from a distance of several yards.
Other identifying data include your precise hand geometry, which involves identifying you by measuring the length of your fingers and the translucence and thickness of your skin. Infrared scanners can reveal and record the patterns of veins on your palm or the back of your hand. Voice-recognition software can confirm your identity through digital measurement of your voice tone and timbre. Incredibly, a new machine can puff air over the back of your hand, analyze your subtle body odors, and detect as many as thirty separate trace chemical elements that supply a positive identification reading.8 All of this data, and more, can be stored in an RFID chip.
Soon you will be able to replace your credit and debit cards with one very secure smart card that is virtually immune to counterfeiting and attacks by hackers. The data will be encrypted, and your unique passwords—including biometric information—will be required for you to use the card. More than two and a half billion radio frequency smart cards now in use worldwide can perform these functions:
cash transactions such as rechargeable stored-value cards that carry a predetermined monetary value
confidential transferring of medical data to paramedics and hospital in the event of a medical crisis
control of entry into high-security workplaces and computer systems
access to air travel as well as to trains, subways, and buses
These are some of the benefits of the smart card.9However, the growing use of RFID cards will make it possible for government, police, and intelligence agencies to track the activities, location, communications, and financial transactions of every citizen from cradle to grave.
AN INTERNATIONAL STANDARD FOR PRIVACY
Growing concerns over privacy have motivated representatives of member nations of the European Union (EU) to create an international standard for privacy. The basic rules are as follows:
All privacy regulations apply to both government and private organizations.
Data collection should be limited to that which can be obtained legally and with the knowledge and consent of the citizen subject, except where this is impossible or inappropriate (e.g., criminals).
Data sought on individuals should be limited to the original purpose and kept up to date. The purpose of data collection should be specified, and subsequent use of data should be limited to the original purpose.
No personal data should be disclosed to others without the consent of the subject or without a court order.
All personal data must be kept secure using all reasonable precautions.
All citizens should be able to access, review, and challenge inaccurate data held in databases.
The government agency controller of the database should be legally and criminally accountable for abiding by these privacy principles.
The policies and practices of organizations holding databases on individuals should reveal the information to those who legally inquire.
Private data collected by EU member corporations and states may not be transmitted to organizations in nations that do not have privacy regulations equal to those of the European Union.10
The introduction of similar legislation in America, Canada, and other democratic nations could provide significant protection against the abuse of our privacy. The Organization of Economic Cooperation and Development (OECD) is an international group of twenty-nine developed nations from North America, Europe, and Asia that has suggested the creation of powerful, binding privacy standards for both governments and businesses.11
The reality is that the growing attacks on our personal security are rapidly overwhelming the proposed defenses. One potential solution is to use a smart stored-value card that would allow a person to make a payment while the card restricts the merchant from accessing the purchaser’s identity. The card would also prevent merchants and anyone receiving an electronic funds transfer from tracking previous purchases made by that customer. For example, a smart card developed by Mondex International allows customers to transfer funds from their card to a merchant’s account to make a purchase. However, when the merchant’s bank accepts the transfer of funds to cover purchases made using Mondex cards, the bank is not able to identify the actual purchasers. A similar system is used by Visa International in its Visa cash card. The disposable card does not permit merchants to identify the person who used the card.
WHAT YOU CAN DO
There are hopeful signs that, after years of indifference to the threats to our privacy and financial security, the public is awakening to the heightened dangers posed by new surveillance technologies.
When it was revealed that Intel Corporation had embedded in every Pentium III chip a secret serial number that would allow the person using the computer to be identified, customers and privacy groups launched a protest.12 Additionally, Microsoft had embedded a hidden identification number in all documents produced by any computer using Microsoft software. The protests that followed forced the company to provide a free software program that eliminated the identifying number.13 However, the vast majority of computer users of Microsoft software are unaware of the privacy problem, and most lack the expertise to fix it.
If we are to protect what little privacy we still have, we should encourage a healthy debate about the relative advantages and disadvantages of each new technological development. Citizen involvement and thoughtful protest against the governmental and corporate threats to our privacy can slow down this relentless attack. We need to defend our right to maintain a personal life that is free from outside interference and intrusion.
Still, in violation of constitutional guarantees to the contrary, our society continues to move toward an all-encompassing surveillance society, which is described in the prophecies of the book of Revelation. We will live to see the time when our right to privacy and the freedom to be left alone are nothing more than distant memories.
Saturday, December 12, 2009
Joyce Meyer: A Life of Redemption and Destiny by Richard Young
Tour Date: Dec. 14th
When the tour date arrives, copy and paste the HTML Provided in the box. Don't forget to add your honest review if you wish! PLEASE LEAVE A COMMENT ON THIS POST WHEN THE TOUR COMES AROUND!
Grab the HTML for the entire post (will look like the post below):
***************************************************************************
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!
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:
When the tour date arrives, copy and paste the HTML Provided in the box. Don't forget to add your honest review if you wish! PLEASE LEAVE A COMMENT ON THIS POST WHEN THE TOUR COMES AROUND!
Grab the HTML for the entire post (will look like the post below):
***************************************************************************
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.
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
Rocky Mountain Oasis by Lynnette Bonner
Tour Date: Dec. 11th, 2009
When the tour date arrives, copy and paste the HTML Provided in the box. Don't forget to add your honest review if you wish! PLEASE LEAVE A COMMENT ON THIS POST WHEN THE TOUR COMES AROUND!
Grab the HTML for the entire post (will look like the post below):
***************************************************************************
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!
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:
When the tour date arrives, copy and paste the HTML Provided in the box. Don't forget to add your honest review if you wish! PLEASE LEAVE A COMMENT ON THIS POST WHEN THE TOUR COMES AROUND!
Grab the HTML for the entire post (will look like the post below):
***************************************************************************
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
Monday, December 7, 2009
Alcohol Today: Abstinence in an Age of Indulgence by Peter Lumpkins
Tour Date: Dec 10, 2009
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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!
Peter Lumpkins is a Southern Baptist minister living in West Georgia. For more than 20 years, Peter served as a pastor in Kentucky, Tennessee and Georgia. Presently he serves as editor of a developing small-group Bible study series. Peter has degrees in religion and philosophy (B.A.), theology (M.Div.) and expository preaching (D.Min.). He also completed graduate work in bioethics.
Visit the author's website.
Product Details:
List Price: $14.95
Paperback: 176 pages
Publisher: Hannibal Books (July 6, 2009)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 1934749524
ISBN-13: 978-1934749524
AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:
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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:
Alcohol Today: Abstinence in an Age of Indulgence
Hannibal Books (July 6, 2009)
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Peter Lumpkins is a Southern Baptist minister living in West Georgia. For more than 20 years, Peter served as a pastor in Kentucky, Tennessee and Georgia. Presently he serves as editor of a developing small-group Bible study series. Peter has degrees in religion and philosophy (B.A.), theology (M.Div.) and expository preaching (D.Min.). He also completed graduate work in bioethics. Visit the author's website.
Product Details:
List Price: $14.95
Paperback: 176 pages
Publisher: Hannibal Books (July 6, 2009)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 1934749524
ISBN-13: 978-1934749524
AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:
"Why This Book"
While sitting in the coffee shop finalizing my outline for this project, my eyes drifted from the page I was writing to the screen of my laptop before me. My eyes latched onto the headline, ”College President Resigns Over Alcohol Incident.” Thinking it was just another typical story, I clicked the link and a picture loaded. In the lake sat a boat with several college students and one older man in his 50's. I quickly learned the older man was the college president.
A closer look summoned from my inner spirit a scalding-hot flush of anger. Why such raw emotion? Firmly gripped in the president's hands a keg of beer dangled over the mouth of a young female student. Her jaws appeared swollen with the foamy substance culture christens the "fifth element" after water, fire, earth and wind. Those of us not so captivated by its mythical powers just call it beer.
The young lady's physique, hair style, and age immediately sketched pencil drawings of my beautiful daughters in my mind, imagining them recklessly under the influence of a hypocritical authority figure sworn to protect their best interests. Instead he breaches my trust and pillages their conscience with a pathetically amoral approach to an incredibly powerful addictive drug--beverage alcohol. As I looked deeper into the picture, I could almost see the president's lips moving as I heard him mumble to my precious little girl, "eat, drink, and be merry; for tomorrow we die."
Frankly, the hot flush still smolders to this day. The image of an irresponsible educator pouring a dangerous drug into the mouth of some daddy's little girl indelibly pierces my inner soul, tattooing righteous anger in all its glaring colors. I feel fully David's hot but holy rage as he stared with shock at Israel's taunting enemy, blurting out: "Who is this uncircumcised Philistine that he should defy the armies of the living God?" The fact that I was not within the ancient sling’s distance was best for me and the college president.
The story continues. The college trustees quickly gathered to assess the damage. After considering the president's defense that he neither broke school policy or criminal law--never mind the breached trust, which remains a moral crime all its own to both student and parents--the trustees punished the president by endowing him with almost a half-million dollar settlement. They mentioned nothing about whether the president acted irresponsibly by encouraging the consumption of under-aged drinking nor his breach to public trust. Nothing.
Once again I realized a book like this one needed desperately to exist.
The 2007 Youth Risk Behavior Survey found that among high school students, when asked if, during the past 30 days, had alcohol been consumed, 45% drank some amount of alcohol. Also, an estimated 46 million persons ages 12 or older are “binge drinkers” (ASA, 2009). According to the Center for Disease Control, "binge drinking" is defined for scientific purposes as "drinking five or more drinks on the same occasion (i.e., at the same time or within a couple of hours of each other) on at least 1 day in the past 30 days" (CDC, 2009). More than one fifth (23.3 percent) of persons aged 12 or older participated in binge drinking at least once in the 30 days prior to the survey in 2007, translating to about 57.8 million people.
Even more disheartening is though the numbers decrease with age, a shocking number of heavy drinkers beginning at the tender age of 12 exist. In 2006--the latest available statistics--117,000 "binge drinkers" between the ages of 12 and 13 were boozing it up . Imagine: on average in excess of three hundred drinking "binges" per day by 12-13 year olds alone. Overall, underage drinkers consumed about 11 percent of all the alcohol purchased in the United States in 2002, with the overwhelming majority of alcohol consumed in a risky fashion. In addition, approximately 90% of alcohol consumed by youth under the age of 21 years in is “risky” drinking (i.e., binge drinking).
Compare such sad numbers of our young people who are already trapped in a world of irresponsible drink to the horrifying image of a publicly entrusted college administrator pouring from a keg into the mouth of one of these unfortunate youth an addictive potion such as beverage alcohol. If such imagined snapshots do nothing to you as a parent, a grandparent, a pastor, a student pastor, a politician, or just a concerned citizen, then it may very well be too late for us as a civilized society. Such a scenario is a major trajectory for this book--a simple but profound concern for our next generation.
My wife and I have been divinely blessed with three children who are grown and married now. We just had our first grandbaby last year and will have two more additions before this book goes to print! What a thrill to see our beautiful little Sofia as she begins to walk, talk and gain footing in this world our Lord preserves for her. Yet even the fleeting thought of her trapped in the jaws of the liquor industry frightens me. Liquor manufacturers cater to youthful tastes by designing new alcohol products, significantly adding to the underage drinking problem. Sweet, fruity beverages deceptively appearing like innocuous soft drinks, malt liquors, “alcopops,” etc. possess levels of alcohol content comparable to standard beers but are available at low prices.
Marketing ploys with gimmicks like containers which resemble “TNT explosives” or alcoholic beverages with neon colors which change the color of the drinker’s tongue are geared specifically with youthful drinkers in mind. Of course, for the most part, any question raised concerning the impact these marketing ploys have in tempting the under-aged to imbibe is met with an angelic-like denial.
Apparently the wine industry has now caught the profit-driven vision of recruiting our young and no longer sit idly by as beer brings in the bucks from the latest gimmick to entice young recruits. Said one winery at a stunning but candid moment: “…it is imperative to attract new generations who will be the wine drinkers of the future. Young adults feel lost in the world of wine...” (ACB, 2009). Designer wines marketed specifically to music tastes of our young, their hope is, will fix the budget crunch the industry experiences.
Connecting this youthfully designed marketeering with the culture of extreme so vividly illustrated by binge drinking, promoted even college administrators, who are entrusted publicly with our children's welfare, and the result becomes frightening. Can we not see the horrid end to our naive flirtation with societal extinction by peddling our sons and daughters to the pleasure-producers of this age? My answer to this question is partly why this book exists.
Concern for today's young people, if nothing else, catapults us to consider this profound problem which, unfortunately, is not an issue specifically of the young. In fact, it is a disease we've passed on to them. Indulging adults of this age infect their own offspring with the culture of extreme and excess. We want...And want more...Then want some more. Even though we get and got we live for more get. Our appetites appear never fulfilled, our thirsts never quenched. Thus, we pursue. We seek. We want. We desire. Always desire. Pleasure is no human privilege; pleasure is a human right.
Perhaps such excess is implicit to our incurable addiction to freedom. Not that freedom is not a good thing; to the contrary, freedom not only is intrinsic to the American spirit, freedom is also built into the structure of our being made in God's image. Freedom can lose its way, however, and travel down a dangerous road, leading to a kind of warped demand which insists against any and all who attempt to restrain, "I have a right," "I am free," "Who are you to tell me I can't?"
Again this skewed sense of freedom easily surfaces concerning. Just the mention of restricting access to alcoholic beverages draws the ire of the masses. Immediately one is charged with promoting the old, failed "Prohibition," the universal talking point of every advocate of alcoholic beverage. Nor is this just the culture at large who hurls the charge of restricting rights. Sadly, the religious public may blow the loudest horn!
The Church's Conviction Vanishing
The Christian church, which was virtually unanimous in support of the "old, failed Prohibition" policies (especially the Protestant side), will go on record quickly these days, if asked, that imbibing alcoholic beverages is not as bad as it used to be. Even though they were certain imbibing was a carnal evil a century ago, they remain certain no longer. Curiously, they never get around to explaining why imbibing alcohol was carnality then but not carnality now. Instead assumptions of the social acceptability of drinking are normalized, while continuing to sing the same melody about not legislating morality. Strange. The reality is, one is hard pressed to name any one thing that can be legislated that is not morality--someone's morality.
