Sumballo

Who Are The Pharisees? « A Christian Worldview of Fiction

2010-12-30T11:52:00.000-07:00

Who Are The Pharisees? « A Christian Worldview of Fiction

If Jesus came today

2010-12-16T06:44:00.000-07:00

Psalm 87

2010-10-08T07:04:00.001-06:00

The fountain had been still for too long during the drought but now sparkling cold water flowed in great waves, washing away the dust and despair. A man dipped his hat into the pool, pouring the water over his head and body.

When the woman came to the fountain, a chill came over the crowd and they stiffly parted ways to let her in. She seemed to ignore the snub, walking to the water and kneeling beside the flowing stream. She plunged her hands into the water and then drank from her cupped hands.

"What's she doing here?" The words rippled through the crowd. "She doesn't belong here."

Foreigner. Outsider. Stranger. Sinner.

"We are here to celebrate the end of the drought!" A deep voice hovered above the crowd and they turned eager eyes to the man standing on the back of the wagon. "We prayed for relief and God heard us. God heard us!"

The woman slowly rose, now standing at the edge of the crowd. She raised her hands above her head and began to sing, "My joy is in you, Lord. You are my joy and my life."

At first, others grumbled as she sang, but her voice was pure and clean, flowing out into the people. The words floated like morning mist but began to settle. Faces changed. Worry lines softened and scowls faded.

Then a man across the way lifted his hat into the air. He linked his voice with the woman's and they sang.

The words flowed through the crowd and others began to pick up the melody. Soon the crowd was singing, swaying slightly to the rhythm of the song.

"We are your people," the man on the wagon said loudly. "You are our source of joy and we are your people."

The drought of the land had ended with the rains but the drought of the hearts had begun to fade as well as the crowd joined together. "My source of joy is in you," was their new song.

Writing and God's call

2010-07-10T20:45:00.000-06:00

My posts here have dwindled in recent months. I've enjoyed writing essays about the journey with Jesus. Although I am not ready to call this blog complete, the light is flickering out.

However, I have begun a new blog entitled A Writing Adventure, where I am trying to capture some of my random exploration in writing a mystery novel. My focus hasn't changed: to honor God is what I write and I have felt his call to this new field of fiction writing. Please join me at A Writing Adventure.

Cuban prisoners released

2010-07-09T07:41:00.000-06:00

Cuba will release 52 political prisoners as part of the communist-run Caribbean island's largest release of dissidents since Pope John Paul II visited in 1998, the Cuban Catholic Church said comments monitored by Worthy News Thursday, July 8. Read the entire article here.

Haiti

2010-07-05T07:59:00.000-06:00

Another side to the Haitian disaster, and a reminder of how God is not defeated:

Breaking the law

2010-06-22T11:32:00.001-06:00

Convinced that his target was evil and had to be stopped by extraordinary means, our man assembled a plot to assassinate the enemy of the people. This enemy led a passionate group willing to die for their cause, and our man was equally willing to die to stop this enemy.

This set-up is not the start of some spy novel but a true story about a Christian man who felt called to murder for a cause.

Does it make you uncomfortable that a Christian would initiate such a plan?

A few days ago, Gary Faulkner of Colorado was arrested in Pakistan on such a mission: he planned to assassinate Osama Bin Laden. We know his brother personally and have followed this story with interest.

The question is whether a Christian should concoct a murder. I don't know the answer but I found an interesting historical parallel.

My opening paragraph could describe Gary's mission - or another well-know Christian, Dietrich Bonhoeffer. Bonhoeffer was arrested in Germany in 1941 for planning to assassinate Adolf Hitler. Read an excellent article on his life here.

Bonhoeffer could have stayed quiet but chose to defend the Jews in Germany against Hitler's horrific plans - and died for his commitment.

Although I think we have to be careful not to give ourselves permission to break laws will-nilly, as followers of Jesus we follow higher laws. Who knows what we may be called to do - and what sort of commitment we may have to make?

Why persecution?

2010-06-21T09:26:00.000-06:00

I've been captivated in recent weeks by Christians throughout the world enduring persecution. Some face imprisonment. Some face death. Simply for their spiritual convictions.

My first response has been self-centered: I hope I don't have to go through that. I hope I have the courage to stand firm in the time comes. And I feel guilty because I don't face jail time for teaching a Bible study or attending a worship service.

I am teaching a class right now where I'm trying to parallel the persecution of the early church with today's persecution. The letter of I Peter is written to persecuted Christians in the first century and I'm trying to find truths that apply today.

Here's what I'm learning so far: God is magnificent. Life with him is so fulfilling and abundant that he's worth dying for. He's worth sacrificing all for. Remember that old hymn: "I surrender all...."? Well, it encourages me to know that surrendering all for God is fulfilling.

When I hear about North Koreans treasuring scraps of the Bible and of Chinese pastors putting themselves back in jail rather than denouncing God, I realize they know God's value. They know who God is. That encourages me.

I may not face the level of persecution they face (or I may. Who knows?) but I know God is so precious that life with him is better than life here.

For you know that it was not with perishable things such as silver or gold that you were redeemed from the empty way of life handed down to you from your forefathers, but with the precious blood of Christ, a lamb without blemish or defect.

1 Peter 1:18-19

In North Korea

2010-06-15T07:09:00.001-06:00

Maryam and Marzieh freed

2010-06-03T07:04:00.000-06:00

Fourteen months after they were arrested for their Christian activities, Maryam Rostampour and Marzieh Amirizadeh have been acquitted of all charges by the Iranian judicial authorities. However, they were warned that any future Christian activity in Iran will be dealt with seriously.

On May 22, they left Iran and arrived safely in another country. Sam and Lin Yeghnazar, founders of Elam Ministries and spiritual parents to Maryam and Marzieh, met them at the airport. "We are most grateful to everyone who prayed for us," said Marzieh. "The prayers of people encouraged and sustained us throughout this ordeal," Maryam said.

When Sam told them their example had encouraged countless people around the world, they were quick to respond, "We are frail human beings with many weaknesses. The honor and glory go to God who has kept and used us, although we don't know why he has chosen us. All the glory goes to him." (Source: Elam Ministries)

Today, Remember

2010-05-31T07:33:00.000-06:00

Thank you for your sacrifice.

Your purpose

2010-05-30T06:00:00.000-06:00

Talent to Treasure by Marcia Washburn

2010-05-28T16:06:00.003-06:00

Among the home-based businesses that can be launched, teaching piano lessons is a simple but effective one for those with the right talents.

But even those who have excelled at playing the piano and have plenty of music theory training may not be trained in how to run a business.

There's more to operating a music business than owning a tuned piano and putting your sign on the door.

Marcia Washburn, who combines her musical and teaching talents with a successful music teaching business, has compiled years of experience into her new book, Talent to Treasure: Building a Profitable Music Teaching Business.

Marcia is a long-time homeschooling mother who, once her five sons were graduated, expanded her music teaching into a fulltime business. She teaches with Christian compassion and expertise, eager to discover her students' style of learning and love for music.

But Marcia is also an organized business woman and she shares not only teaching hints but business tips in her book. With this book in hand, it's a lot easier to take the step from talented pianist to successful music teacher.

I highly recommend this book for those who would like to begin or enhance a music teaching business.

Visit Marcia's website here.

Her book can also be purchased there. Click here.

The Overseer by Conlan Brown

2010-05-20T06:00:00.000-06:00

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!

I had the privilege of meeting (briefly) Conlan at a writer's conference last weekend. He has a heart for God and for his craft that is admirable. The Overseer is an action-filled adventure worth reading.