What can one expect even from some of the most conservative Christian communions when suggesting the recreational use of addictive drugs such as alcohol is neither moral or biblical? Well, when I do it, my body hopelessly reels from rapid-fire rocks the defenders of moderate drink cast . By far the rock so often tossed includes a personally hand-painted note on its surface--"pharisaical legalism." If it is suspected the position one publicly advocates is abstaining from intoxicating beverages, one might as well go ahead and duck while time remains. How easily some Christians mistake Jesus' words "on this rock I will build my church" for "from this church I'll cast my rocks"!
One professor from a Southern Baptist seminary had this to say: "Are alcoholic beverages a good thing? Sure! Within moderate amounts, of course. In fact, don’t ever let anybody tell you any differently. If they do they are closet Roman Catholics who are imposing pharisaical legalism on you. They do not hold to Scripture. They sacrifice biblical integrity” (more on this shortly).
One recalls the words Bishop F. W. Farrar spoke over a century ago as he lamented both media and churchmen who ambushed total abstinence from alcoholic beverages, "The secular press tells us that the advocates of total abstinence are impracticable fanatics and wrong-headed Pharisees; the religious press tells us that abstinence is a much poorer stage of virtue than moderation, and that, by declining wine and beer, we fall far below the attainment of those moral athletes who, to their hearts' content, indulge themselves in both" (Farrar, 1879).
Similar to the enemies of abstinence with whom Farrar contended, this professor's idea of the abstinence standard evidently reduces to moral legalism, denial of Scripture, and absence of integrity. I'd say those are three hefty rocks. If you mention abstinence, be ready to duck!
Thus, the idea that the least talk of moral restraint destroys freedom is not a position embedded in the culture of extreme and excess alone; the idea is deeply embedded in church sub-culture as well. This remains another reason this book begs for: The church has, in major proportions, conceded its historic role as the moral conscience of our culture, particularly as it forfeited its once strong position on abstinence from intoxicating beverages for pleasurable purposes.
The church--especially what's known as the evangelical church, the piece of pie to which I myself belong--increasingly speaks a message of moderation concerning intoxicating beverages. One may rightly ask, "What substantial help does the message of moderation offer to our next generation?" In fact, the message the church proclaims about moderately consuming alcohol is, in the end, really no different from the more responsible messages from the culture at large. The new song the evangelical choir sings is short, pithy and to the point: The Bible does not condemn the use of alcohol; the Bible condemns the abuse of alcohol. What difference is that, in effect, from saying "Drink but don't drive" or "Drink but be careful how much"? Tragically, the church which abandons abstinence partners itself with the more morally astute politic of secular culture. It moves in lockstep with the culture of extreme and excess, forsaking the biblically-driven ethic of abstinence, and penning a message morally legible to our young generation: "Drinking is perfectly o.k. Consuming intoxicating beverages for pleasure is an acceptable and moral social custom. Do it. But be particularly careful to neither abuse or drink irresponsibly."
Of course it is not literally written to the young generation. After all such things as laws exist against under-aged drinking. Nonetheless, those millions of under-aged drinkers somehow found themselves access to the intoxicant. Recall what we mentioned earlier. Not only did underage drinkers consume 11 percent of all alcoholic beverages purchased in the United States in 2002, but also the vast majority of the alcohol purchased for under-aged consumption was consumed in binge and heavy drinking. Thus, our children are getting the booze ,and the message about booze seems all too obvious: "Drinking is cool. Even the church says drinking is cool, if we're careful about the amount." The sad reality is, the church without the abstinence standard--consciously or unconsciously--plays a co-conspirator part in promoting such a message. If Christian parents, pastors, student ministers, and Bible-believing churches remain unmoved by such, one must consider whether or not we have a culture worth salvaging.
Consider with me something else. Mix the relaxed feeling young people inevitably experience when they hear over and over again that even the church supports drinking--at least in moderate amounts--with the natural temperament of the young. What do you think will result? When that batch of cookies pops out of the oven, do not be surprised if they are burnt black. Do we honestly think teenagers possess the developed psychological equipment to practice moderation in anything, much less highly addictive intoxicants? Once again, studies show that young people who drink are far more likely to drink more heavily than adults. In addition, the overwhelming majority of binge drinkers are young drinkers. Moderation? Not on your life.
Like it or not, the church that preaches and practices moderation toward intoxicating beverages for pleasurable purposes cannot escape partial blame for giving to our next generation an uncertain sound on moral restraint. That stands as yet another reason why this book must have a heart-beat. I intend to take this idea one step further in the next chapter.
My Story
Finally I’d better 'fess up' and share a bit of my own personal story. This too stands as a fitting motivation for writing this book. I grew up in middle Tennessee, the last of twelve children raised in a little four room house. Our home sat at the bottom of Coon Creek Hollow only a rock’s throw from a heavily used railway.
Beside our little house ran Coon Creek. Then, the stream seemed colossal, having a thundering waterfall less than ten yards from the front porch. My siblings and I swam for hours in what we called "the big hole" during the summers. Our swimming hole also doubled for the bathtub as weather allowed (that's right, we had no plumbing in our house).
As I've visited the old home place since, however, the "colossal" stream is only about six feet wide. The "big hole" isn't over three feet deep at most. Oh, and the "thundering waterfall" is 12 inches more or less.
Because Coon Creek ran through the hollow, the railroad built a trestle over it. In fact, our outhouse sat almost under the trestle. Believe me: things could get interesting when schedules overlapped between our occupying the outhouse and the railroad's daily use of the trestle! I spent the first 17 years of my life juggling those apples.
My family was large but extremely poor. Though we were not a “Christian home,” a measure of respect for God was both assumed and instilled. I will forever be grateful that my parents faithfully arranged for transportation to Sunday school and Church. It was in my childhood I had my first encounter with God. And, though I was not converted to Jesus Christ until I was adult, the early formative years I experienced through faithful biblical teaching branded spiritual marks on my soul concerning the Christian faith. I never forgot.
Unfortunately, it was also in my childhood I had my first encounter with alcohol. I don’t remember the age when I tasted beer for the first time but I was definitely young. In fact it is not too much to say that I cannot recall a period that I was not drinking. Oh, it wasn't a lot as a young boy. But then again it doesn't take a lot for a young boy.
My daddy was virtually uneducated. Yet he managed to raise twelve children on his humble earnings from a chemical plant in a neighboring city. Three images remain with me about Daddy. Daddy loved fishing. Whenever he could, he was setting the minnow baskets in the little creek that ran by our house, hoping to catch the desirable “chub minners” as he called them. For him "chubs" offered the most promise to land a small-mouth bass from Sugar Creek.
Another image which appears whenever I think of my dad is baseball. He sat glued to the black and white every Saturday when the Braves played. Next to fishing, baseball was Daddy's primary pastime. Indeed baseball was the last conscious activity Daddy experienced in this life. While watching the 1970 World Series, his lungs began to fill. When the game ended, Mama took him to the hospital, and he died about an hour later. I was 16.
The third image is an uncomely one. Daddy loved beer. Lots of beer. The truth be told it is hard for me to recall images of my daddy without also recalling the beer in his hand. It was Daddy’s beer I drank as a child--beginning only as a sip from his can when I would fetch him one from the fridge, graduating to swiping whole cans of beer and heading for the nearby woods.
I was barely 16 years old when my daddy died. From his death until I married, rarely a week went by I did not drink until I passed out. I share this snapshot of my life not to sensationalize my life. Instead because I want the reader to realize my personal identification with this issue. I know by experience the destruction intoxicating beverages brings. The social, leisurely perspective many embrace when dealing with this issue remains no luxury for me. Nor does it to countless others who've seen and experienced this destructive phenomenon up close. Alcohol's acid kills whatever or whomever it touches.
Admittedly, some may see my personal circumstances as tainting the case I make for abstinence. Perhaps my reasoning, they argue, may be emotionally driven and consequently, the moral reasoning I offer for abstinence becomes suspect because of my bias against alcohol. To those who may similarly rationalize, I say but two things in response.
First, I'm unsure my bias about this issue should concern us. My candid telling you of my tragic story should bleed the air out of that balloon. Also, one could ask, "Who exists as a biased-free being?" If being biased-free is the criteria for valid contribution, few, if any, could ever validly qualify. It is not being biased makes a person’s view suspect. Rather being bias-blind is the culprit tragically tainting a person’s perspective. I'm fully aware of the up-close connection I have with this issue.
The second thing I say in response is this: I concede the charge may be true. My objection aside, perhaps I really am so emotionally involved in this issue, my moral reasoning is hopelessly clouded, consequently offering little contribution to the needed discussion on the recreational use of intoxicants. Nor can I or will I deny the sympathy I possess for the millions of young people caught in the jaws of the death trap known as alcohol. So be it. My sole recourse, then, is to leave such judgment in the hands of the reading public. I only ask them to consider the argument I propose in the following pages with the same, unbiased perspective expected of me.
While sitting in the coffee shop finalizing my outline for this project, my eyes drifted from the page I was writing to the screen of my laptop before me. My eyes latched onto the headline, ”College President Resigns Over Alcohol Incident.” Thinking it was just another typical story, I clicked the link and a picture loaded. In the lake sat a boat with several college students and one older man in his 50's. I quickly learned the older man was the college president.
A closer look summoned from my inner spirit a scalding-hot flush of anger. Why such raw emotion? Firmly gripped in the president's hands a keg of beer dangled over the mouth of a young female student. Her jaws appeared swollen with the foamy substance culture christens the "fifth element" after water, fire, earth and wind. Those of us not so captivated by its mythical powers just call it beer.
The young lady's physique, hair style, and age immediately sketched pencil drawings of my beautiful daughters in my mind, imagining them recklessly under the influence of a hypocritical authority figure sworn to protect their best interests. Instead he breaches my trust and pillages their conscience with a pathetically amoral approach to an incredibly powerful addictive drug--beverage alcohol. As I looked deeper into the picture, I could almost see the president's lips moving as I heard him mumble to my precious little girl, "eat, drink, and be merry; for tomorrow we die."
Frankly, the hot flush still smolders to this day. The image of an irresponsible educator pouring a dangerous drug into the mouth of some daddy's little girl indelibly pierces my inner soul, tattooing righteous anger in all its glaring colors. I feel fully David's hot but holy rage as he stared with shock at Israel's taunting enemy, blurting out: "Who is this uncircumcised Philistine that he should defy the armies of the living God?" The fact that I was not within the ancient sling’s distance was best for me and the college president.
The story continues. The college trustees quickly gathered to assess the damage. After considering the president's defense that he neither broke school policy or criminal law--never mind the breached trust, which remains a moral crime all its own to both student and parents--the trustees punished the president by endowing him with almost a half-million dollar settlement. They mentioned nothing about whether the president acted irresponsibly by encouraging the consumption of under-aged drinking nor his breach to public trust. Nothing.
Once again I realized a book like this one needed desperately to exist.
The 2007 Youth Risk Behavior Survey found that among high school students, when asked if, during the past 30 days, had alcohol been consumed, 45% drank some amount of alcohol. Also, an estimated 46 million persons ages 12 or older are “binge drinkers” (ASA, 2009). According to the Center for Disease Control, "binge drinking" is defined for scientific purposes as "drinking five or more drinks on the same occasion (i.e., at the same time or within a couple of hours of each other) on at least 1 day in the past 30 days" (CDC, 2009). More than one fifth (23.3 percent) of persons aged 12 or older participated in binge drinking at least once in the 30 days prior to the survey in 2007, translating to about 57.8 million people.
Even more disheartening is though the numbers decrease with age, a shocking number of heavy drinkers beginning at the tender age of 12 exist. In 2006--the latest available statistics--117,000 "binge drinkers" between the ages of 12 and 13 were boozing it up . Imagine: on average in excess of three hundred drinking "binges" per day by 12-13 year olds alone. Overall, underage drinkers consumed about 11 percent of all the alcohol purchased in the United States in 2002, with the overwhelming majority of alcohol consumed in a risky fashion. In addition, approximately 90% of alcohol consumed by youth under the age of 21 years in is “risky” drinking (i.e., binge drinking).
Compare such sad numbers of our young people who are already trapped in a world of irresponsible drink to the horrifying image of a publicly entrusted college administrator pouring from a keg into the mouth of one of these unfortunate youth an addictive potion such as beverage alcohol. If such imagined snapshots do nothing to you as a parent, a grandparent, a pastor, a student pastor, a politician, or just a concerned citizen, then it may very well be too late for us as a civilized society. Such a scenario is a major trajectory for this book--a simple but profound concern for our next generation.
My wife and I have been divinely blessed with three children who are grown and married now. We just had our first grandbaby last year and will have two more additions before this book goes to print! What a thrill to see our beautiful little Sofia as she begins to walk, talk and gain footing in this world our Lord preserves for her. Yet even the fleeting thought of her trapped in the jaws of the liquor industry frightens me. Liquor manufacturers cater to youthful tastes by designing new alcohol products, significantly adding to the underage drinking problem. Sweet, fruity beverages deceptively appearing like innocuous soft drinks, malt liquors, “alcopops,” etc. possess levels of alcohol content comparable to standard beers but are available at low prices.
Marketing ploys with gimmicks like containers which resemble “TNT explosives” or alcoholic beverages with neon colors which change the color of the drinker’s tongue are geared specifically with youthful drinkers in mind. Of course, for the most part, any question raised concerning the impact these marketing ploys have in tempting the under-aged to imbibe is met with an angelic-like denial.
Apparently the wine industry has now caught the profit-driven vision of recruiting our young and no longer sit idly by as beer brings in the bucks from the latest gimmick to entice young recruits. Said one winery at a stunning but candid moment: “…it is imperative to attract new generations who will be the wine drinkers of the future. Young adults feel lost in the world of wine...” (ACB, 2009). Designer wines marketed specifically to music tastes of our young, their hope is, will fix the budget crunch the industry experiences.
Connecting this youthfully designed marketeering with the culture of extreme so vividly illustrated by binge drinking, promoted even college administrators, who are entrusted publicly with our children's welfare, and the result becomes frightening. Can we not see the horrid end to our naive flirtation with societal extinction by peddling our sons and daughters to the pleasure-producers of this age? My answer to this question is partly why this book exists.
Concern for today's young people, if nothing else, catapults us to consider this profound problem which, unfortunately, is not an issue specifically of the young. In fact, it is a disease we've passed on to them. Indulging adults of this age infect their own offspring with the culture of extreme and excess. We want...And want more...Then want some more. Even though we get and got we live for more get. Our appetites appear never fulfilled, our thirsts never quenched. Thus, we pursue. We seek. We want. We desire. Always desire. Pleasure is no human privilege; pleasure is a human right.