Today's Wild Card author is:

Conlan Brown

and the book:

The Overseer (Firstborn (Realms))

Realms; 1 edition (May 4, 2010)

***Special thanks to Anna Coelho Silva | Publicity Coordinator, Book Group | Strang Communications for sending me a review copy.***

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

By the end of his sixteenth year Conlan Brown had completed his first novel, his first stage play, and his first year of college. Brown now holds a Master's degree in Communication and lives on Colorado's Front Range where he is working on his next book. He enjoys video editing, film scores, and developing high octane, thought provoking fiction that turns pages and excites the senses.

Visit the author's website.

Product Details:

List Price: $13.99
Paperback: 296 pages
Publisher: Realms; 1 edition (May 4, 2010)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 1599799553
ISBN-13: 978-1599799551

AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:

Screams rang out from the rain-soaked street. Feeling the horror rise, Hannah fell to her knees in the pounding deluge, hands touching the ragged edges of the craterlike pothole.

The impact of the car splashing into the pothole. Thunder. Lightning. Rain. A trunk opening. Three teens. Terrified, screaming, kicking. Eyes begging for help. Hands slapping, punching bloodied mouths. Frightened girls torn from the car—thrown to the wet street. A needle— Bodies going limp. Thrown into another car. Tires shrieking into the stormy night. One man remaining in the street. The tattoo—a dragon.

Thunder cracked as the images disappeared with the flash. Lifting her head, she looked around, the thick spring storm churning around her.

The screams.

Already gone from the world—but the street remembered— and Hannah could still hear them calling out from the past. She was their only hope now—the one person who realized that these girls had been conned and taken. The only person who could follow a trail snaking backward through the past— a trail that had gone cold to the negligent, rain-drenched world.

Hannah Rice looked to her right and saw the liquor store. That was where he had gone—the man with the dragon tattoo.

Just through those doors. Hannah breathed in with resolve and walked toward the lights of the liquor store—

—toward the dragon.

Hannah pushed the soaked hood of her sweatshirt off her head and looked around.

She had never been in a liquor store before. The floor was white like a supermarket—but none of the same sweet, homey smells were here. No bread or fruit. Simply rows of metal racks, stocked with a forest of bottles. The sounds of clinking glass and cooler doors opening and closing filled her ears. An older man in a plaid shirt and a wiry blond beard approached the door, looking her up and down out of the corner of his eye.

For being in a seedy part of New Jersey, the store was big and fairly clean. Hannah looked around, waiting for someone to realize that she was only twenty and have her sent from the premises in handcuffs and a swirl of red and blue lights. The only looks she received were lecherous at best. She pulled her jean jacket close, pressing the metal buttons into place with little pops that seemed to echo through the cavernous room.

“Can I help you find something?” a jockish-looking guy in his midtwenties asked from behind the counter.

She shook her head, embarrassed. “No, thank you.” She moved to the far end of the store, looking down the aisles as she walked.

No one realized she was too young to be here, or else no one cared. She watched the aisles change as she moved along, shifting from colorful bottles of flavored rum with shirtless cabana boys adorning their labels to the dark glass of the wines.

Hannah wasn’t unfamiliar with alcohol. Half the reason she’d left college was because of her roommate’s drunken binges in which she had brought so many of her friends over to

party. It reminded Hannah of all the nights she had spent in the dorm lounge, studying subjects she didn’t understand, sleeping on couches she resented being on. It was the next day’s cleanup, inevitably left to Hannah, that had taught her to recognize various forms of alcohol bottles and the hazards of a hungover roommate.

Her grandfather had left her enough money to get whatever degree she wanted, wherever she wanted it, but she had chosen a medium-sized state college to start out. The idea had been simple: get her core classes out of the way, and buy herself some time to figure out what she wanted to be when she grew up. After she gave up on college, she moved to New Jersey to be near the Firstborn and enrolled in an online program. Distance learning at her own pace better suited the lifestyle she had grown to accept: following dark trails through back alleys. The ongoing searches for—

—the dragon.

It was always jarring to see her visions in the flesh. She was a Prima—gifted with hindsight, the ability to see the past. And the past tended to have the good sense to stay in the past and fade away to the naked eye and the observing world. But there he stood inthe middle of the aisle—fifteen feet away—comparing labels on vodka bottles. His arms bare, short black hair wet. A blue short-sleeved T-shirt and green cargo pants. The tattoo

curled up his arm, its tail resting against the back of his hand, its scaly body coiling around the man’s arm like an anaconda, the dragon’s head poised to strike like a hooded cobra, a forked tongue lashing out from beneath a spray of flame.

The man looked up from the bottles, turning his head— toward her . . .

Hannah dropped back around the corner. A sting of panic nipped at her heart. She waited a moment—her pulse and breath slowing as she pulled herself together. She looked back.

Gone.

She moved down the aisle to where the man had been and passed, heading to the end of the aisle. She stopped and turned her head, looking for him.

Nowhere.

Hannah moved fast, looking down the aisles once again, coming to the end of the rows. She must have lost him somewhere in the—

She saw him at the front of the store, at the cash register, the boy behind the counter stuffing a bottle of vodka into a perfectly sized brown paper sack. The man with the tattoo reached into his pocket, pulled out a thick roll of bills, and slid one from beneath the tight hold of the rubber band that encircled them. The boy hit a button on the cash register, and the man with the tattoo turned, walking toward the door.

“Hey, Dominik,” the boy called after him, “do you want your change?”

Dominik simply waved a dismissive hand and pushed through the front door, back into the rain.

Pushing the glass door open, Hannah followed, plunging into the downpour. Her eyes scanned the cars in front of her parked diagonally to the storefront. A set of lights flashed on toward the far right end of the row—a black luxury sedan—the engine humming, the wipers swishing away a wide swath of pooling water as the man in the driver’s seat lifted his eyes—

Dominik.

His dragon-clad shoulder moved, putting the car into drive. The vehicle slid backward out of its space, through the veil of rain, past the unnatural glow of the liquor store’s neon lights, and then slipped into darkness.

Her one lead. The one trail. The only chance to find the girls. And he was getting away. For a split second Hannah did none of her own thinking. Her feet took off, rushing into the night, as the car pulled parallel to the street. The brake lights lit up. The backup lights dimmed. The car began to drive away.

Her first thought was to chase after, screaming, shouting, demanding he stop. Her next thought was to memorize his license plate number. Hannah’s eyes squinted into the darkness, but the lights surrounding the license plate were all burnt out. Nothing to see but darkness.

The red taillights, glowing like the eyes of the dragon on Dominik’s arm, glared at her through the onslaught of falling droplets. Turning the corner, leaving her in the street—alone.

“Lord,” she stammered to herself. She could feel her panic rise at not knowing what to do. But now was not the time to focus on problems or obstacles. Now was not the time to feel or do. Now was the time to clear her mind. To be. To be what she had been called to—

Hannah turned her attention to the end of the block, where she had parked her car. That was where she needed to get. To think past the problem and to move effortlessly with the solution.

Wet and cold, she thrust her hand into her pocket, reaching for her car keys. Suddenly she was at the car door, her hand holding the key, the key in the door. The old door to the station wagon groaned as she pulled it open and climbed in. She turned the key, and the engine sputtered.

“Not now,” she whimpered, pushing down on the pedal, feeding the engine gas. A moment of whirring, then—

The engine went dead. She’d flooded it. The old jalopy did it all the time, but this was the worst possible—

Hannah stopped. Gathered herself. She had to get past the

Chapter 1

creams rang out from the rain-soaked street.

Feeling the horror rise, Hannah fell to her knees in the

pounding deluge, hands touching the ragged edges of the

craterlike pothole.