Perhaps such excess is implicit to our incurable addiction to freedom. Not that freedom is not a good thing; to the contrary, freedom not only is intrinsic to the American spirit, freedom is also built into the structure of our being made in God's image. Freedom can lose its way, however, and travel down a dangerous road, leading to a kind of warped demand which insists against any and all who attempt to restrain, "I have a right," "I am free," "Who are you to tell me I can't?"
Again this skewed sense of freedom easily surfaces concerning. Just the mention of restricting access to alcoholic beverages draws the ire of the masses. Immediately one is charged with promoting the old, failed "Prohibition," the universal talking point of every advocate of alcoholic beverage. Nor is this just the culture at large who hurls the charge of restricting rights. Sadly, the religious public may blow the loudest horn!
The Church's Conviction Vanishing
The Christian church, which was virtually unanimous in support of the "old, failed Prohibition" policies (especially the Protestant side), will go on record quickly these days, if asked, that imbibing alcoholic beverages is not as bad as it used to be. Even though they were certain imbibing was a carnal evil a century ago, they remain certain no longer. Curiously, they never get around to explaining why imbibing alcohol was carnality then but not carnality now. Instead assumptions of the social acceptability of drinking are normalized, while continuing to sing the same melody about not legislating morality. Strange. The reality is, one is hard pressed to name any one thing that can be legislated that is not morality--someone's morality.
What can one expect even from some of the most conservative Christian communions when suggesting the recreational use of addictive drugs such as alcohol is neither moral or biblical? Well, when I do it, my body hopelessly reels from rapid-fire rocks the defenders of moderate drink cast . By far the rock so often tossed includes a personally hand-painted note on its surface--"pharisaical legalism." If it is suspected the position one publicly advocates is abstaining from intoxicating beverages, one might as well go ahead and duck while time remains. How easily some Christians mistake Jesus' words "on this rock I will build my church" for "from this church I'll cast my rocks"!
One professor from a Southern Baptist seminary had this to say: "Are alcoholic beverages a good thing? Sure! Within moderate amounts, of course. In fact, don’t ever let anybody tell you any differently. If they do they are closet Roman Catholics who are imposing pharisaical legalism on you. They do not hold to Scripture. They sacrifice biblical integrity” (more on this shortly).
One recalls the words Bishop F. W. Farrar spoke over a century ago as he lamented both media and churchmen who ambushed total abstinence from alcoholic beverages, "The secular press tells us that the advocates of total abstinence are impracticable fanatics and wrong-headed Pharisees; the religious press tells us that abstinence is a much poorer stage of virtue than moderation, and that, by declining wine and beer, we fall far below the attainment of those moral athletes who, to their hearts' content, indulge themselves in both" (Farrar, 1879).
Similar to the enemies of abstinence with whom Farrar contended, this professor's idea of the abstinence standard evidently reduces to moral legalism, denial of Scripture, and absence of integrity. I'd say those are three hefty rocks. If you mention abstinence, be ready to duck!
Thus, the idea that the least talk of moral restraint destroys freedom is not a position embedded in the culture of extreme and excess alone; the idea is deeply embedded in church sub-culture as well. This remains another reason this book begs for: The church has, in major proportions, conceded its historic role as the moral conscience of our culture, particularly as it forfeited its once strong position on abstinence from intoxicating beverages for pleasurable purposes.
The church--especially what's known as the evangelical church, the piece of pie to which I myself belong--increasingly speaks a message of moderation concerning intoxicating beverages. One may rightly ask, "What substantial help does the message of moderation offer to our next generation?" In fact, the message the church proclaims about moderately consuming alcohol is, in the end, really no different from the more responsible messages from the culture at large. The new song the evangelical choir sings is short, pithy and to the point: The Bible does not condemn the use of alcohol; the Bible condemns the abuse of alcohol. What difference is that, in effect, from saying "Drink but don't drive" or "Drink but be careful how much"? Tragically, the church which abandons abstinence partners itself with the more morally astute politic of secular culture. It moves in lockstep with the culture of extreme and excess, forsaking the biblically-driven ethic of abstinence, and penning a message morally legible to our young generation: "Drinking is perfectly o.k. Consuming intoxicating beverages for pleasure is an acceptable and moral social custom. Do it. But be particularly careful to neither abuse or drink irresponsibly."
Of course it is not literally written to the young generation. After all such things as laws exist against under-aged drinking. Nonetheless, those millions of under-aged drinkers somehow found themselves access to the intoxicant. Recall what we mentioned earlier. Not only did underage drinkers consume 11 percent of all alcoholic beverages purchased in the United States in 2002, but also the vast majority of the alcohol purchased for under-aged consumption was consumed in binge and heavy drinking. Thus, our children are getting the booze ,and the message about booze seems all too obvious: "Drinking is cool. Even the church says drinking is cool, if we're careful about the amount." The sad reality is, the church without the abstinence standard--consciously or unconsciously--plays a co-conspirator part in promoting such a message. If Christian parents, pastors, student ministers, and Bible-believing churches remain unmoved by such, one must consider whether or not we have a culture worth salvaging.
Consider with me something else. Mix the relaxed feeling young people inevitably experience when they hear over and over again that even the church supports drinking--at least in moderate amounts--with the natural temperament of the young. What do you think will result? When that batch of cookies pops out of the oven, do not be surprised if they are burnt black. Do we honestly think teenagers possess the developed psychological equipment to practice moderation in anything, much less highly addictive intoxicants? Once again, studies show that young people who drink are far more likely to drink more heavily than adults. In addition, the overwhelming majority of binge drinkers are young drinkers. Moderation? Not on your life.
Like it or not, the church that preaches and practices moderation toward intoxicating beverages for pleasurable purposes cannot escape partial blame for giving to our next generation an uncertain sound on moral restraint. That stands as yet another reason why this book must have a heart-beat. I intend to take this idea one step further in the next chapter.
My Story
Finally I’d better 'fess up' and share a bit of my own personal story. This too stands as a fitting motivation for writing this book. I grew up in middle Tennessee, the last of twelve children raised in a little four room house. Our home sat at the bottom of Coon Creek Hollow only a rock’s throw from a heavily used railway.
Beside our little house ran Coon Creek. Then, the stream seemed colossal, having a thundering waterfall less than ten yards from the front porch. My siblings and I swam for hours in what we called "the big hole" during the summers. Our swimming hole also doubled for the bathtub as weather allowed (that's right, we had no plumbing in our house).
As I've visited the old home place since, however, the "colossal" stream is only about six feet wide. The "big hole" isn't over three feet deep at most. Oh, and the "thundering waterfall" is 12 inches more or less.
Because Coon Creek ran through the hollow, the railroad built a trestle over it. In fact, our outhouse sat almost under the trestle. Believe me: things could get interesting when schedules overlapped between our occupying the outhouse and the railroad's daily use of the trestle! I spent the first 17 years of my life juggling those apples.
My family was large but extremely poor. Though we were not a “Christian home,” a measure of respect for God was both assumed and instilled. I will forever be grateful that my parents faithfully arranged for transportation to Sunday school and Church. It was in my childhood I had my first encounter with God. And, though I was not converted to Jesus Christ until I was adult, the early formative years I experienced through faithful biblical teaching branded spiritual marks on my soul concerning the Christian faith. I never forgot.
Unfortunately, it was also in my childhood I had my first encounter with alcohol. I don’t remember the age when I tasted beer for the first time but I was definitely young. In fact it is not too much to say that I cannot recall a period that I was not drinking. Oh, it wasn't a lot as a young boy. But then again it doesn't take a lot for a young boy.
My daddy was virtually uneducated. Yet he managed to raise twelve children on his humble earnings from a chemical plant in a neighboring city. Three images remain with me about Daddy. Daddy loved fishing. Whenever he could, he was setting the minnow baskets in the little creek that ran by our house, hoping to catch the desirable “chub minners” as he called them. For him "chubs" offered the most promise to land a small-mouth bass from Sugar Creek.
Another image which appears whenever I think of my dad is baseball. He sat glued to the black and white every Saturday when the Braves played. Next to fishing, baseball was Daddy's primary pastime. Indeed baseball was the last conscious activity Daddy experienced in this life. While watching the 1970 World Series, his lungs began to fill. When the game ended, Mama took him to the hospital, and he died about an hour later. I was 16.
The third image is an uncomely one. Daddy loved beer. Lots of beer. The truth be told it is hard for me to recall images of my daddy without also recalling the beer in his hand. It was Daddy’s beer I drank as a child--beginning only as a sip from his can when I would fetch him one from the fridge, graduating to swiping whole cans of beer and heading for the nearby woods.
I was barely 16 years old when my daddy died. From his death until I married, rarely a week went by I did not drink until I passed out. I share this snapshot of my life not to sensationalize my life. Instead because I want the reader to realize my personal identification with this issue. I know by experience the destruction intoxicating beverages brings. The social, leisurely perspective many embrace when dealing with this issue remains no luxury for me. Nor does it to countless others who've seen and experienced this destructive phenomenon up close. Alcohol's acid kills whatever or whomever it touches.
Admittedly, some may see my personal circumstances as tainting the case I make for abstinence. Perhaps my reasoning, they argue, may be emotionally driven and consequently, the moral reasoning I offer for abstinence becomes suspect because of my bias against alcohol. To those who may similarly rationalize, I say but two things in response.
First, I'm unsure my bias about this issue should concern us. My candid telling you of my tragic story should bleed the air out of that balloon. Also, one could ask, "Who exists as a biased-free being?" If being biased-free is the criteria for valid contribution, few, if any, could ever validly qualify. It is not being biased makes a person’s view suspect. Rather being bias-blind is the culprit tragically tainting a person’s perspective. I'm fully aware of the up-close connection I have with this issue.
The second thing I say in response is this: I concede the charge may be true. My objection aside, perhaps I really am so emotionally involved in this issue, my moral reasoning is hopelessly clouded, consequently offering little contribution to the needed discussion on the recreational use of intoxicants. Nor can I or will I deny the sympathy I possess for the millions of young people caught in the jaws of the death trap known as alcohol. So be it. My sole recourse, then, is to leave such judgment in the hands of the reading public. I only ask them to consider the argument I propose in the following pages with the same, unbiased perspective expected of me.
I Run to the Hills: Reflections on the Christian Journey by C. Maggie Woychik
Tour Date: December 9th
When the tour date arrives, copy and paste the HTML Provided in the box. Don't forget to add your honest review if you wish! PLEASE LEAVE A COMMENT ON THIS POST WHEN THE TOUR COMES AROUND!
Grab the HTML for the entire post (will look like the post below):
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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!
C. Maggie's articles have appeared in numerous magazines since 1995. She is a prolific writer and blogger, and has a special appreciation for the home education movement. The author loves nature in all its wonder, and enjoys the mountains almost as much as the sea. She lives with her husband in the midwest. This is her debut title.
Visit the author's website.
Product Details:
List Price: $8.99
Paperback: 136 pages
Publisher: Port Yonder Press (September 23, 2009)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 0984169407
ISBN-13: 978-0984169405
AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:
When the tour date arrives, copy and paste the HTML Provided in the box. Don't forget to add your honest review if you wish! PLEASE LEAVE A COMMENT ON THIS POST WHEN THE TOUR COMES AROUND!
Grab the HTML for the entire post (will look like the post below):
***************************************************************************
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:
I Run to the Hills: Reflections on the Christian Journey
Port Yonder Press (September 23, 2009)
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
C. Maggie's articles have appeared in numerous magazines since 1995. She is a prolific writer and blogger, and has a special appreciation for the home education movement. The author loves nature in all its wonder, and enjoys the mountains almost as much as the sea. She lives with her husband in the midwest. This is her debut title.
Visit the author's website.
Product Details:
List Price: $8.99
Paperback: 136 pages
Publisher: Port Yonder Press (September 23, 2009)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 0984169407
ISBN-13: 978-0984169405
AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:
INTRODUCTION
In His hand are the deep places of the earth; the strength of the hills is His also.
Psalm 95:4
Faith for some is like being rescued from drowning. For others, it’s simply yielding to the Master Helmsman when offered a cruise on His one-way vessel to paradise. It’s a far less harrowing experience to surrender willingly – and early on – especially since we face such a determinedly loving Captain.
I knew, as so many of us do, that if I yelled loudly enough when the flood waters were imminent, He would hear and most likely come to my aid. (I dismissed the idea that He might not choose to rescue me from my folly.) I also knew that calling out to Him meant I would owe Him my all thereafter. The only other option was to drown, which wasn’t an appealing notion.
In other words, in my mind I was rescued not by Someone who loved me, as much as by the only One strong enough to do the job. I turned to Him out of desperation, not truth or love or any other high and lofty ideal.
He dragged me to the safety of the shallow water then picked me up and carried me farther up the sandy beach. Laying me down on the warm, white sand, He began the resuscitation process, breath upon breath, heart massage upon gentle heart massage – and I revived. The rescue was instantaneous, my appreciation for my Rescuer great. Still I did not love Him as I would learn to love Him later. He was only my Savior. My life was His, yet my love was bound in a selfish and worldly heart and it would take years to manage it loose.
But He never gave up, never faltered. Year after year, He held and pressed and moved and worked. He knew how I felt: I would always serve Him. He wanted me to love Him.
The transition from rescue, to learning His truths, to knowing and loving Him as Friend, is illustrated in the story that follows. I have chosen the mountain and (to a lesser extent) the sea as vehicles of expression.
I hope you, too, will come to see that a life lived with Jesus Christ is an adventure of love, no matter how it is told, or by whom. And even more so, that His greatest desire is for each of His children to not merely serve Him, but to love Him with all their being. It always takes time; He’s willing to wait.
CHAPTER ONE
ON THE PLAINS OF HUMANITY: FROM VALLEY TO HIGHLANDS
Sojourners all begin their trek somewhere at the base;
In time a few will dare to roam out of their slotted place.
Noble souls, they boldly choose to go against the grain
Of earthly desert wanderings that very soon prove vain.
Instead, they scale the alpine path, a narrow way and long,
And chance the hazards on their way to sing the alpine song.
The journey
Every journey starts from where you are. For the complacent or fearful, it ends there, too. But for those who seek treasures beyond Here and Now, no cost is too great, no sacrifice too unreasonable, to commence the search. The course is set, the way determined: they must find that which they lost – or never had. Whatever “it” is, for they may not know what to call it, it must be found. And if it is indeed immortal treasure they long for, they will find it.
Journey begun, the noble seeker will proceed down one of two paths. Either he will be ecstatic with his life-discoveries, even to the point of tossing bits of newfound gold to those around him, or he will turn away in disgust and chide himself back down the mountain for wasting his precious time on something as intangible and unsatisfying as “it” was.
That’s the game and every sojourner must play, or stay home and miss out completely.
Here is where my trek begins. Travel with me as I muse on the alpine path, for “In His hand are the deep places of the earth; the strength of the hills is His also.”
You see, travel and reflection must come in that order: we roam a great while on our earthly journey thinking of nothing – absolutely nothing. Then for some usually undefined reason we actually begin to think, to reflect, on what we see, hear, and feel, and as most would admit, traveling takes precedence over reflection far too frequently along the way.
But one cannot journey far without an occasional glance around, then it’s there! – that which He said would first point us to Himself: His unmistakable fingerprint in what has been made, revealing the reason for our being and Object of our praise.
I am able, then, to resume my travels, more sure of my direction, more confident of the path ahead, knowing Who guides, urges, and pleads me to think, to reason, and then to seek Him whom I can no longer deny.
Finding answers
A journey never starts at the end, but the beginning. In the case of our alpine travels, though, it must of necessity begin at the end: the end of self: self-knowledge, self-satisfaction, self-worship. And the end comes only through the discovery of something, Someone, outside of self. Discovery of a world outside our cocoon of inwardness is the first step of meaningful discovery, the first bit of truth that may eventually lead to ultimate Truth – God Himself.
In finding answers, how assuring it is to know that truth-discovery does not demand intellect, only desire. A babe in intellect may know truth. But for a reasoned, seasoned faith, intellect must be engaged. Genuine intellect may not always have the right answer, but it will never ignore solid evidence. For where human reasoning and discernment are present, so is the capacity for human error and misjudgment.
Intellect draped with integrity, though, will always listen, learn, and attempt to find a viable solution to the inquiry at hand. Existing evidence for or against a specific question may not bring all the answers, it may even require a degree of faith to embrace, but solid evidence cannot be ignored or minimized as one might ignore a hungry cat at the back door, calling for sustenance and attention.
I must not fear to have more questions than answers, but to have more answers than questions. For when the questions stop, previous answers may not have been satisfactory. Or, maybe they have. There, too, comes a time to rest from questioning; a time to relax and let the answers, the lessons, permeate the soul. A time for peace.
In a journey of discovery, experience is but a tangible substitute for intangible truth. But truth combined with the experiencing of it is the reason we exist. Experiencing truth is the undeniable answer that speaks beyond “seeing” to “knowing”. It speaks to the “why” questions we all ask at some point in our pilgrimage. Finding not just answers, but truth, and fulfillment in that truth – the experiencing of that truth -- is God’s intent for His creation.
Any answer, conclusion, or theory a person comes by through self-discovery or the teaching of another, though, is not to be unthinkingly accepted without question, but questioned for the sake of discovery. Even the seemingly easy and traditional answers – on God, faith, love – may be handily received in the mind, but Spirit of Discernment must have free reign as He matches concept spoken with concept written in the Rule Book for all God-seekers.
Of musing
The thought, the muse, invades the mental process, imposing and confident. One, dull of heart and slow of mind, acknowledges the flash but credits it to nature’s course, a sort of cerebral lightning, an electrical storm in the passage of life. He is amused, albeit, bored. Or, maybe, distracted by the touchability of “real” life surrounding him.
Across the way, or pew, or book, another realizes he has just privileged a glimpse through the curtain of status quo into the arena of Truth. Scrawled across the dividing shroud are the words:
ONLY THE BRAVE ONLY THE BOLD ENTER HERE
And he does.
And he is never the same.
In Greek Mythology, the Muse referred to any of nine goddesses who presided over literature, the arts and sciences: Calliope, Clio, Euterpe, Melpomene, Terpsichore, Erato, Polyhymnia, Urania, Thalia.
“Musing” involves engaging our innate sense of inspiration or genius. But today, musing – thinking deeply and at length for the purpose of discovery – is an almost forgotten concept. Time is too scarce in our hustle and bustle society to allow for questionable extravagances such as … musing.
Who has time to think deeply and at length? But it’s only as I take time to ponder written revealed Truth – the Christian Scriptures – in a more than cursory fashion, that its meaning becomes clear and its message becomes real. Romans 12:2 refers to this as the “renewing of the mind” concept, and fallen mind needs renewing! The Psalms call this God-ordained “meditation”.
I can expect difficulty with this truth-musing or internalization process, for embracing ideas – especially God-ideas, which react so violently against my darkened understanding (the reason He gave us the Spirit of Truth who bears witness to His Word) – is more than mere mental assent of truth or a brain-filling storage of facts; it encompasses the entire process of chewing, swallowing, digesting and incorporating that truth into our spiritual cell structure.
Truths are for digesting, not just consuming. Undigested truth is like a lunch that’s been packed and taken along on a journey but never eaten. It begins to rot. And stink.
So, when bits and pieces of truth are uncovered, a discovery made, we are called to be Berean-ish as in Acts 17:11. Firmly clasp the piece of Light – catch it; then slowly release your fingers, using care not to allow it to slip away or be snatched by the cunning Truth-Robber. Once command has been established, begin to turn it this way and that, viewing and re-viewing, neglecting no angles. Let nothing rush you; you are in the process of unraveling an eternal, unchangeable maxim from the mind of the Infinite Creator. No trifling with details here, only grappling with Divine Utterance.
Remember, there are no fast food spiritual truths. Quick fixes are few. Genies in bottles, like Greek mythology, make for good fairy tales, but poor theology. Sovereignty condescended to provide our senseless lives with meaning – and abundance. The act of salvation is instantaneous, but real heart-deep growth takes time. Musing – thinking deeply and at length – of the Word God has revealed, against the backdrop of the world He has made, is one of God’s provisions for growth, fullness of life, and a faith that is so integrated into our spiritual cell structure that we can live it out in our daily lives for all to see, for God’s ultimate glory.
With King David, let us proclaim, “I remember the days of old; I meditate on all Thy works; I muse on the work of Thy hands. I stretch forth my hands unto Thee: my soul thirsteth after Thee, as a thirsty land.”
A pathway through
So again, we question not for the sake of questioning, but to discover. The trek of discovery, however simple, is not easy and not to be underestimated. Fraught with adversity at every turn, old paths must be unearthed, the conventional and well-worn surrendered. For though there are many passages leading into the valley of the Forest of Deep Shadows, where opportunities for true discovery abound, only one leads out to a better, higher place. It is the path from Here and Now to Then and There.
To the left of the entry to the grove, you will notice a large, hand-crafted sign which reads “Everyman’s Land.” As we proceed down the great thoroughfare there appears another, smaller sign, partially obscured by moss and fallen leaves, obviously neglected and seldom accounted for. It reads: “CAUTION - Travelers be advised: Take up your scythe, with cutting edge sharp and keen, before embarking on your unearthly journey!” Through the bleakness and tangle of treetops, a stream of sunlight shines directly onto the little sign and clearly illuminates it. Its words show forth as a beacon at night.
Traveling on, we eventually reach a Cross-Road – the first of many encounters for some, and at least the once for all. The question is posed, “Here, now, what?”
Slip into the shadows for a moment with me and observe the procession to follow. Many, as you will see, have no heart for discovery. Truth-musing is foreign to them and they offer no apology.
UnPrepared is startled by the suddenness of his Cross-Road meeting. He shrinks away from the much-too-illuminated lane and plods along his dreary, weary way. Unmoved and unmovable, he is settled, secure and too happy to need either adventure or advantage. The comfort of conventionality suits him; he suffices with a measure of peaceful existence. He is Here and Now with no thought or care of Then and There.
Next, Self-Confident boldly approaches the insistent thoroughfare. Undaunted, he assesses present and future cost. He determines greatest value in waiting, in returning to this passage at the eclipse of his life-tour. Sights and sounds of existing surroundings press him and he cannot refuse. There is, he insists, much time to reevaluate and ford, if necessary, intervening bogs on his later trip to Then and There. He assures himself the signs will be in place, the back-trekking unhindered. He has little concern or time to ponder deep forest mysteries. He progresses on his carefree, confident way.
Book in hand, Reasoned Philosopher broaches the junction as if in a duel, rationale flying and doubts whipping the air. “Where can one find significant scientific and experiential evidence to even consider Then and There? Can man embrace a belief of this magnitude and maintain allegiance to critical thinking?” Reasoner reflects, only too little, and rejects.
The line of wayfarers continues for many days. For eventually all sojourners must visit this sun-dappled, opaque land, and travel the well-trod path that lies before them. Now it intersects with and forms a Cross-Road. At a later, indeterminate time, it will be the sole trail out of the forest, when dawn will break. For some.
But first, all must confront the Forest Keeper. Trembling at the radiance of his face, all will bow, and listen, while their quests are addressed. With fury as fire and love as light, Keeper will reveal the unseen and reward the unashamed.
Indifferent, Lazy, and UnPrepared disgrace knowing they unwisely used the Forest Map entrusted to them. They had directions within their grasp (made available to them at their first Cross-Road encounter) but deemed map-savvying unworthy of their effort, unnecessary to attain their destination. They were right. One doesn’t need a map to stay lost.
Self-Made falls on bended knee as the shadow of that very Cross-Road reveals not a monument to self, but a memorial to selflessness. The vertical path that flows from the mountain steeps where Then and There dwells, back to the valley of the darksome forest, intersects with the horizontal path of Here and Now. All becomes transparent; self-confidence melts, only too late.
Doubtful, Shrewd, and Reasoner stand gazing upward as faithless rationale and dubious intellect are whirled heavenward, consumed as if by a devouring beast, then ejected as ignoble fodder not worthy of royal domain.
Each now has their answer – answers tossed away at an earlier juncture. Each is reminded of the placard that began their journey: “Take up your scythe....” In front of them the Forest Keeper holds a rolled papyrus which, the instant it is gazed upon, turns into a great, metallic, keen-edged weapon of war. For some, it is a victor’s saber; for others, the blade of a guillotine.
And ringing within the ears of many as they are marched back into the Forest of Deep Shadows, now become the Forest of Destruction, is the chilling reminder that centuries ago it was said, “For the invisible things of him from the creation of the world are clearly seen, being understood by the things that are made, even his eternal power and Godhead; so that they are without excuse.”
And the Forest Keeper wept for sadness – then joy, as his pathfinders worshipped Him. And among that number I stood with great awe and gladness. After what seemed like hours, I turned and began to walk the road that led from there.
Others had preceded me; the path was noticeably trampled and worn. Trailblazers! – etching edges, clarifying boundaries, determining direction. Even so, I realized each traveler must tread the way himself, and I did.
The voice of love
“I wonder what Your voice will sound like, Lord, when I hear it for the first time. These many days You have loved me, whispered to my heart, at times reproved me, but never audibly; always in quietness.
“Never in a train sweeping by but in the peace which follows the last car rumbling into the distance. Never in a din of voices clamoring to be heard but in the solitude and stillness after the crowd has dispersed. And never in frantic attempts to accomplish or succeed in my own strength but in fully resting in You.
“Then You speak softly, gently, with assurance and great affection.
“But what does the voice of love sound like? I listen to people speak, and think, ‘Does Jesus sound like that? Will His voice have that steady, calm air that brings repose and comfort?’ I’m sure it will be all that and more, Lord. And for whatever it will be that I can’t imagine, I know it will be the Voice of Love.”
Just then, I was startled to find Him walking beside me, smiling. “Well, what do you think? Does My voice fulfill your expectations?”
“Ever so much,” I said, trembling. Kind and soothing, yet constant and courageous, it was all I had dreamt of and more. He continued, “Keep firmly in mind what you have learned thus far. You’ll need it later as you begin your trek up the mountain. You will, at times, lose sight of Me, but I am aware of all that happens. I am only a thought, a word, a desire away. I can promise you that.”
And then He walked toward the sunlight and bade me follow. He led me out of the valley of the Forest of Deep Shadows to the base of the Mount of the Lord and said He must journey another way.
“But, remember My Words, young one, and you’ll scale the heights in safety.”
Waving farewell, I began to walk. I opened the Parchment He had given me in the forest and began to read from a book called Isaiah.
In His hand are the deep places of the earth; the strength of the hills is His also.
Psalm 95:4
Faith for some is like being rescued from drowning. For others, it’s simply yielding to the Master Helmsman when offered a cruise on His one-way vessel to paradise. It’s a far less harrowing experience to surrender willingly – and early on – especially since we face such a determinedly loving Captain.
I knew, as so many of us do, that if I yelled loudly enough when the flood waters were imminent, He would hear and most likely come to my aid. (I dismissed the idea that He might not choose to rescue me from my folly.) I also knew that calling out to Him meant I would owe Him my all thereafter. The only other option was to drown, which wasn’t an appealing notion.
In other words, in my mind I was rescued not by Someone who loved me, as much as by the only One strong enough to do the job. I turned to Him out of desperation, not truth or love or any other high and lofty ideal.
He dragged me to the safety of the shallow water then picked me up and carried me farther up the sandy beach. Laying me down on the warm, white sand, He began the resuscitation process, breath upon breath, heart massage upon gentle heart massage – and I revived. The rescue was instantaneous, my appreciation for my Rescuer great. Still I did not love Him as I would learn to love Him later. He was only my Savior. My life was His, yet my love was bound in a selfish and worldly heart and it would take years to manage it loose.
But He never gave up, never faltered. Year after year, He held and pressed and moved and worked. He knew how I felt: I would always serve Him. He wanted me to love Him.
The transition from rescue, to learning His truths, to knowing and loving Him as Friend, is illustrated in the story that follows. I have chosen the mountain and (to a lesser extent) the sea as vehicles of expression.
I hope you, too, will come to see that a life lived with Jesus Christ is an adventure of love, no matter how it is told, or by whom. And even more so, that His greatest desire is for each of His children to not merely serve Him, but to love Him with all their being. It always takes time; He’s willing to wait.
CHAPTER ONE
ON THE PLAINS OF HUMANITY: FROM VALLEY TO HIGHLANDS
Sojourners all begin their trek somewhere at the base;
In time a few will dare to roam out of their slotted place.