The impact of the car splashing into the pothole.

Thunder. Lightning. Rain.

A trunk opening.

Three teens. Terrified, screaming, kicking.

Eyes begging for help.

Hands slapping, punching bloodied mouths.

Frightened girls torn from the car—thrown to the wet street.

A needle—

Bodies going limp.

Thrown into another car.

Tires shrieking into the stormy night.

One man remaining in the street.

The tattoo—a dragon.

Thunder cracked as the images disappeared with the flash.

Lifting her head, she looked around, the thick spring storm

churning around her.

The screams.

Already gone from the world—but the street remembered—

and Hannah could still hear them calling out from the past.

She was their only hope now—the one person who realized

that these girls had been conned and taken. The only person

who could follow a trail snaking backward through the past—

a trail that had gone cold to the negligent, rain-drenched

world.

Hannah Rice looked to her right and saw the liquor store.

That was where he had gone—the man with the dragon tattoo.

1

The Overseer

Just through those doors. Hannah breathed in with resolve and

walked toward the lights of the liquor store—

—toward the dragon.

Hannah pushed the soaked hood of her sweatshirt off her head

and looked around.

She had never been in a liquor store before. The floor was

white like a supermarket—but none of the same sweet, homey

smells were here. No bread or fruit. Simply rows of metal racks,

stocked with a forest of bottles. The sounds of clinking glass

and cooler doors opening and closing filled her ears. An older

man in a plaid shirt and a wiry blond beard approached the

door, looking her up and down out of the corner of his eye.

For being in a seedy part of New Jersey, the store was big

and fairly clean. Hannah looked around, waiting for someone

to realize that she was only twenty and have her sent from the

premises in handcuffs and a swirl of red and blue lights. The

only looks she received were lecherous at best. She pulled her

jean jacket close, pressing the metal buttons into place with

little pops that seemed to echo through the cavernous room.

“Can I help you find something?” a jockish-looking guy in

his midtwenties asked from behind the counter.

She shook her head, embarrassed. “No, thank you.” She moved

to the far end of the store, looking down the aisles as she walked.

No one realized she was too young to be here, or else no one

cared. She watched the aisles change as she moved along, shifting

from colorful bottles of flavored rum with shirtless cabana boys

adorning their labels to the dark glass of the wines.

Hannah wasn’t unfamiliar with alcohol. Half the reason

she’d left college was because of her roommate’s drunken

binges in which she had brought so many of her friends over to

party. It reminded Hannah of all the nights she had spent in the

dorm lounge, studying subjects she didn’t understand, sleeping

on couches she resented being on. It was the next day’s cleanup,

inevitably left to Hannah, that had taught her to recognize

various forms of alcohol bottles and the hazards of a hungover

roommate.

Her grandfather had left her enough money to get whatever

degree she wanted, wherever she wanted it, but she had chosen a

medium-sized state college to start out. The idea had been simple:

get her core classes out of the way, and buy herself some time to

figure out what she wanted to be when she grew up. After she gave

up on college, she moved to New Jersey to be near the Firstborn

and enrolled in an online program. Distance learning at her own

pace better suited the lifestyle she had grown to accept: following

dark trails through back alleys. The ongoing searches for—

—the dragon.

It was always jarring to see her visions in the flesh. She was

a Prima—gifted with hindsight, the ability to see the past. And

the past tended to have the good sense to stay in the past and

fade away to the naked eye and the observing world. But there he

stood in the middle of the aisle—fifteen feet away—comparing

labels on vodka bottles. His arms bare, short black hair wet.

A blue short-sleeved T-shirt and green cargo pants. The tattoo

curled up his arm, its tail resting against the back of his hand,

its scaly body coiling around the man’s arm like an anaconda,

the dragon’s head poised to strike like a hooded cobra, a forked

tongue lashing out from beneath a spray of flame.

The man looked up from the bottles, turning his head—

toward her . . .

Hannah dropped back around the corner. A sting of panic

nipped at her heart. She waited a moment—her pulse and breath

slowing as she pulled herself together. She looked back.

Gone.

She moved down the aisle to where the man had been and

passed, heading to the end of the aisle. She stopped and turned

her head, looking for him.

Nowhere.

Hannah moved fast, looking down the aisles once again,

coming to the end of the rows. She must have lost him somewhere

in the—

She saw him at the front of the store, at the cash register, the

boy behind the counter stuffing a bottle of vodka into a perfectly

sized brown paper sack. The man with the tattoo reached into

his pocket, pulled out a thick roll of bills, and slid one from

beneath the tight hold of the rubber band that encircled them.

The boy hit a button on the cash register, and the man with the

tattoo turned, walking toward the door.

“Hey, Dominik,” the boy called after him, “do you want your

change?”

Dominik simply waved a dismissive hand and pushed

through the front door, back into the rain.

Pushing the glass door open, Hannah followed, plunging

into the downpour. Her eyes scanned the cars in front of her

parked diagonally to the storefront. A set of lights flashed on

toward the far right end of the row—a black luxury sedan—the

engine humming, the wipers swishing away a wide swath of

pooling water as the man in the driver’s seat lifted his eyes—

Dominik.

His dragon-clad shoulder moved, putting the car into drive.

The vehicle slid backward out of its space, through the veil of

rain, past the unnatural glow of the liquor store’s neon lights,

and then slipped into darkness.

Her one lead.

The one trail.

The only chance to find the girls.

And he was getting away.

For a split second Hannah did none of her own thinking. Her

feet took off, rushing into the night, as the car pulled parallel

to the street. The brake lights lit up. The backup lights dimmed.

The car began to drive away.

Her first thought was to chase after, screaming, shouting,

demanding he stop. Her next thought was to memorize his

license plate number. Hannah’s eyes squinted into the darkness,

but the lights surrounding the license plate were all burnt

out. Nothing to see but darkness.

The red taillights, glowing like the eyes of the dragon on

Dominik’s arm, glared at her through the onslaught of falling

droplets. Turning the corner, leaving her in the street—alone.

“Lord,” she stammered to herself. She could feel her panic

rise at not knowing what to do. But now was not the time to

focus on problems or obstacles. Now was not the time to feel or

do. Now was the time to clear her mind. To be. To be what she

had been called to—

Hannah turned her attention to the end of the block, where

she had parked her car. That was where she needed to get. To

think past the problem and to move effortlessly with the solution.

Wet and cold, she thrust her hand into her pocket, reaching

for her car keys. Suddenly she was at the car door, her hand

holding the key, the key in the door. The old door to the station

wagon groaned as she pulled it open and climbed in. She turned

the key, and the engine sputtered.

“Not now,” she whimpered, pushing down on the pedal,

feeding the engine gas. A moment of whirring, then—

The engine went dead. She’d flooded it. The old jalopy did it

all the time, but this was the worst possible—

Hannah stopped. Gathered herself. She had to get past the

moment. She had to find her strength—a strength that could

only come from God.

She took a long, deliberate draw of air, letting it fill her lungs

in a cool cloud that expanded inside her chest. Somewhere in

the distant reaches of her mind she felt her body act, working

with the world around her—neither rushed nor distracted—to

bring the car to life.

She turned the key again. The engine growling, she fed it gas.

Hannah’s foot came down in a steady push, feeding the car,

and she took off into the night—

—chasing after him.

Her car sped to the end of the block—a stop sign ahead.

Her attention snapped to the right—the direction Dominik

had gone.

Nothing.

Hannah rolled into the street, peering through the rain—and

then she felt where he had been. She was on the trail again.

The wipers sloshed, thumping beads of water away from the

glass.