Noble souls, they boldly choose to go against the grain
Of earthly desert wanderings that very soon prove vain.
Instead, they scale the alpine path, a narrow way and long,
And chance the hazards on their way to sing the alpine song.
The journey
Every journey starts from where you are. For the complacent or fearful, it ends there, too. But for those who seek treasures beyond Here and Now, no cost is too great, no sacrifice too unreasonable, to commence the search. The course is set, the way determined: they must find that which they lost – or never had. Whatever “it” is, for they may not know what to call it, it must be found. And if it is indeed immortal treasure they long for, they will find it.
Journey begun, the noble seeker will proceed down one of two paths. Either he will be ecstatic with his life-discoveries, even to the point of tossing bits of newfound gold to those around him, or he will turn away in disgust and chide himself back down the mountain for wasting his precious time on something as intangible and unsatisfying as “it” was.
That’s the game and every sojourner must play, or stay home and miss out completely.
Here is where my trek begins. Travel with me as I muse on the alpine path, for “In His hand are the deep places of the earth; the strength of the hills is His also.”
You see, travel and reflection must come in that order: we roam a great while on our earthly journey thinking of nothing – absolutely nothing. Then for some usually undefined reason we actually begin to think, to reflect, on what we see, hear, and feel, and as most would admit, traveling takes precedence over reflection far too frequently along the way.
But one cannot journey far without an occasional glance around, then it’s there! – that which He said would first point us to Himself: His unmistakable fingerprint in what has been made, revealing the reason for our being and Object of our praise.
I am able, then, to resume my travels, more sure of my direction, more confident of the path ahead, knowing Who guides, urges, and pleads me to think, to reason, and then to seek Him whom I can no longer deny.
Finding answers
A journey never starts at the end, but the beginning. In the case of our alpine travels, though, it must of necessity begin at the end: the end of self: self-knowledge, self-satisfaction, self-worship. And the end comes only through the discovery of something, Someone, outside of self. Discovery of a world outside our cocoon of inwardness is the first step of meaningful discovery, the first bit of truth that may eventually lead to ultimate Truth – God Himself.
In finding answers, how assuring it is to know that truth-discovery does not demand intellect, only desire. A babe in intellect may know truth. But for a reasoned, seasoned faith, intellect must be engaged. Genuine intellect may not always have the right answer, but it will never ignore solid evidence. For where human reasoning and discernment are present, so is the capacity for human error and misjudgment.
Intellect draped with integrity, though, will always listen, learn, and attempt to find a viable solution to the inquiry at hand. Existing evidence for or against a specific question may not bring all the answers, it may even require a degree of faith to embrace, but solid evidence cannot be ignored or minimized as one might ignore a hungry cat at the back door, calling for sustenance and attention.
I must not fear to have more questions than answers, but to have more answers than questions. For when the questions stop, previous answers may not have been satisfactory. Or, maybe they have. There, too, comes a time to rest from questioning; a time to relax and let the answers, the lessons, permeate the soul. A time for peace.
In a journey of discovery, experience is but a tangible substitute for intangible truth. But truth combined with the experiencing of it is the reason we exist. Experiencing truth is the undeniable answer that speaks beyond “seeing” to “knowing”. It speaks to the “why” questions we all ask at some point in our pilgrimage. Finding not just answers, but truth, and fulfillment in that truth – the experiencing of that truth -- is God’s intent for His creation.
Any answer, conclusion, or theory a person comes by through self-discovery or the teaching of another, though, is not to be unthinkingly accepted without question, but questioned for the sake of discovery. Even the seemingly easy and traditional answers – on God, faith, love – may be handily received in the mind, but Spirit of Discernment must have free reign as He matches concept spoken with concept written in the Rule Book for all God-seekers.
Of musing
The thought, the muse, invades the mental process, imposing and confident. One, dull of heart and slow of mind, acknowledges the flash but credits it to nature’s course, a sort of cerebral lightning, an electrical storm in the passage of life. He is amused, albeit, bored. Or, maybe, distracted by the touchability of “real” life surrounding him.
Across the way, or pew, or book, another realizes he has just privileged a glimpse through the curtain of status quo into the arena of Truth. Scrawled across the dividing shroud are the words:
ONLY THE BRAVE ONLY THE BOLD ENTER HERE
And he does.
And he is never the same.
In Greek Mythology, the Muse referred to any of nine goddesses who presided over literature, the arts and sciences: Calliope, Clio, Euterpe, Melpomene, Terpsichore, Erato, Polyhymnia, Urania, Thalia.
“Musing” involves engaging our innate sense of inspiration or genius. But today, musing – thinking deeply and at length for the purpose of discovery – is an almost forgotten concept. Time is too scarce in our hustle and bustle society to allow for questionable extravagances such as … musing.
Who has time to think deeply and at length? But it’s only as I take time to ponder written revealed Truth – the Christian Scriptures – in a more than cursory fashion, that its meaning becomes clear and its message becomes real. Romans 12:2 refers to this as the “renewing of the mind” concept, and fallen mind needs renewing! The Psalms call this God-ordained “meditation”.
I can expect difficulty with this truth-musing or internalization process, for embracing ideas – especially God-ideas, which react so violently against my darkened understanding (the reason He gave us the Spirit of Truth who bears witness to His Word) – is more than mere mental assent of truth or a brain-filling storage of facts; it encompasses the entire process of chewing, swallowing, digesting and incorporating that truth into our spiritual cell structure.
Truths are for digesting, not just consuming. Undigested truth is like a lunch that’s been packed and taken along on a journey but never eaten. It begins to rot. And stink.
So, when bits and pieces of truth are uncovered, a discovery made, we are called to be Berean-ish as in Acts 17:11. Firmly clasp the piece of Light – catch it; then slowly release your fingers, using care not to allow it to slip away or be snatched by the cunning Truth-Robber. Once command has been established, begin to turn it this way and that, viewing and re-viewing, neglecting no angles. Let nothing rush you; you are in the process of unraveling an eternal, unchangeable maxim from the mind of the Infinite Creator. No trifling with details here, only grappling with Divine Utterance.
Remember, there are no fast food spiritual truths. Quick fixes are few. Genies in bottles, like Greek mythology, make for good fairy tales, but poor theology. Sovereignty condescended to provide our senseless lives with meaning – and abundance. The act of salvation is instantaneous, but real heart-deep growth takes time. Musing – thinking deeply and at length – of the Word God has revealed, against the backdrop of the world He has made, is one of God’s provisions for growth, fullness of life, and a faith that is so integrated into our spiritual cell structure that we can live it out in our daily lives for all to see, for God’s ultimate glory.
With King David, let us proclaim, “I remember the days of old; I meditate on all Thy works; I muse on the work of Thy hands. I stretch forth my hands unto Thee: my soul thirsteth after Thee, as a thirsty land.”
A pathway through
So again, we question not for the sake of questioning, but to discover. The trek of discovery, however simple, is not easy and not to be underestimated. Fraught with adversity at every turn, old paths must be unearthed, the conventional and well-worn surrendered. For though there are many passages leading into the valley of the Forest of Deep Shadows, where opportunities for true discovery abound, only one leads out to a better, higher place. It is the path from Here and Now to Then and There.
To the left of the entry to the grove, you will notice a large, hand-crafted sign which reads “Everyman’s Land.” As we proceed down the great thoroughfare there appears another, smaller sign, partially obscured by moss and fallen leaves, obviously neglected and seldom accounted for. It reads: “CAUTION - Travelers be advised: Take up your scythe, with cutting edge sharp and keen, before embarking on your unearthly journey!” Through the bleakness and tangle of treetops, a stream of sunlight shines directly onto the little sign and clearly illuminates it. Its words show forth as a beacon at night.
Traveling on, we eventually reach a Cross-Road – the first of many encounters for some, and at least the once for all. The question is posed, “Here, now, what?”
Slip into the shadows for a moment with me and observe the procession to follow. Many, as you will see, have no heart for discovery. Truth-musing is foreign to them and they offer no apology.
UnPrepared is startled by the suddenness of his Cross-Road meeting. He shrinks away from the much-too-illuminated lane and plods along his dreary, weary way. Unmoved and unmovable, he is settled, secure and too happy to need either adventure or advantage. The comfort of conventionality suits him; he suffices with a measure of peaceful existence. He is Here and Now with no thought or care of Then and There.
Next, Self-Confident boldly approaches the insistent thoroughfare. Undaunted, he assesses present and future cost. He determines greatest value in waiting, in returning to this passage at the eclipse of his life-tour. Sights and sounds of existing surroundings press him and he cannot refuse. There is, he insists, much time to reevaluate and ford, if necessary, intervening bogs on his later trip to Then and There. He assures himself the signs will be in place, the back-trekking unhindered. He has little concern or time to ponder deep forest mysteries. He progresses on his carefree, confident way.
Book in hand, Reasoned Philosopher broaches the junction as if in a duel, rationale flying and doubts whipping the air. “Where can one find significant scientific and experiential evidence to even consider Then and There? Can man embrace a belief of this magnitude and maintain allegiance to critical thinking?” Reasoner reflects, only too little, and rejects.
The line of wayfarers continues for many days. For eventually all sojourners must visit this sun-dappled, opaque land, and travel the well-trod path that lies before them. Now it intersects with and forms a Cross-Road. At a later, indeterminate time, it will be the sole trail out of the forest, when dawn will break. For some.
But first, all must confront the Forest Keeper. Trembling at the radiance of his face, all will bow, and listen, while their quests are addressed. With fury as fire and love as light, Keeper will reveal the unseen and reward the unashamed.
Indifferent, Lazy, and UnPrepared disgrace knowing they unwisely used the Forest Map entrusted to them. They had directions within their grasp (made available to them at their first Cross-Road encounter) but deemed map-savvying unworthy of their effort, unnecessary to attain their destination. They were right. One doesn’t need a map to stay lost.
Self-Made falls on bended knee as the shadow of that very Cross-Road reveals not a monument to self, but a memorial to selflessness. The vertical path that flows from the mountain steeps where Then and There dwells, back to the valley of the darksome forest, intersects with the horizontal path of Here and Now. All becomes transparent; self-confidence melts, only too late.
Doubtful, Shrewd, and Reasoner stand gazing upward as faithless rationale and dubious intellect are whirled heavenward, consumed as if by a devouring beast, then ejected as ignoble fodder not worthy of royal domain.
Each now has their answer – answers tossed away at an earlier juncture. Each is reminded of the placard that began their journey: “Take up your scythe....” In front of them the Forest Keeper holds a rolled papyrus which, the instant it is gazed upon, turns into a great, metallic, keen-edged weapon of war. For some, it is a victor’s saber; for others, the blade of a guillotine.
And ringing within the ears of many as they are marched back into the Forest of Deep Shadows, now become the Forest of Destruction, is the chilling reminder that centuries ago it was said, “For the invisible things of him from the creation of the world are clearly seen, being understood by the things that are made, even his eternal power and Godhead; so that they are without excuse.”
And the Forest Keeper wept for sadness – then joy, as his pathfinders worshipped Him. And among that number I stood with great awe and gladness. After what seemed like hours, I turned and began to walk the road that led from there.
Others had preceded me; the path was noticeably trampled and worn. Trailblazers! – etching edges, clarifying boundaries, determining direction. Even so, I realized each traveler must tread the way himself, and I did.
The voice of love
“I wonder what Your voice will sound like, Lord, when I hear it for the first time. These many days You have loved me, whispered to my heart, at times reproved me, but never audibly; always in quietness.
“Never in a train sweeping by but in the peace which follows the last car rumbling into the distance. Never in a din of voices clamoring to be heard but in the solitude and stillness after the crowd has dispersed. And never in frantic attempts to accomplish or succeed in my own strength but in fully resting in You.
“Then You speak softly, gently, with assurance and great affection.
“But what does the voice of love sound like? I listen to people speak, and think, ‘Does Jesus sound like that? Will His voice have that steady, calm air that brings repose and comfort?’ I’m sure it will be all that and more, Lord. And for whatever it will be that I can’t imagine, I know it will be the Voice of Love.”
Just then, I was startled to find Him walking beside me, smiling. “Well, what do you think? Does My voice fulfill your expectations?”
“Ever so much,” I said, trembling. Kind and soothing, yet constant and courageous, it was all I had dreamt of and more. He continued, “Keep firmly in mind what you have learned thus far. You’ll need it later as you begin your trek up the mountain. You will, at times, lose sight of Me, but I am aware of all that happens. I am only a thought, a word, a desire away. I can promise you that.”
And then He walked toward the sunlight and bade me follow. He led me out of the valley of the Forest of Deep Shadows to the base of the Mount of the Lord and said He must journey another way.
“But, remember My Words, young one, and you’ll scale the heights in safety.”
Waving farewell, I began to walk. I opened the Parchment He had given me in the forest and began to read from a book called Isaiah.
Sunday, December 6, 2009
ISSA: The Greatest Story Never Told by Lois Drake
Tour Date: December 8
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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!
Lois Drake has worked for more than twenty years in the fields of marketing and advertising. Born and raised in southern California, she traveled widely and taught elementary school children in Alaska and Finland. Drake is a lover of Tibet and its ancient culture and is especially intrigued by the possible intersection of Jesus’ travels in India and the mysterious Kushan race. Together with her husband she has made numerous trips to Tibet. They founded Friendship Homes and Schools, a nonprofit organization that began by assisting orphans in Tibet and remote parts of China. She became fascinated with imagining Jesus’ early years after reading of his journey to the East in The Lost Years of Jesus by Elizabeth Clare Prophet. Drake, a gifted storyteller who loves to write adult and children’s stories with a spiritual message, makes her home in Prescott, Arizona.
Visit the author's website.
Product Details:
List Price: $14.95
Paperback: 224 pages
Publisher: Snow Mountain Press (September 25, 2009)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 193289005X
ISBN-13: 978-1932890051
AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:
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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:
ISSA: The Greatest Story Never Told
Snow Mountain Press (September 25, 2009)
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Lois Drake has worked for more than twenty years in the fields of marketing and advertising. Born and raised in southern California, she traveled widely and taught elementary school children in Alaska and Finland. Drake is a lover of Tibet and its ancient culture and is especially intrigued by the possible intersection of Jesus’ travels in India and the mysterious Kushan race. Together with her husband she has made numerous trips to Tibet. They founded Friendship Homes and Schools, a nonprofit organization that began by assisting orphans in Tibet and remote parts of China. She became fascinated with imagining Jesus’ early years after reading of his journey to the East in The Lost Years of Jesus by Elizabeth Clare Prophet. Drake, a gifted storyteller who loves to write adult and children’s stories with a spiritual message, makes her home in Prescott, Arizona. Visit the author's website.