Dominik yawned. It was getting late, and he was getting

tired of work. He’d stayed sober as long as the new girls were at

the storage house, but now that they were being moved, he was

ready to drink again.

He eyed the jostling bottle of vodka in the passenger seat,

ready for the familiar burn of alcohol in his chest. Dominik

missed Russian vodka—the stuff that had been cheaper than

water during the cold war. He was hardly a connoisseur, but he

knew that American vodka tasted different to him. He was told

that good vodka had neither taste nor smell. But who cared?

Just so long as it kept him warm—a lesson he had learned in

prison twenty years ago.

He thought about the girls and how much money they would

bring. Altogether, maybe three thousand dollars in Ukraine.

Here? More. But it wasn’t enough. Dominik wanted a line of

cocaine—the stuff he’d gotten used to as a teenager when the

iron curtain fell. But for now, vodka would have to do.

Dominik reached out, steering with his forearm. He held the

neck of the bottle in one hand and twisted the cap with the

other.

He took a slug. The same amount would have sent most

Americans into a hacking fit. Dominik didn’t flinch as the

stinging liquid seared his throat, filling him with a glowing

sense of well-being. He felt good. Safe. But not overly safe. He

looked in the rearview mirror, double-checking for cops.

A single set of lights behind him, moving in quickly. Much

too quickly. He screwed the cap back on the bottle, stuffing it

in the armrest.

Thoughts of a cop watching him throw back a mouthful of

hard liquor as he passed by filled Dominik’s head. Was he being

followed?

There was an alley ahead. He signaled left. The car behind

him signaled a left-hand turn as well. Dominik cranked the

wheel hard right, and a spray of filthy water splashed up against

the windows of his car as he hit the accelerator and raced down

an alleyway. His eyes shot upward, toward the rearview mirror.

The car behind him screeched past the turn, then slammed its

brakes, laying rubber and a wake of erupting rainwater. The

car pulled into reverse, pulling perpendicular to the alley for a

moment, its silhouette fully revealed.

A beige station wagon?

The following car’s front end nosed toward the alley. The

headlights, which had been shrinking with distance, stabilized

in size, then began to grow.

Dominik didn’t signal; he simply grabbed the wheel and

yanked to the left. Water crashed against the passenger window

as the car fishtailed, his foot pressing hard into the gas—jetting

down a dark street.

He nearly spun in his seat to look back. This was insane. His

heart was racing. His face red and sweaty. Who was this person

following him? In a station wagon? Not the police. Someone

trying to steal their latest shipment? It simply didn’t make sense.

But whoever they were, they weren’t trained in following people

with subtlety. And in the rain, he’d lost them for sure.

Dominik took another turn, just to be safe. Then another.

He took a deep breath and relaxed, pulling onto a familiar

street. Whoever they were, he’d lost them.

His eyes lifted again, just out of paranoia, certain he wouldn’t

see anything except . . .

A beige station wagon?

This had to be dealt with.

Hannah watched Dominik’s car through the swishing of wiper

blades as his sedan took a slow, ambling turn to the right, pulling

into another alleyway. She followed him into the darkness of the

alley. The front end of her car slammed down hard then rebounded

from the chasm-like pothole her front tire had dropped into.

She couldn’t see a thing in this darkness except the red taillights

up ahead and—

Brake lights.

Dominik’s car stopped suddenly fifty yards ahead. The

driver’s side door flew open, and a burly figure dashed away

from the car—the door hanging open. Hannah stopped her car,

leaving the distance unfilled.

What was he doing? She sat in her car. Waiting.

It was like the stories of road rage she heard, where one driver

would get out to confront another—only to have someone get

shot in the middle of the street.

Hannah peered into the darkness, gripping her steering

wheel. She closed her eyes, trying to reach out—

There was nothing to feel. Not here anyway.

She bit her lip, considered for a moment, then turned off her

car, taking her keys. She wanted her keys—that was certain.

Fear would have been the natural response, but envy filled

her mind. Envy for the Domani and the Ora, people like Devin

Bathurst and John Temple, who could see the present and the

future. Others had told her not to envy the other orders and

their gifts, that she had been given exactly what she was meant

to have and that she had to make the best of it. But she missed

the proactive way that John and Devin could use to approach

the uncertainty of the world. The Prima were a stabilizing

force—a means of keeping everyone grounded and remembering

the truths that proactive working so often forgot. But

none of that changed the fact that she was in the moment now,

groping in the blind spots of her gift.

Hannah opened the car door and stepped into the rain, looking

around. He wasn’t anywhere to be seen. Hannah walked toward

the car ahead, the interior lights illuminating the leather interior.

She stopped, listening for any sound she could hear—only the

thumping rain. Another set of steps closer. She stared into the

vacant interior, looking for a person who simply wasn’t there,

and her eyes wandered to the center partition, hanging slightly

ajar. It had been where he’d stored his—

Vodka.

A thick, heavy bottle, pulled from its cubby.

Gripped by the neck like a club.

Dominik, slipping into the darkness, waiting for his moment

to . . .

Hannah spun as Dominik ejected himself from his hiding

place in the dark, bottle in hand, raised over his head.

She thought fast, throwing herself into the car’s open door.

The bottle came down on the roof of the car and blasted apart in

a shower of shards and cascading liquor. She threw herself at the

passenger’s door, scrambling for the handle. She looked back.

He was behind her, hurling his body through the same open

door she had come through, grasping the steering wheel with

his left hand for support, clutching the razor-sharp remains of

a pungent vodka bottle in his right.

The survival instinct kicked in; the self-defense classes triggered

her response.

She lashed out with her leg like a battering ram, her heel

smashing into Dominik’s clavicle, just below the throat. He

made a pinched hacking sound as his body hurled to the side,

slamming into the dashboard. A hiking boot would have been

ideal, but a kick of any kind could be fatal, even in her tennis

shoes, if she meant it, held nothing back, and lashed out with

the vicious intention to cause serious trauma.

She kicked again and again—his head snapped back like a

melon as her foot connected with his face. Her hands searched

frantically for the door handle she’d lost track of in the furious

exchange—fingertips catching on the outline, hand grasping.

Dominik was recovering. Covering his face with his left hand, he

reached out with the razorlike bottle with the other, like a shield.

Hannah flung her body into the door as she pulled the handle.

She felt her body tumble to the hard, wet pavement beyond. She

looked back in time to see Dominik coming down at her, bottle

in hand. She kicked his descending arm away, and the bottle

exploded against the ground. Dominik reached for her body,

trying to hold her down. She felt the car keys, still in her hand,

clutched them like a dagger, and came down hard on Dominik’s

arm. He winced, recoiling. She lashed out for his face, searching

for his neck.

He threw himself back against the car, evading Hannah’s

swinging attack, then stood.

Hannah pushed herself away, trying to keep her distance.

And then he ran.

Dominik rushed toward the end of the alley, water spattering

against his face and arms.

Who was this woman? This girl? She’d followed him. Knew

where he was going and what he was doing. She had to know

about his business. She wasn’t FBI. Police? Maybe.

No. That wasn’t likely. She was too young for either. She was

obviously trained in following people—but not with subtlety.

Her mistakes were too glaring—too inexperienced.

Surveillance for someone else was his only thought. Someone

who wanted to rip off their shipment. It happened all the time

with drug trafficking. Why not in this business too?

Dominik made a sharp right, ducking into a trashy, overgrown

backyard, shoving past a metal trash can. He had to fix

this or it was going to cost him his head.

Hannah tore after Dominik.

Her one lead. Her only chance of finding these girls. She

couldn’t let him get away.