Product Details:
List Price: $14.95
Paperback: 224 pages
Publisher: Snow Mountain Press (September 25, 2009)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 193289005X
ISBN-13: 978-1932890051
AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:
The Dark
Night
Northwestern China, Taklamakan Desert,
four years after the birth of Jesus
Perched on a rock overlook, the two leaders peered into the encampment below. They could make out only the flickering red-amber glow from the guards’ campfire. Sounds carried better than light on this dark night. The men heard the stamp and snort of a restless horse, followed by an answer from another nearby. A warm breeze came up from the desert floor and with it the pungent smell of the herd. Now and then, the murmur of shuffling animals came along with the wind. A dog barked as if telling the animals to stay silent. A gruff voice quieted the dog, and there was stillness again.
Two dark shadows, gliding against the rock, continued their descent. No moon would show tonight. From the movement of the stars, the two knew an hour had passed since they started out from their hidden camp on the plateau high above. The black bluffs rose up from the canyon floor and formed a half-circle fortress.
As they noiselessly felt their way down, the two leaders drew closer to the northern side of the Hun encampment. The tents were barely visible in the darkness, but they sensed the arrangement of the camp. They stopped and waited on the cliff, only a stone’s throw from the closest tent and its sleeping occupants.
It would soon be time to begin. The sun would rise shortly. The men sat on the ledge above the valley floor and read the stars. Their ancestors had taught them precision with the sky.
The pair sat still and steadied their breathing. The large hoods of their coarse, red-brown cloaks hid their faces. They closed their eyes. With their rhythmic breathing, the two blended deeper and deeper into the walls of the canyon. The taller one took a long gold chain that hung from his neck. On the chain was a small gold medallion, which he allowed to rest in the palm of his hand. Even when he was not looking at it, the imprint burned brightly in his mind: a six-pointed star, with a three-part flame at its center. The Signet. His thumb passed back and forth over the symbol. He opened his eyes again and felt renewed confidence, determination, and focus. It was time.
In a breath, their feet landed on the sandy floor. The pair split and went in opposite directions. They knew that, at this moment, other hooded comrades were gliding silently in from different points on the downwind side of the camp. Only seven in total, they were enough.
Quickly, quickly. It would not be long before the dogs—yes!—there was the first mastiff, and a second, with wild and ferocious growls that awakened the sleeping Huns. More dogs barked. The hooded figures were past the first tents and nearing the horses’ tethers. The dogs charged. In perfect calm, one of the silhouettes raised a hand and spoke a single word in his native Kushan tongue, “Peace.”
The lead dog paused a fraction of a second.
Phhhht. Phhhht. Tiny blow reeds came from the cloaks of the other raiders, who quickly blew their darts into the dogs. The mastiffs ambled and whimpered slightly before they fell in sleep.
Sharp knives cut through the tethers holding the horses. Three animals had been tied to each of the strong iron rings driven into the ground––thirty horses in all. The silent team selected from those they had freed and led some away.
Only six animals—two stallions and four mares, stolen by the Huns from the Kushan village—were big horses, taller than a man. The marauding Hun party would be greatly set back if the rest were scattered. The herd was already nervous, stamping and snorting.
Alerted by the dogs and the sounds of the frightened horses, the encampment suddenly came to life. Torches were lit, and there was a clatter of weapons being gathered. The guards shouted and drew arrows, straining to see in the dark amid the animals. Some horses reared and the herd turned anxiously from side to side, ready to bolt. Dozens of torch-carrying men kept them in place.
One of the seven crossed deftly to the biggest, blue-black stallion. Stolen by the Huns, it was now the chief’s horse and was under its own guard. The person made a soft clucking noise and met the eyes of the stallion, which stood transfixed. Suddenly a torch glared. Then came the shout of a guard: “Aiii yaah!”
The knife cut through the tether, and then the cloaked figure crouched under the horse for protection. It was too late to prevent the pain of an arrow that burned into the raider’s shoulder. Falling back slightly, the raider broke off the arrow’s shaft near the head and remained under the horse as the guards approached.
A thought rang out loudly in the raider’s mind: “Yes. It’s time.” Suddenly there was a mighty, piercing, shattering sound as the team, perfectly in unison with a great shout from deep within their beings, invoked the sacred, ancient Tokharian words “Appakke Nakte!”—meaning Father God. It was only a moment, but it was sufficient.
Twenty-four freed Hun horses charged wildly in every direction. Overwhelmed, the guards and soldiers strained to see the intruders while at the same time attempting to stop the bolting horses. Tents collapsed as the wild-eyed steeds panicked and reared against them. Galloping and shouting echoed in every direction. Through it, six horses led by seven hooded figures trotted into the dark, moving closer and closer to the canyon wall before they disappeared.
The seven and their captive steeds reached the canyon wall. Looking back into the darkness, they saw pinpricks of torches bouncing up and down behind them. Soon these would gather to follow their tracks, which for now were still obscured by the confusion and the blackness.
An owl hooted. “Zhu Li,” observed the tallest man. He answered the call and the party moved along the canyon wall another 200 paces. The wounded person, smaller than the others, walked toward the front of the group.
They paused to look out across the canyon floor.
The torches below had coalesced into one group. Clearly the party’s tracks had been discovered and the pursuers, some mounted, shouted with exuberance since they knew the tracks would lead to the impasse of the canyon wall. The cries of the Huns echoed wildly off the massive stone cliff.
The team never wavered. They crossed a dry creek bed and the tall one responded once more to the cry of the owl.
Past a rock face, they made a sudden turn where they entered a narrow slot canyon, the contorted and sculpted work of water and wind over eons. Its walls reached up to the sky. Twisting far into the cliff face, the slot canyon was only a few inches wider than the horses. The group walked upstream. The creek bed was dry now, but when water did run, it ran in a fury. The horses became nervous. The small raider clucked consolingly and the group continued up the narrow canyon.
The shouts of the Huns became softer because the turns of the slot canyon muffled them. The tracks, however, would quickly lead the way. There was no time to spare. Their secret place could not be discovered. The group knew, as the Ancient Ones had taught them, that timing was critical.
Once more the owl hooted. The call was returned. They looked at the sky and the tall man raised his hand. For many days he had been performing a sacred ritual at the home of the Kushans, seeking the will and protection of Appakke Nakte.
He watched the sky. Calmly he sent his vocal entreaty for deliverance, calling upon the God of his fathers.
In the inner, mystical temple of his heart, his awareness of God expanded beyond the physical world to hear the Father’s assurance: “Fear not. I am with you.”
He felt an unspoken confirmation of God’s will pulsate through his body. From that point of contact with God, he sent a great release of sound as he chanted in devotion the holy name, Appakke Nakte––many times, strongly, with authority, again and again––until they heard the rumbling. “Our Father, I thank thee. Thy will be done. May all life be blessed by your wisdom, power, and love.”
The rumbling became incredibly loud. It was the approach of that desert anomaly: the flash flood. For several days, the water had poured through the higher elevations. Cascading down, ever down, it would hit the canyon as a raging torrent. The slot canyon was created by the same process repeated over millennia. The approaching wall of water would instantly obliterate anything in its path. The roar was deafening.
Torchlight and a Hun’s shout came from around the last turn. They heard another holler. The tall leader reached high on the rock wall and felt the palm-size six-pointed star carved there. He leaned his weight against it. The wall gave in slightly, and the seven pushed hard to move the stone enough to enter. A torch and the smiling face of Zhu Li greeted them inside. “Come! Come!” he beamed.
Seven hooded figures and the horses they led quickly passed through. They leaned back against the rock, heaved it in place, and immediately heard the roar of water surge by. Small drips trickled at the side of the stone door. The group and their charges were safe. The tracks were gone.
The Huns were scattered by water and confusion. Proceeding forward was impossible. Others in the rear turned around and raced from the oncoming water, in an attempt to either climb a high embankment or reach the open expanse of the valley floor.
The Hun chief, with his second-in-command, scrambled up a rocky slope and watched in disbelief as the torrent cut them off from the Kushans. “Barbarians!” the chief seethed with contempt and rage. “They have escaped tonight, but we will drive them from the highlands and kill every last one. Their king will pay dearly for this.”
The aide spat on the ground. He was furious and his eyes narrowed as he surveyed the chaos. “Someone must pay for this blunder tonight,” he hissed.
“Shall it be you?” the chief sneered back angrily.
“Do you question my leadership?” The swarthy leader eyed his aide suspiciously before turning back to the scene. “Return to camp and execute the guards who were on duty,” he said, and then kicked his horse and rode toward the valley.
Behind the stone door, Zhu Li led the band by torchlight around the curve of a subterranean passage. The light of the torch created a gleam upon his blue cap and blue silk tunic. A long braid of black hair lay flat upon his back. He was the height of the smallest raider, almost like a spirit hurrying ahead of the group. His dark, almond-shaped eyes sparkled with the flicker of the torch. White leggings, which wrapped his calves up to his blue silk trousers, stood out in the torchlight.
Finally, after several hundred paces, the group saw the tunnel open to a huge cavern of blackness. The only light in the center of the dark expanse was Zhu Li’s campfire. Over it was an iron pot, decorated with ancient symbols and simmering with steam. Around the edges of the cavern, dried clumps of grass and wooden pails of water awaited the horses. Carved jade decanters rested on ornate boxes, with delicate jade teacups next to them. Richly lacquered chopsticks lay across empty bowls awaiting rice, vegetables, and other delicacies simmering in the pot. The wounded figure sank in exhaustion onto one of the thick mats rolled out near the fire.
The tall man at last threw back his hood. A crop of red hair, cut straight across his forehead, and a beard trimmed close around his chin framed his blue eyes and ruddy complexion. Taktu’s long, thin nose and high, angular cheekbones were a dramatic contrast to the flat nose and long face of Zhu Li, whose own beard hung daintily from his chin.
“Well done!” Taktu said to Zhu Li with a smile. Then, his brow furrowed and his voice turned low and serious as he said, “The queen is injured.”
While the others tended to the horses, Taktu and Zhu Li bent down next to the small figure on the mat. King Taktu was the ruler of the Kushan people; generations before, the Huns had driven the Kushan out of the Tarim Basin, over the mountains, and into Bactria.
Taktu pushed back the hood from his wife’s face. She lay with her eyes closed. She breathed deeply, with all her attention fixed on her breath, but her meditation was not enough to erase the pain and exhaustion showing on her face. Like her husband and the others in this elite, secret band, Queen Sarah was highly trained and disciplined in the ways of the Ancient Ones. Her face––the forehead now knotted in pain––was clear and beautiful, with a tawny complexion offset by dark ringlets that fell to her shoulders. She opened her wide brown eyes, smiled, and interrupted her meditation to say, “Our Father was with us. It was a great victory.”
Taktu untied the top of the queen’s cloak and gently moved the soft white muslin undergarment off her shoulder. Zhu Li seemed unperturbed as he took a small packet from inside his belt and unfolded its cloth cover. Carefully, he placed a needle at each of Sarah’s eyebrows and turned the thin spikes delicately so as not to inflict pain. A third needle he placed at the queen’s chin.
“Tell me when the pain stops,” Zhu Li said to Queen Sarah. He allowed these to set a moment, until Sarah told him the pain was gone.
“Good,” he replied and went to work bathing the wound and removing the arrowhead with a small blade. All the while he softly chanted, appealing to the Divine Mother he knew from his culture of the Far East. To him, the Heavenly Mother was the manifestation of mercy, compassion, and healing.
Soon the wound was dressed and the queen lay propped on a cushion, sipping hot broth while the others also rested and ate. They would remain in this cavern for at least another day and night. During this time, a scout could make sure that the Huns had indeed departed before the group made its way back up the canyon and into the highlands.
Revived by the easing of pain and the eating of light food, Sarah asked Zhu Li, “What news do you have of our son?”
Zhu Li laughed. “The mighty warrior, little Vima Kadphises? See for yourself!”
The queen’s nursemaid, Lariska, stepped forward from the shadows into the ring of campfire light, holding the six-month-old baby in her arms. “Here is your son, my queen.”
Sarah’s eyes lit up. “Yekte Vima!” she called out, laughing with delight. Sarah cradled her son on her uninjured shoulder. “Did you bring all of our court?” the queen joked, looking at Zhu Li.
“Only the most trusted,” he replied, “to help us. And yekte Vima”––little Vima––“wanted to come! How could I refuse? Please, try to sleep.”
With her baby at her side and her husband resting next to her, Queen Sarah closed her eyes again.
CHapter Two
Faraway Classes
Nazareth, fourteen years after the birth of Jesus
The noonday sun shone hotly above the bustling marketplace. From vendors in the dusty square, Mary gathered ingredients for making the flat, round bread her family ate with lentils, spiced vegetables, and other dishes she prepared. Her husband, Joseph remained at home, working with young Jesus in the carpentry shop that provided a livelihood for the family.
Stopping at a cloth-covered stall, Mary offered a farmer two coins for a portion of grain. The bent old man scooped a hollow gourd into the large, rough-sewn sack of wheat sitting open on the ground. He filled the gourd twice, each time pouring its contents into the cloth pouch hanging from Mary’s shoulder. Two little children held onto Mary’s robe.
A fine gentleman, obviously of some means, stood at her side and vied for her attention midst the children and the seller.
“Mary, it is time that we plan carefully for the continuation of his education. The Heavenly Father has his time for all things. I will be leaving soon, and he must not miss this opportunity to meet his teacher. Who knows when it will come again?”
“Yes, I know,” Mary replied gently to her uncle. “Do you think it is truly the Father’s will for him to go away again? Jesus is young. He needs more time with Joseph to learn his trade, and more time to grow into real manhood. I must pray about this. Our Heavenly Father will surely make Jesus’ path clear.”
Mary wondered if the real reason for her hesitancy was that it was indeed his time. Mature and sensitive for her thirty years, she was also a devoted mother. The reality of separating was hard to bear. One of the children with her, a young boy with golden curls, found a stone and threw it, laughing at a mongrel dog skulking around the stalls.
“James!” Mary reprimanded. “It is not right to hurt that poor dog. He has done nothing to you.”