She turned the corner fast, running through someone’s backyard,

chasing after as fast as she could, Dominik’s form merely

a dark blotch against the impossible conditions of night and

drizzle.

He was ahead, crossing another yard, leaping a short

chain-link fence. Hannah pushed herself, gaining slightly. She

approached the fence, hands stinging as the cold, rain-soaked

metal ripped at her bare hands. She hurtled the fence and

continued her pursuit.

Dominik rushed across the street, dodging between parked

cars, knocking over a boxy plastic trash can, sending garbage

spilling. Hannah dodged to the left, losing time from the

circuitous route, but it was less than she would have lost from

fighting the obstacle she’d been presented with.

Her feet splashed through puddles as she forced herself

forward, chasing as fast as she could. From yard to yard, across

another street, low-hanging branches snapping at her face. A

tall wooden fence, knotted and old. Dominik clambered over

the fence. Hannah followed, charging toward the obstacle,

hands digging in as she made her way to the top—throwing

her body over the other side. Her feet connected with something

she didn’t expect—a trash can—and she lost her balance,

hitting the grassy lawn with a painful lurch.

She looked up. Dominik was already making his way over the

far fence at the other end of the yard. Hannah leapt to her feet.

The back door to the home opened, and a young boy—maybe

ten—watched her rush at the fence.

“Mom! There’s someone in the backyard!”

Hannah ignored the boy, throwing herself at the next fence,

pulling herself into place with her arms, tossing a leg over the

fence, hitting the ground with a splash on the other side. She

pushed herself up from the muddy puddle, covered in dirt, and

gave chase once more as Dominik turned a corner. She came to

the gate in the fence. Locked. Hannah slammed her shoulder

into the gate, sending it flying open, propelling her into the

front yard.

Rain covered her face, and she wiped the thick drops from

her eyes. Her head turned hurriedly, side to side. He was

nowhere to be seen.

What had happened? How had she lost him? He must have

taken a different turn.

She walked into the street, looking around in all directions.

This couldn’t be happening. She couldn’t let this happen. The

girls were too young—thirteen at most. She couldn’t let this

happen to them. She couldn’t let them disappear into the night.

Hannah pushed her hands through her soaked hair, trying

to think. She needed to know where he had gone.

A set of headlights rolled toward her, a sharp honk on the

horn, and she stepped out of the car’s way, the vehicle rolling

lazily past.

The world was going on as usual. She was failing her charge,

and the world didn’t even know enough to care.

She needed to pick up the trail again. She needed to see the

past. A vision of where he had gone. She needed a magic wand

to wave, to bring her the sight she needed.

But it didn’t work like that.

Hannah looked up at the rainy sky. “God?” she beseeched. “I

can’t do this. I can’t find them. I need You and Your sovereign

power and...”

No. She scolded herself. It’s like people to go to God, thinking

they had something to say—yammering to an almighty God

who formed the world from the palm of His hand. How like her

to think that florid prayers somehow pleased God.

No, it was not her place to talk. It was her place as a creation

of God to do something else . . .

“Listen,” she whispered to herself.

She closed her eyes and listened to the rain, her thoughts

filled with her calling and mission.

No. She scolded herself again. Listening wasn’t done only

with the ears but also with the mind and the heart.

She cleared her mind. Focused on her breathing. Focused on

God.

The rain thundered in her ears, every droplet exploding

against every surface of metal, asphalt, and grass. Each sound

blurred into the other in a cacophony of white noise.

Listen, she said to herself in her mind.

The drops faded toward the background, only a thumping

rhythm of a select few drops tapping out an erratic beat. Bit by

bit the rhythm thinned, only a few proud beats pounding out a

pedantic march.

Listen, she said to herself again, her body relaxing.

A single droplet of rain made a tiny plinking impact.

Then silence. The world without time. Where she wasn’t

hurried or forced into action.

Listen, she thought again. And then she heard.

Dominik’s shoes thudding against the path . . .

Leading away . . .

His ragged breath wheezing—

Removing him from the scene.

The cries of the girls reverberating in his mind—

Remembering the thud of blows.

The ringing slaps to tender faces—

The sobs pounding into his brain.

The house that he had been working from.

Creaking from the strain.

The place he was returning to.

Thunder rocked the air as Hannah’s eyes opened, lifting to

the house in front of her. A sigh of anguish escaped her lips.

There.

Hannah quietly grasped the doorknob and felt the door swing

lazily inward, left ajar by someone before her. Stepping into

the house as quietly as possible, she paused. If he was in the

house still, she didn’t want him to know. Not yet. There would

be a moment soon, when she had something to report, that she

would need to call the police to finish this. But visions of the

past weren’t evidence enough. She needed to find the girls. To

know for certain they were here before she did something that

might spook Dominik.

She moved into the living room. Shoddy furniture bulleted

with holes. An ashtray on the coffee table filled to the brim with

dark ash and cigarette butts. The whole place reeked of stale

smoke. Magazines littered the remaining surface of the coffee

table—like a doctor’s waiting room.

Men, sitting in the living room—each waiting their turn.

A quick thump reverberated through her chest. These had

been different girls, before the ones Hannah was looking for.

Older—Russian? It wasn’t any easier to consider.

Her stomach churned, and she stepped into the next room—

the kitchen. No signs of cooking or supplies. No one lived here.

At least no one ate here.

Hannah looked at the table—a sprawling forest of vials,

needles, alcohol, and soda bottles. She picked up a container of

medicine, reading the label.

Flunitrazepam. Whatever that was.

There was a smacking sound, and Hannah turned. The back

door hung open, the screen door slapping loudly in the rainy

wind.

Dominik exiting out the back.

She thought about following him—but this was what she was

looking for. This was where they’d brought the girls—she could

feel it. If she was going to find the girls, she was going to have to

do it here.

There was a set of stairs near the hallway, leading up. It felt

right, like this was the way they had taken the girls.

The girls, Hannah thought. She didn’t even know their

names. But that wasn’t how this worked. She wasn’t called out

of personal obligation. She was called to help them because it

was her purpose.

Hannah reached the top of the stairs, looking around. There

was a set of three bedrooms lining the hallway. She stepped

toward one with the door ajar. The door pushed aside easily,

revealing a virtually empty room.

An old mattress lay in the middle of the room, filthy blankets

thrown across it in twisting heaps.

And suddenly Hannah saw the horrible truth of what had

been happening here.

Dominik kicked open the door to the shed, scowling into the

darkness as the spring rain shower assaulted the tin roof in a

reverberating frenzy. He shoved the lawn mower to the side,

ripping a canvas tarp away from a stack of tools. The cold canvas

twisted with a kind of whiplash as its soggy corners tried to

double over onto the shell of hard cloth that had molded itself

to the stack of tools.

A toolbox scattered with a rough toss, and it hit the floor

somewhere to the right with a raucous clatter. He kicked a bag

of screws out of the way, and the contents went spilling in a

deluge of tinkling barbs.

There.

Dominik grabbed the gas can by the handle and gave it a

forceful jiggle. Half a can’s worth of gasoline sloshed inside the

container, undulating on a swishing axis that caused the whole

can to swing in a wide arc.

It was enough to do the job. To get rid of as much evidence

as he could before whoever that girl was could find her way

back here. Dominik hated the place anyway, all the time he’d

spent there minding the shop while the others stayed in the big

house across town. He wouldn’t miss it.

It would be obvious that it was arson. The investigators might

even find some of the things they had been hiding, but with luck

they’d be out of the state by the time anything was found—and

the merchandise would be out of the country by then. And it

wouldn’t be traced back to them. They’d made sure the lease

wasn’t in any of their names.

Dominik reached into his pocket, found the metal object,

removed it from his pocket, and flicked the cap open. His thumb

spun on the back of the lighter, checking to see if there was

enough fuel.

A tiny flame leapt upward, then was dashed out by the snapping

of the cap back over it. He walked back toward the house in

the rain.

Hannah backed away from the bedroom door, stumbled into the

wall, and slid to the floor. Her body shook as she ran her hands

over her head, trying to blot it all out of her head. So many girls

had been brought through here. So much pain. And suffering.

And hopelessness. So many monsters lurking in the shadows.

The walls remembered what had happened here—and they

were closing in.

“O God,” she stammered in agonized prayer, mind freewheeling

with the torment of it all.

And she felt something else: another calling—

She looked up at the ceiling and saw the wide hatch leading

to the attic. A padlock dangled open at the end of a swinging

latch that had been left undone.

She reached upward, and the trapdoor snapped downward as

she grabbed at the string, tugging, the ladder sliding downward

with a gentle pull. Hannah stepped onto the bottom rung and

moved upward, compelled by purpose but delayed by dread.

She lifted her head into the attic. The floor was covered in

brown carpet; drenched in dust that made her cough. Hannah

lifted herself into the darkness. Tiny fingers of light glowed

through the slits between the boards covering the one tiny

window at the far end. The hatch below her swung gently

upward, pulled back into position by creaking springs.

Her hands groped for a moment as she stood, hunched in

the low space. A dangling string brushed her fingertips, and she

tugged. The lightbulb snapped on from an overhead fixture, and

she looked around.

She thought she might never start breathing again.

Both sides of the attic were lined with bunk beds, chicken

wire surrounding them in tightly fastened grids that filled in the

gaps between small metal struts. Hinged doors with padlocks

locked every set of beds, making each its own tiny prison.

Lurid underwear hung from hooks and littered the floor.

Dirty clothes were piled in the corner.

Hannah walked to one of the beds, its door hanging open,

and looked in. Sitting on yellowed sheets was a ratty stuffed

bear with one eye missing. She picked up the bear and looked

it over as a hot tear ran down Hannah’s face as she saw the face

of the girl who had clung to this bear—

Maybe fourteen years old.

The bear fell from her hands and hit the floor.

Whoever these people were—she would stop them.

Wherever the girls were that they had taken—she would find

them.

Then she heard something.

Petroleum-scented splashes of gasoline washed across the walls

and tables as Dominik slung the can in all directions. He set

the can down for a moment and rummaged under the sink for

a trash bag. Quickly he swept the drugs off the table into the

plastic and pulled the tethers shut with a swift yank. He set the

bag near the door, stuffed his cell phone between his shoulder

and ear, and reached for the gas can again.

“Hello?” a female voice said in Dominik’s native language.

“Do you know who she is?” Dominik replied in the same

language as he soaked the curtains in gasoline.

“Who?”

“The girl that followed me. She knew where I was and where

I was going.”

“What are you talking about?”

Dominik sloshed more gasoline onto the living room carpet,

sending a splash across the back of a ratty recliner. “Some

girl—midtwenties maybe. She found me in the liquor store. She

followed me. Chased me back to the house.”

“You ran away from a girl?”

“Shut up, Misha.” He grunted. “She came out of nowhere.

She knew where I was and where I was going. She must have

been watching us for days.” He moved up the stairs, spilling a

trail of gas.

“What are you going to do about it?”

Dominik let the last drops trickle from the can, dousing

a pile of sheets in the bedroom, then tossed the can into the

corner. “I’m closing down the storefront.”

“Use the gas can in the shed. Burn it down.”

“I’ve already started.”

“Good. Get going, and get out of there.” There was a click,

and the line went dead.

Dominik felt the lighter in his pocket as he moved toward

the stairs, then stopped. A creaking in the ceiling from the attic

above. He looked at the trapdoor in the ceiling, slightly ajar.

Another creak and the distinct sound of footsteps overhead.

He eyed the padlock dangling from the hatch—an overt

violation of fire code if he wasn’t mistaken—but the reasons for

that seemed more useful than ever.

Hannah took another step back.

Someone was in the house.

They were down there, but there was no way to know for certain

if they’d heard her. She wanted to get away from the hatch—away

from the center of the noise she’d heard. There had been the sound

of someone talking. It wasn’t English. Russian maybe.

She herself had been kidnapped just over a year before.

Nothing as hideous as this—but it had still left its mark on

her—a lingering fear, almost a dread, hung over her like a

cloud. She’d chosen to face it head-on, to walk straight into the

blackness alone. Now she feared it would engulf her.

There was a clattering sound near the far wall and a funny

smell.

She took another step back.

Footsteps moved toward the hatch—then stopped just below.

What were they doing down there?

Hannah turned, looking at the boarded window. Was it a

way out? Maybe she could tear the boards away. The hinges on

the hatch squeaked with a minute adjustment.

Were they coming up here? To grab her? To kill her?

Hannah forced herself to stop it. To let go of the questions.

To silence her mind. Her life really could be in danger, but this

time she could choose to do something. To take control. She was

not tied up or caged, and she would not let fear paralyze her. She

could act.

Then she heard it.

A click.

She thought of the window. A moment of quiet, then footfalls

moving down the stairs. They were leaving.

Hannah moved to the hatch, putting a hand on the thick wood.

It didn’t budge. She shoved. It wouldn’t move. She stomped.

She was trapped.

Dominik heard a loud thump strike the attic entrance. They’d

figured out that it was locked. There was another thump. They’d

specifically reinforced the hatch to keep the girls from knocking

it open if they ever had the guts to try. The padlock would hold,

and the thick bolts would stay in place.

He kicked the back door open and stood in the threshold.

The lighter came open with a snap.

His thumb rolled across the wheel, and a thin blade of flame

conjured itself up from the metal casing. He shielded the tiny

flame for a moment, then tossed it into a puddle of gasoline.

There was a split second where nothing happened—Dominik

froze, worried that the puddle had drowned the fire. Then it

spread in a violent blossom, devouring the surrounding air with

an audible howl. The house caught ablaze in a matter of seconds,

fire consuming up the stairs.

Dominik pulled on a jacket he’d taken from one of the closets

and zipped it as he walked away.

Hannah knew something wasn’t right.

She couldn’t have explained how, but something had changed.

The smell—the pungent aroma that had been rising from below—

suddenly seemed to vanish, replaced by something else.

Then she recognized the smell that had been. And her eyes went

wide as she realized what the new smell was that had replaced it.

Greenish smoke slithered up from the cracks around the

attic hatch. The smell was foreign—not like campfire smoke

with its earthen richness, but the putrid scent of melting plastic

and burning synthetics.

Then the floor started to get warm.

Fire travels up, she thought. Heat rises. Smoke rises. There

was nowhere further up to go. She was at the tip of the spear.

She turned to the window, tugging at the boards that covered

it—the rain smacking down just beyond.

The amount of smoke doubled in seconds, filling the attic

with an acrid cloud. No fire yet. Just smoke. Her eyes stung,

pinpricks stabbing at her tear ducts. Hot tears slid involuntarily

down her warming face. It was all happening so fast. It

reminded her of the fire safety videos she’d seen in elementary

school, depicting how a cigarette in a trash can could send a

house into an unrecoverable blaze in less than two minutes.

Arson could work so much faster.

She hacked and coughed, fingers digging into the boards,

pulling at the wood. She lifted her foot, giving a solid kick that

split the boards, crushing the glass beyond. Hannah grabbed

the loose pieces and pulled them free, revealing the window.

Street light poured in through the rapidly thickening smoke.