The toddler girl at her knee whined, “Mama, I’m hungry.”
Mary looked plaintively into the gentleman’s face. “Uncle Joseph, perhaps we should talk about this later,” she said, sighing and smiling faintly.
“Yes,” he responded, relenting for now. “Bring the family to my home tonight for dinner.”
“But Jesus will be with us and I don’t want him to be troubled.”
“It’s fine. He will understand.”
Mary knew this was true. She nodded and, gathering her pouch, hurried the children home.
The house of Joseph of Arimathea was situated on the edge of town. It was always exciting for Jesus and his brother and sister to visit their great-uncle’s home because it was full of exotic souvenirs from his travels.
He was a successful merchant who had gone on trips as far as the northern islands across the sea and eastward into India. For most people, these places existed only in the realm of stories. Joseph’s house was more than just one of the largest Jewish homes in Nazareth. It was also an elegant showcase of his wares, often visited by the servants of Roman nobility who came to procure handsome furnishings from India or carved marble from Greece. Colorful silk tapestries draped the walls, and rainbows of rich silk fabrics were stacked in neat folds on benches and shelves. Best of all was the thick smell of spices, oils, and precious incense brought back from the markets of foreign lands.
Joseph was generous in giving sizable discounts to the Roman governor, his court in Jerusalem, and to his local representatives in Nazareth. After every journey, Joseph’s servants delivered beautiful gifts of gold, jewels, and silks along with an announcement of the arrival of special items that might interest the prefect. These Roman connections were priceless not only for favor in political matters, the least of which was taxes, but also—and most significantly—for the protection of the Roman army. While Joseph had his own servants, he also depended upon the Roman army to afford him safe passage through their lands, both in his own country and around Rome.
Many of Joseph’s Jewish friends criticized his familiarity with the Romans, but they could not criticize his devotion to God, nor his donations to the temple in Jerusalem and the synagogues elsewhere. Joseph of Arimathea was known for his piety, fairness, and generosity.
That evening, as the family walked through the labyrinth of twisted byways to reach the great man’s house, Jesus reflected on his childhood years under the merchant’s care. Joseph and Mary had entrusted this great-uncle with Jesus as a boy, allowing him to escort their child far from home across the sea. The adults agreed that the northern isles would be safer than the vicinities of Egypt or Galilee.
There, on those isles, Jesus had studied with the finest teachers of his time. Even now, the teen could still see himself as a tender seven-year-old, clutching Uncle Joseph’s hand while their ship plowed through rough seas. Though determined to study and prepare for his Father’s calling, he remembered tears burning his cheeks on the day Joseph of Arimathea returned home, leaving Jesus behind in the foreign land, brave yet bereft of all blood-kin.
In that moment, he could once again smell the porridge cooking in the thatched hut he shared with his elderly tutor. Jesus’ stomach churned as he thought of the burly boys who taunted him when he left the sanctity of the hut.
Finally, his body again felt the peace of self-control; the old man had taught him this through long and tedious lessons that were nevertheless enthralling observations of nature, the elements, the plants, animals, and people.
Every morning the tutor and his small, prodigious pupil worshipped the great Father. All day and long into the night they studied the skies, the wind, water, fire, earth, and its inhabitants great and small. Jesus learned to read the faces, emotions, thoughts, and motives of people around him. The boy’s mind became sharp and disciplined. Jesus’ intuition developed. When Joseph of Arimathea returned for Jesus several years later, he had found a changed boy.
Jesus had returned to Nazareth, continuing his study of Hebrew law, and in a year or two he was astounding the rabbis in the temple in Jerusalem with his knowledge and interpretation of the scriptures.
At last the small group arrived at their destination. Uncle Joseph himself opened wide the heavy wooden double doors with brass ornamentation.
There stood the family before him. Mary held little Miriam in her arms. Her husband stood next to her. He and Joseph of Arimathea were close friends with high regard for each other. Next to Joseph of Nazareth was little James and then Jesus, who stood almost as tall as his father.
“Welcome!” With outstretched arms, Joseph of Arimathea focused his attention on the three children. Jesus was almost fourteen, James was eight, and Miriam was three. “Who will find the hidden treasure?” he teased. Joseph bent over, smiling mischievously at Miriam and James.
A widower, “Uncle Joseph” cherished the three children as his own. He missed them in his long absences, and while careful not to provide them with an overabundance of gifts, this great-uncle took pleasure in delighting the children with special treats and games that he had devised on his trips.
Miriam seriously studied Uncle Joseph’s round face and pondered his question about finding the hidden treasure. As Joseph bent over, Miriam took her chubby little hands and placed them on each side of his silvery beard. The three adults and Jesus worked hard to stifle laughs when Miriam looked deeply into her uncle’s blue eyes and said slowly with somber inflection, “Uncle Joseph, our good Father shows us all things.”
Laughing, Joseph placed his hand on the top of her head. “Ah, my wise little Miriam,” he said as he crouched next to her, “how can I argue with the truth? All right.
I will be just like our good Father when you are seeking his will. I will give you clues to guide you!
“Come close,” he said to both James and Miriam. Joseph extended his arms to reach around the two and in a loud whisper announced, “This treasure is alive! His ancestor played mischief long ago in the Far East and was named Hanuman! You will find him with a mysterious stranger. And”–– he winked––“one of his favorite fruits is dates.” From the small bag he wore slung across his chest, Joseph took several dates and handed them to the two children. “Now, go find him!”
As the children ran through the familiar house, Uncle Joseph took Mary, Jesus, and Joseph into his main room. Servants came with basins of water for washing. The family members settled onto comfortable cushions around the low table while servants laid flat breads, spicy vegetables, cheese, nuts, and fruits before them. Uncle Joseph spread his hands over the food. “My blessed loved ones, let us pray. Creator of all, bless this food and this company. Guide us in the ways of Abraham to follow thy will. Strengthen the fire in our hearts. Reveal to us thy perfect plan for thy beloved son Jesus.”
Jesus fidgeted. Why the special prayer about me today? he wondered without asking out loud. He had the uncanny sense that something was about to happen. He stole a quizzical look at Uncle Joseph, then at his parents, and perceived uneasiness in their faces. Were they keeping something from him? Suddenly his appetite faded as he pondered the purpose of this family gathering.
Joseph continued, “So, my nephew, tell me about your studies. Are you still spending a great deal of time in the synagogue?”
“Yes, Uncle,” Jesus replied. “The rabbis allow me to come when I want to now, and I try to memorize the Torah and the teachings on the law when I am there.” The young man sensed his family would be concerned if he didn’t eat. He broke off a piece of bread. His long-fingered hands were at once strong and fine. He nibbled absently as he concentrated on the family members and waited for their conversation to unfold.
Like other men of his Jewish sect in Nazareth, Jesus wore a long white tunic. His face showed only the faintest traces of the beard that would soon frame his pleasant features. Jesus’ expressive eyes often flickered with joy and wisdom, and at times a sorrow that neither he nor anyone in his family could explain.
“That is excellent,” Joseph exclaimed. “And what do you know of your reputation? Do you know that you are the talk of our people?” he asked, smiling. “And of the Romans?” he added more seriously.
Jesus regarded his great-uncle and without pretense or pride, replied softly, “More people have been gathering when I explain my understanding of the scriptures.”
“And have you noticed any Roman guards in the crowds?” Joseph of Arimathea pressed.
Jesus shook his head from side to side. He asked himself why he was feeling more and more restless. It was clear Uncle Joseph had news that would affect him.
Joseph of Arimathea turned to Joseph a
Night
Northwestern China, Taklamakan Desert,
four years after the birth of Jesus
Perched on a rock overlook, the two leaders peered into the encampment below. They could make out only the flickering red-amber glow from the guards’ campfire. Sounds carried better than light on this dark night. The men heard the stamp and snort of a restless horse, followed by an answer from another nearby. A warm breeze came up from the desert floor and with it the pungent smell of the herd. Now and then, the murmur of shuffling animals came along with the wind. A dog barked as if telling the animals to stay silent. A gruff voice quieted the dog, and there was stillness again.
Two dark shadows, gliding against the rock, continued their descent. No moon would show tonight. From the movement of the stars, the two knew an hour had passed since they started out from their hidden camp on the plateau high above. The black bluffs rose up from the canyon floor and formed a half-circle fortress.
As they noiselessly felt their way down, the two leaders drew closer to the northern side of the Hun encampment. The tents were barely visible in the darkness, but they sensed the arrangement of the camp. They stopped and waited on the cliff, only a stone’s throw from the closest tent and its sleeping occupants.
It would soon be time to begin. The sun would rise shortly. The men sat on the ledge above the valley floor and read the stars. Their ancestors had taught them precision with the sky.
The pair sat still and steadied their breathing. The large hoods of their coarse, red-brown cloaks hid their faces. They closed their eyes. With their rhythmic breathing, the two blended deeper and deeper into the walls of the canyon. The taller one took a long gold chain that hung from his neck. On the chain was a small gold medallion, which he allowed to rest in the palm of his hand. Even when he was not looking at it, the imprint burned brightly in his mind: a six-pointed star, with a three-part flame at its center. The Signet. His thumb passed back and forth over the symbol. He opened his eyes again and felt renewed confidence, determination, and focus. It was time.
In a breath, their feet landed on the sandy floor. The pair split and went in opposite directions. They knew that, at this moment, other hooded comrades were gliding silently in from different points on the downwind side of the camp. Only seven in total, they were enough.
Quickly, quickly. It would not be long before the dogs—yes!—there was the first mastiff, and a second, with wild and ferocious growls that awakened the sleeping Huns. More dogs barked. The hooded figures were past the first tents and nearing the horses’ tethers. The dogs charged. In perfect calm, one of the silhouettes raised a hand and spoke a single word in his native Kushan tongue, “Peace.”
The lead dog paused a fraction of a second.
Phhhht. Phhhht. Tiny blow reeds came from the cloaks of the other raiders, who quickly blew their darts into the dogs. The mastiffs ambled and whimpered slightly before they fell in sleep.
Sharp knives cut through the tethers holding the horses. Three animals had been tied to each of the strong iron rings driven into the ground––thirty horses in all. The silent team selected from those they had freed and led some away.
Only six animals—two stallions and four mares, stolen by the Huns from the Kushan village—were big horses, taller than a man. The marauding Hun party would be greatly set back if the rest were scattered. The herd was already nervous, stamping and snorting.
Alerted by the dogs and the sounds of the frightened horses, the encampment suddenly came to life. Torches were lit, and there was a clatter of weapons being gathered. The guards shouted and drew arrows, straining to see in the dark amid the animals. Some horses reared and the herd turned anxiously from side to side, ready to bolt. Dozens of torch-carrying men kept them in place.
One of the seven crossed deftly to the biggest, blue-black stallion. Stolen by the Huns, it was now the chief’s horse and was under its own guard. The person made a soft clucking noise and met the eyes of the stallion, which stood transfixed. Suddenly a torch glared. Then came the shout of a guard: “Aiii yaah!”
The knife cut through the tether, and then the cloaked figure crouched under the horse for protection. It was too late to prevent the pain of an arrow that burned into the raider’s shoulder. Falling back slightly, the raider broke off the arrow’s shaft near the head and remained under the horse as the guards approached.
A thought rang out loudly in the raider’s mind: “Yes. It’s time.” Suddenly there was a mighty, piercing, shattering sound as the team, perfectly in unison with a great shout from deep within their beings, invoked the sacred, ancient Tokharian words “Appakke Nakte!”—meaning Father God. It was only a moment, but it was sufficient.
Twenty-four freed Hun horses charged wildly in every direction. Overwhelmed, the guards and soldiers strained to see the intruders while at the same time attempting to stop the bolting horses. Tents collapsed as the wild-eyed steeds panicked and reared against them. Galloping and shouting echoed in every direction. Through it, six horses led by seven hooded figures trotted into the dark, moving closer and closer to the canyon wall before they disappeared.
The seven and their captive steeds reached the canyon wall. Looking back into the darkness, they saw pinpricks of torches bouncing up and down behind them. Soon these would gather to follow their tracks, which for now were still obscured by the confusion and the blackness.
An owl hooted. “Zhu Li,” observed the tallest man. He answered the call and the party moved along the canyon wall another 200 paces. The wounded person, smaller than the others, walked toward the front of the group.
They paused to look out across the canyon floor.
The torches below had coalesced into one group. Clearly the party’s tracks had been discovered and the pursuers, some mounted, shouted with exuberance since they knew the tracks would lead to the impasse of the canyon wall. The cries of the Huns echoed wildly off the massive stone cliff.
The team never wavered. They crossed a dry creek bed and the tall one responded once more to the cry of the owl.
Past a rock face, they made a sudden turn where they entered a narrow slot canyon, the contorted and sculpted work of water and wind over eons. Its walls reached up to the sky. Twisting far into the cliff face, the slot canyon was only a few inches wider than the horses. The group walked upstream. The creek bed was dry now, but when water did run, it ran in a fury. The horses became nervous. The small raider clucked consolingly and the group continued up the narrow canyon.
The shouts of the Huns became softer because the turns of the slot canyon muffled them. The tracks, however, would quickly lead the way. There was no time to spare. Their secret place could not be discovered. The group knew, as the Ancient Ones had taught them, that timing was critical.
Once more the owl hooted. The call was returned. They looked at the sky and the tall man raised his hand. For many days he had been performing a sacred ritual at the home of the Kushans, seeking the will and protection of Appakke Nakte.
He watched the sky. Calmly he sent his vocal entreaty for deliverance, calling upon the God of his fathers.
In the inner, mystical temple of his heart, his awareness of God expanded beyond the physical world to hear the Father’s assurance: “Fear not. I am with you.”
He felt an unspoken confirmation of God’s will pulsate through his body. From that point of contact with God, he sent a great release of sound as he chanted in devotion the holy name, Appakke Nakte––many times, strongly, with authority, again and again––until they heard the rumbling. “Our Father, I thank thee. Thy will be done. May all life be blessed by your wisdom, power, and love.”
The rumbling became incredibly loud. It was the approach of that desert anomaly: the flash flood. For several days, the water had poured through the higher elevations. Cascading down, ever down, it would hit the canyon as a raging torrent. The slot canyon was created by the same process repeated over millennia. The approaching wall of water would instantly obliterate anything in its path. The roar was deafening.