Rain tapped at the spiderwebbed glass. The whole window was

little more than a slit. Less than six inches. She would never fit.

It had been boarded up purely to keep light out.

Her lungs seized, fighting to keep out the dark haze. Her

body convulsed with a violent cough. Heat permeated her.

Hannah coughed once more, then lifted her leg, jamming

her heel into the tiny window, sending beads of glass splashing

outward. It wasn’t big enough for her to get out, but it was big

enough to let a little air in.

She shoved her face to the opening and pulled in a lungful of

the chilled air beyond. Then she pulled the jacket off her back

and put it to her mouth. She crouched down, moved back into

the prisonlike room, and searched for the trapdoor. Found it.

Her hands worked at the latch, pulled. Nothing. There had to be

some way to get out.

The blurring of her vision worsened, tears and smoke clawing

at her eyes.

She coughed. Her body felt heavy and unwieldy. She tried to

adjust her body with her right arm, but all the strength seemed

to be slipping out of her. Fighting hurt so much. Moving sapped

her energy. The searing floor suddenly seemed welcoming.

Her body started to relax, curling into a ball. The unrelenting

stinging in her eyes suddenly seemed unbearable.

Her eyelids shut.

The attic suddenly seemed far away. Her mind slipped into silence. The kind of silence she could try so hard to cultivate in

times of trouble now seemed so easy. Everything that seemed to

worry faded, and rather than doing she was simply . . .

Being.

She could feel the past again.

Before it had been such a horrible place. When others had

lived here. When family pictures and Christmas ornaments

had been stored here in cardboard boxes. And then the old

occupants moved out and others moved in—the ones who had

perverted this place to be something else. Rolling carpet over

the plywood, not bothering to nail it to the rafters.

Hannah’s eyes snapped open, and she stumbled toward the

window for a life-saving breath of cool air. Then she dropped to

the floor and grasped at the carpet, pulling the shaggy covering

loose. She reached for the floor, pulling at the boards, only to

realize that she was standing on the edge.

Hannah moved and gave another pull—the heat was overwhelming.

The plywood pulled away, clattering to the side as she

tossed it.

Rafters—a few feet apart—partitioned themselves between

sections of pink insulation. It looked like cotton candy, she

thought.

Her hesitation lasted only a second, and then she jumped,

feet first toward insulation.

The world seemed to freeze.

Then her body crashed through the billowy pink insulation,

smashing through the thin layer of sheet rock, and she felt herself

hurtling through the gray smoke toward the carpet one floor

below.

She landed with a thud, losing her balance as her body

slammed into the wall.

The heat enveloped her, blasting at her like a furnace, smoke

stabbing at her eyes. Hannah looked up and saw the window

at the far end of the hall. She pulled her jacket tight against

her face and rushed forward, trying to stay low. Moments later

she was at the window, the glass fogged over with a greasy

black smear from the heat and smoke. Then she saw the gas

can, tossed at the floor below it, fire clinging to the outside wall

where gas dribbled down.

A kick could break the glass—but glass shards would slice

her leg to unrecognizable ribbons if she tried. She took a smoky

breath and reached for the can with her jacket, grabbing the

handle. Her body swung, then released the metal container.

The smoke-fogged glass exploded outward and skittered

across the sloping roof that covered the back porch.

She threw herself through the window—arms and legs catching

on the fragile teeth of glass that remained, her body landing on

glass shards that pricked her skin. She rolled uncontrollably

down the roof, then slammed into the soggy grass below.

Hannah looked up at the blazing house—bleeding, burned,

and weak.

Her eyes fluttered shut, only to open again after several

minutes, and she found herself on the other end of the yard,

farther from the flames. She was looking up at a man with long

dark hair, in a black coat. Rain rolled off him as he said something

to her. His lips moved, but she didn’t hear anything.

And then the world faded to black. only come from God. She took a long, deliberate draw of air, letting it fill her lungs in a cool cloud that expanded inside her chest. Somewhere in the distant reaches of her mind she felt her body act, working with the world around her—neither rushed nor distracted—to bring the car to life.

She turned the key again. The engine growling, she fed it gas.

Hannah’s foot came down in a steady push, feeding the car, and she took off into the night—

—chasing after him.

Her car sped to the end of the block—a stop sign ahead.

Her attention snapped to the right—the direction Dominik had gone.

Nothing.

Hannah rolled into the street, peering through the rain—and then she felt where he had been. She was on the trail again.

The wipers sloshed, thumping beads of water away from the glass. Dominik yawned. It was getting late, and he was getting tired of work. He’d stayed sober as long as the new girls were at the storage house, but now that they were being moved, he was

ready to drink again.

He eyed the jostling bottle of vodka in the passenger seat, ready for the familiar burn of alcohol in his chest. Dominik missed Russian vodka—the stuff that had been cheaper than water during the cold war. He was hardly a connoisseur, but he knew that American vodka tasted different to him. He was told that good vodka had neither taste nor smell. But who cared? Just so long as it kept him warm—a lesson he had learned in prison twenty years ago.

He thought about the girls and how much money they would bring. Altogether, maybe three thousand dollars in Ukraine. Here? More. But it wasn’t enough. Dominik wanted a line of cocaine—the stuff he’d gotten used to as a teenager when theiron curtain fell. But for now, vodka would have to do.

Dominik reached out, steering with his forearm. He held the neck of the bottle in one hand and twisted the cap with the other.

He took a slug. The same amount would have sent most Americans into a hacking fit. Dominik didn’t flinch as the stinging liquid seared his throat, filling him with a glowing

sense of well-being. He felt good. Safe. But not overly safe. He looked in the rearview mirror, double-checking for cops.

A single set of lights behind him, moving in quickly. Much too quickly. He screwed the cap back on the bottle, stuffing it in the armrest.

Thoughts of a cop watching him throw back a mouthful of hard liquor as he passed by filled Dominik’s head. Was he being followed?

There was an alley ahead. He signaled left. The car behind him signaled a left-hand turn as well. Dominik cranked the wheel hard right, and a spray of filthy water splashed up against the windows of his car as he hit the accelerator and raced down an alleyway. His eyes shot upward, toward the rearview mirror. The car behind him screeched past the turn, then slammed its brakes, laying rubber and a wake of erupting rainwater. The car pulled into reverse, pulling perpendicular to the alley for a moment, its silhouette fully revealed.

A beige station wagon?

The following car’s front end nosed toward the alley. The headlights, which had been shrinking with distance, stabilized in size, then began to grow.

Dominik didn’t signal; he simply grabbed the wheel and yanked to the left. Water crashed against the passenger window as the car fishtailed, his foot pressing hard into the gas—jetting down a dark street.

He nearly spun in his seat to look back. This was insane. His heart was racing. His face red and sweaty. Who was this person following him? In a station wagon? Not the police. Someone trying to steal their latest shipment? It simply didn’t make sense. But whoever they were, they weren’t trained in following people with subtlety. And in the rain, he’d lost them for sure.

Dominik took another turn, just to be safe. Then another.

He took a deep breath and relaxed, pulling onto a familiar street. Whoever they were, he’d lost them.

His eyes lifted again, just out of paranoia, certain he wouldn’t see anything except . . .

A beige station wagon?

This had to be dealt with.

Hannah watched Dominik’s car through the swishing of wiper blades as his sedan took a slow, ambling turn to the right, pulling into another alleyway. She followed him into the darkness of the alley. The front end of her car slammed down hard then rebounded from the chasm-like pothole her front tire had dropped into.

She couldn’t see a thing in this darkness except the red taillights up ahead and—

Brake lights.