Torchlight and a Hun’s shout came from around the last turn. They heard another holler. The tall leader reached high on the rock wall and felt the palm-size six-pointed star carved there. He leaned his weight against it. The wall gave in slightly, and the seven pushed hard to move the stone enough to enter. A torch and the smiling face of Zhu Li greeted them inside. “Come! Come!” he beamed.
Seven hooded figures and the horses they led quickly passed through. They leaned back against the rock, heaved it in place, and immediately heard the roar of water surge by. Small drips trickled at the side of the stone door. The group and their charges were safe. The tracks were gone.
The Huns were scattered by water and confusion. Proceeding forward was impossible. Others in the rear turned around and raced from the oncoming water, in an attempt to either climb a high embankment or reach the open expanse of the valley floor.
The Hun chief, with his second-in-command, scrambled up a rocky slope and watched in disbelief as the torrent cut them off from the Kushans. “Barbarians!” the chief seethed with contempt and rage. “They have escaped tonight, but we will drive them from the highlands and kill every last one. Their king will pay dearly for this.”
The aide spat on the ground. He was furious and his eyes narrowed as he surveyed the chaos. “Someone must pay for this blunder tonight,” he hissed.
“Shall it be you?” the chief sneered back angrily.
“Do you question my leadership?” The swarthy leader eyed his aide suspiciously before turning back to the scene. “Return to camp and execute the guards who were on duty,” he said, and then kicked his horse and rode toward the valley.
Behind the stone door, Zhu Li led the band by torchlight around the curve of a subterranean passage. The light of the torch created a gleam upon his blue cap and blue silk tunic. A long braid of black hair lay flat upon his back. He was the height of the smallest raider, almost like a spirit hurrying ahead of the group. His dark, almond-shaped eyes sparkled with the flicker of the torch. White leggings, which wrapped his calves up to his blue silk trousers, stood out in the torchlight.
Finally, after several hundred paces, the group saw the tunnel open to a huge cavern of blackness. The only light in the center of the dark expanse was Zhu Li’s campfire. Over it was an iron pot, decorated with ancient symbols and simmering with steam. Around the edges of the cavern, dried clumps of grass and wooden pails of water awaited the horses. Carved jade decanters rested on ornate boxes, with delicate jade teacups next to them. Richly lacquered chopsticks lay across empty bowls awaiting rice, vegetables, and other delicacies simmering in the pot. The wounded figure sank in exhaustion onto one of the thick mats rolled out near the fire.
The tall man at last threw back his hood. A crop of red hair, cut straight across his forehead, and a beard trimmed close around his chin framed his blue eyes and ruddy complexion. Taktu’s long, thin nose and high, angular cheekbones were a dramatic contrast to the flat nose and long face of Zhu Li, whose own beard hung daintily from his chin.
“Well done!” Taktu said to Zhu Li with a smile. Then, his brow furrowed and his voice turned low and serious as he said, “The queen is injured.”
While the others tended to the horses, Taktu and Zhu Li bent down next to the small figure on the mat. King Taktu was the ruler of the Kushan people; generations before, the Huns had driven the Kushan out of the Tarim Basin, over the mountains, and into Bactria.
Taktu pushed back the hood from his wife’s face. She lay with her eyes closed. She breathed deeply, with all her attention fixed on her breath, but her meditation was not enough to erase the pain and exhaustion showing on her face. Like her husband and the others in this elite, secret band, Queen Sarah was highly trained and disciplined in the ways of the Ancient Ones. Her face––the forehead now knotted in pain––was clear and beautiful, with a tawny complexion offset by dark ringlets that fell to her shoulders. She opened her wide brown eyes, smiled, and interrupted her meditation to say, “Our Father was with us. It was a great victory.”
Taktu untied the top of the queen’s cloak and gently moved the soft white muslin undergarment off her shoulder. Zhu Li seemed unperturbed as he took a small packet from inside his belt and unfolded its cloth cover. Carefully, he placed a needle at each of Sarah’s eyebrows and turned the thin spikes delicately so as not to inflict pain. A third needle he placed at the queen’s chin.
“Tell me when the pain stops,” Zhu Li said to Queen Sarah. He allowed these to set a moment, until Sarah told him the pain was gone.
“Good,” he replied and went to work bathing the wound and removing the arrowhead with a small blade. All the while he softly chanted, appealing to the Divine Mother he knew from his culture of the Far East. To him, the Heavenly Mother was the manifestation of mercy, compassion, and healing.
Soon the wound was dressed and the queen lay propped on a cushion, sipping hot broth while the others also rested and ate. They would remain in this cavern for at least another day and night. During this time, a scout could make sure that the Huns had indeed departed before the group made its way back up the canyon and into the highlands.
Revived by the easing of pain and the eating of light food, Sarah asked Zhu Li, “What news do you have of our son?”
Zhu Li laughed. “The mighty warrior, little Vima Kadphises? See for yourself!”
The queen’s nursemaid, Lariska, stepped forward from the shadows into the ring of campfire light, holding the six-month-old baby in her arms. “Here is your son, my queen.”
Sarah’s eyes lit up. “Yekte Vima!” she called out, laughing with delight. Sarah cradled her son on her uninjured shoulder. “Did you bring all of our court?” the queen joked, looking at Zhu Li.
“Only the most trusted,” he replied, “to help us. And yekte Vima”––little Vima––“wanted to come! How could I refuse? Please, try to sleep.”
With her baby at her side and her husband resting next to her, Queen Sarah closed her eyes again.
CHapter Two
Faraway Classes
Nazareth, fourteen years after the birth of Jesus
The noonday sun shone hotly above the bustling marketplace. From vendors in the dusty square, Mary gathered ingredients for making the flat, round bread her family ate with lentils, spiced vegetables, and other dishes she prepared. Her husband, Joseph remained at home, working with young Jesus in the carpentry shop that provided a livelihood for the family.
Stopping at a cloth-covered stall, Mary offered a farmer two coins for a portion of grain. The bent old man scooped a hollow gourd into the large, rough-sewn sack of wheat sitting open on the ground. He filled the gourd twice, each time pouring its contents into the cloth pouch hanging from Mary’s shoulder. Two little children held onto Mary’s robe.
A fine gentleman, obviously of some means, stood at her side and vied for her attention midst the children and the seller.
“Mary, it is time that we plan carefully for the continuation of his education. The Heavenly Father has his time for all things. I will be leaving soon, and he must not miss this opportunity to meet his teacher. Who knows when it will come again?”
“Yes, I know,” Mary replied gently to her uncle. “Do you think it is truly the Father’s will for him to go away again? Jesus is young. He needs more time with Joseph to learn his trade, and more time to grow into real manhood. I must pray about this. Our Heavenly Father will surely make Jesus’ path clear.”
Mary wondered if the real reason for her hesitancy was that it was indeed his time. Mature and sensitive for her thirty years, she was also a devoted mother. The reality of separating was hard to bear. One of the children with her, a young boy with golden curls, found a stone and threw it, laughing at a mongrel dog skulking around the stalls.
“James!” Mary reprimanded. “It is not right to hurt that poor dog. He has done nothing to you.”
The toddler girl at her knee whined, “Mama, I’m hungry.”
Mary looked plaintively into the gentleman’s face. “Uncle Joseph, perhaps we should talk about this later,” she said, sighing and smiling faintly.
“Yes,” he responded, relenting for now. “Bring the family to my home tonight for dinner.”
“But Jesus will be with us and I don’t want him to be troubled.”
“It’s fine. He will understand.”
Mary knew this was true. She nodded and, gathering her pouch, hurried the children home.
The house of Joseph of Arimathea was situated on the edge of town. It was always exciting for Jesus and his brother and sister to visit their great-uncle’s home because it was full of exotic souvenirs from his travels.
He was a successful merchant who had gone on trips as far as the northern islands across the sea and eastward into India. For most people, these places existed only in the realm of stories. Joseph’s house was more than just one of the largest Jewish homes in Nazareth. It was also an elegant showcase of his wares, often visited by the servants of Roman nobility who came to procure handsome furnishings from India or carved marble from Greece. Colorful silk tapestries draped the walls, and rainbows of rich silk fabrics were stacked in neat folds on benches and shelves. Best of all was the thick smell of spices, oils, and precious incense brought back from the markets of foreign lands.
Joseph was generous in giving sizable discounts to the Roman governor, his court in Jerusalem, and to his local representatives in Nazareth. After every journey, Joseph’s servants delivered beautiful gifts of gold, jewels, and silks along with an announcement of the arrival of special items that might interest the prefect. These Roman connections were priceless not only for favor in political matters, the least of which was taxes, but also—and most significantly—for the protection of the Roman army. While Joseph had his own servants, he also depended upon the Roman army to afford him safe passage through their lands, both in his own country and around Rome.
Many of Joseph’s Jewish friends criticized his familiarity with the Romans, but they could not criticize his devotion to God, nor his donations to the temple in Jerusalem and the synagogues elsewhere. Joseph of Arimathea was known for his piety, fairness, and generosity.
That evening, as the family walked through the labyrinth of twisted byways to reach the great man’s house, Jesus reflected on his childhood years under the merchant’s care. Joseph and Mary had entrusted this great-uncle with Jesus as a boy, allowing him to escort their child far from home across the sea. The adults agreed that the northern isles would be safer than the vicinities of Egypt or Galilee.
There, on those isles, Jesus had studied with the finest teachers of his time. Even now, the teen could still see himself as a tender seven-year-old, clutching Uncle Joseph’s hand while their ship plowed through rough seas. Though determined to study and prepare for his Father’s calling, he remembered tears burning his cheeks on the day Joseph of Arimathea returned home, leaving Jesus behind in the foreign land, brave yet bereft of all blood-kin.
In that moment, he could once again smell the porridge cooking in the thatched hut he shared with his elderly tutor. Jesus’ stomach churned as he thought of the burly boys who taunted him when he left the sanctity of the hut.
Finally, his body again felt the peace of self-control; the old man had taught him this through long and tedious lessons that were nevertheless enthralling observations of nature, the elements, the plants, animals, and people.
Every morning the tutor and his small, prodigious pupil worshipped the great Father. All day and long into the night they studied the skies, the wind, water, fire, earth, and its inhabitants great and small. Jesus learned to read the faces, emotions, thoughts, and motives of people around him. The boy’s mind became sharp and disciplined. Jesus’ intuition developed. When Joseph of Arimathea returned for Jesus several years later, he had found a changed boy.
Jesus had returned to Nazareth, continuing his study of Hebrew law, and in a year or two he was astounding the rabbis in the temple in Jerusalem with his knowledge and interpretation of the scriptures.
At last the small group arrived at their destination. Uncle Joseph himself opened wide the heavy wooden double doors with brass ornamentation.
There stood the family before him. Mary held little Miriam in her arms. Her husband stood next to her. He and Joseph of Arimathea were close friends with high regard for each other. Next to Joseph of Nazareth was little James and then Jesus, who stood almost as tall as his father.
“Welcome!” With outstretched arms, Joseph of Arimathea focused his attention on the three children. Jesus was almost fourteen, James was eight, and Miriam was three. “Who will find the hidden treasure?” he teased. Joseph bent over, smiling mischievously at Miriam and James.
A widower, “Uncle Joseph” cherished the three children as his own. He missed them in his long absences, and while careful not to provide them with an overabundance of gifts, this great-uncle took pleasure in delighting the children with special treats and games that he had devised on his trips.
Miriam seriously studied Uncle Joseph’s round face and pondered his question about finding the hidden treasure. As Joseph bent over, Miriam took her chubby little hands and placed them on each side of his silvery beard. The three adults and Jesus worked hard to stifle laughs when Miriam looked deeply into her uncle’s blue eyes and said slowly with somber inflection, “Uncle Joseph, our good Father shows us all things.”
Laughing, Joseph placed his hand on the top of her head. “Ah, my wise little Miriam,” he said as he crouched next to her, “how can I argue with the truth? All right.
I will be just like our good Father when you are seeking his will. I will give you clues to guide you!
“Come close,” he said to both James and Miriam. Joseph extended his arms to reach around the two and in a loud whisper announced, “This treasure is alive! His ancestor played mischief long ago in the Far East and was named Hanuman! You will find him with a mysterious stranger. And”–– he winked––“one of his favorite fruits is dates.” From the small bag he wore slung across his chest, Joseph took several dates and handed them to the two children. “Now, go find him!”
As the children ran through the familiar house, Uncle Joseph took Mary, Jesus, and Joseph into his main room. Servants came with basins of water for washing. The family members settled onto comfortable cushions around the low table while servants laid flat breads, spicy vegetables, cheese, nuts, and fruits before them. Uncle Joseph spread his hands over the food. “My blessed loved ones, let us pray. Creator of all, bless this food and this company. Guide us in the ways of Abraham to follow thy will. Strengthen the fire in our hearts. Reveal to us thy perfect plan for thy beloved son Jesus.”
Jesus fidgeted. Why the special prayer about me today? he wondered without asking out loud. He had the uncanny sense that something was about to happen. He stole a quizzical look at Uncle Joseph, then at his parents, and perceived uneasiness in their faces. Were they keeping something from him? Suddenly his appetite faded as he pondered the purpose of this family gathering.
Joseph continued, “So, my nephew, tell me about your studies. Are you still spending a great deal of time in the synagogue?”
“Yes, Uncle,” Jesus replied. “The rabbis allow me to come when I want to now, and I try to memorize the Torah and the teachings on the law when I am there.” The young man sensed his family would be concerned if he didn’t eat. He broke off a piece of bread. His long-fingered hands were at once strong and fine. He nibbled absently as he concentrated on the family members and waited for their conversation to unfold.
Like other men of his Jewish sect in Nazareth, Jesus wore a long white tunic. His face showed only the faintest traces of the beard that would soon frame his pleasant features. Jesus’ expressive eyes often flickered with joy and wisdom, and at times a sorrow that neither he nor anyone in his family could explain.
“That is excellent,” Joseph exclaimed. “And what do you know of your reputation? Do you know that you are the talk of our people?” he asked, smiling. “And of the Romans?” he added more seriously.
Jesus regarded his great-uncle and without pretense or pride, replied softly, “More people have been gathering when I explain my understanding of the scriptures.”
“And have you noticed any Roman guards in the crowds?” Joseph of Arimathea pressed.
Jesus shook his head from side to side. He asked himself why he was feeling more and more restless. It was clear Uncle Joseph had news that would affect him.
Joseph of Arimathea turned to Joseph a