Dominik’s car stopped suddenly fifty yards ahead. The driver’s side door flew open, and a burly figure dashed away from the car—the door hanging open. Hannah stopped her car, leaving the distance unfilled.

What was he doing? She sat in her car. Waiting.

It was like the stories of road rage she heard, where one driver would get out to confront another—only to have someone get shot in the middle of the street.

Hannah peered into the darkness, gripping her steering wheel. She closed her eyes, trying to reach out—

There was nothing to feel. Not here anyway.

She bit her lip, considered for a moment, then turned off her car, taking her keys. She wanted her keys—that was certain.

Fear would have been the natural response, but envy filled her mind. Envy for the Domani and the Ora, people like Devin Bathurst and John Temple, who could see the present and the future. Others had told her not to envy the other orders and their gifts, that she had been given exactly what she was meant to have and that she had to make the best of it. But she missed the proactive way that John and Devin could use to approach the uncertainty of the world. The Prima were a stabilizing force—a means of keeping everyone grounded and remembering the truths that proactive working so often forgot. But none of that changed the fact that she was in the moment now, groping in the blind spots of her gift.

Hannah opened the car door and stepped into the rain, looking around. He wasn’t anywhere to be seen. Hannah walked toward the car ahead, the interior lights illuminating the leather interior.

She stopped, listening for any sound she could hear—only the thumping rain. Another set of steps closer. She stared into the vacant interior, looking for a person who simply wasn’t there, and her eyes wandered to the center partition, hanging slightly ajar. It had been where he’d stored his—

Vodka.

A thick, heavy bottle, pulled from its cubby.

Gripped by the neck like a club.

Dominik, slipping into the darkness, waiting for his moment to . . .

Hannah spun as Dominik ejected himself from his hiding place in the dark, bottle in hand, raised over his head.

She thought fast, throwing herself into the car’s open door. The bottle came down on the roof of the car and blasted apart in a shower of shards and cascading liquor. She threw herself at the passenger’s door, scrambling for the handle. She looked back.

He was behind her, hurling his body through the same open door she had come through, grasping the steering wheel with his left hand for support, clutching the razor-sharp remains of a pungent vodka bottle in his right.

The survival instinct kicked in; the self-defense classes triggered her response.

She lashed out with her leg like a battering ram, her heel smashing into Dominik’s clavicle, just below the throat. He made a pinched hacking sound as his body hurled to the side, slamming into the dashboard. A hiking boot would have been ideal, but a kick of any kind could be fatal, even in her tennis shoes, if she meant it, held nothing back, and lashed out with the vicious intention to cause serious trauma.

She kicked again and again—his head snapped back like a melon as her foot connected with his face. Her hands searched frantically for the door handle she’d lost track of in the furious exchange—fingertips catching on the outline, hand grasping. Dominik was recovering. Covering his face with his left hand, he reached out with the razorlike bottle with the other, like a shield.

Hannah flung her body into the door as she pulled the handle. She felt her body tumble to the hard, wet pavement beyond. She looked back in time to see Dominik coming down at her, bottle in hand. She kicked his descending arm away, and the bottle exploded against the ground. Dominik reached for her body, trying to hold her down. She felt the car keys, still in her hand, clutched them like a dagger, and came down hard on Dominik’s arm. He winced, recoiling. She lashed out for his face, searching for his neck.

He threw himself back against the car, evading Hannah’s swinging attack, then stood.

Hannah pushed herself away, trying to keep her distance.

And then he ran.

Dominik rushed toward the end of the alley, water spattering against his face and arms.

Who was this woman? This girl? She’d followed him. Knew where he was going and what he was doing. She had to know about his business. She wasn’t FBI. Police? Maybe.

No. That wasn’t likely. She was too young for either. She was obviously trained in following people—but not with subtlety. Her mistakes were too glaring—too inexperienced.

Surveillance for someone else was his only thought. Someone who wanted to rip off their shipment. It happened all the time with drug trafficking. Why not in this business too?

Dominik made a sharp right, ducking into a trashy, overgrown backyard, shoving past a metal trash can. He had to fix this or it was going to cost him his head.

Hannah tore after Dominik.

Her one lead. Her only chance of finding these girls. She couldn’t let him get away.

She turned the corner fast, running through someone’s backyard, chasing after as fast as she could, Dominik’s form merely a dark blotch against the impossible conditions of night and drizzle.

He was ahead, crossing another yard, leaping a short chain-link fence. Hannah pushed herself, gaining slightly. She approached the fence, hands stinging as the cold, rain-soaked metal ripped at her bare hands. She hurtled the fence and continued her pursuit.

Dominik rushed across the street, dodging between parked cars, knocking over a boxy plastic trash can, sending garbage spilling. Hannah dodged to the left, losing time from the circuitous route, but it was less than she would have lost from fighting the obstacle she’d been presented with.

Her feet splashed through puddles as she forced herself forward, chasing as fast as she could. From yard to yard, across another street, low-hanging branches snapping at her face. A tall wooden fence, knotted and old. Dominik clambered over the fence. Hannah followed, charging toward the obstacle, hands digging in as she made her way to the top—throwing her body over the other side. Her feet connected with something she didn’t expect—a trash can—and she lost her balance, hitting the grassy lawn with a painful lurch.

She looked up. Dominik was already making his way over the far fence at the other end of the yard. Hannah leapt to her feet.

The back door to the home opened, and a young boy—maybe ten—watched her rush at the fence.

“Mom! There’s someone in the backyard!”

Hannah ignored the boy, throwing herself at the next fence, pulling herself into place with her arms, tossing a leg over the fence, hitting the ground with a splash on the other side. She pushed herself up from the muddy puddle, covered in dirt, and gave chase once more as Dominik turned a corner. She came to the gate in the fence. Locked. Hannah slammed her shoulder into the gate, sending it flying open, propelling her into the front yard.

Rain covered her face, and she wiped the thick drops from her eyes. Her head turned hurriedly, side to side. He was nowhere to be seen.

What had happened? How had she lost him? He must have taken a different turn.

She walked into the street, looking around in all directions.

This couldn’t be happening. She couldn’t let this happen. The girls were too young—thirteen at most. She couldn’t let this happen to them. She couldn’t let them disappear into the night. Hannah pushed her hands through her soaked hair, trying to think. She needed to know where he had gone.

A set of headlights rolled toward her, a sharp honk on the horn, and she stepped out of the car’s way, the vehicle rolling lazily past.

The world was going on as usual. She was failing her charge, and the world didn’t even know enough to care.

She needed to pick up the trail again. She needed to see the past. A vision of where he had gone. She needed a magic wand to wave, to bring her the sight she needed.

But it didn’t work like that.

Hannah looked up at the rainy sky. “God?” she beseeched. “I can’t do this. I can’t find them. I need You and Your sovereign power and...”

No. She scolded herself. It’s like people to go to God, thinking they had something to say—yammering to an almighty God who formed the world from the palm of His hand. How like her to think that florid prayers somehow pleased God.

No, it was not her place to talk. It was her place as a creation of God to do something else . . .

“Listen,” she whispered to herself.

She closed her eyes and listened to the rain, her thoughts filled with her calling and mission.

No. She scolded herself again. Listening wasn’t done only with the ears but also with the mind and the heart.

She cleared her mind. Focused on her breathing. Focused on God.

The rain thundered in her ears, every droplet exploding against every surface of metal, asphalt, and grass. Each sound blurred into the other in a cacophony of white noise.

Listen, she said to herself in her mind.

The drops faded toward the background, only a thumping rhythm of a select few drops tapping out an erratic beat. Bit by bit the rhythm thinned, only a few proud beats pounding out a pedantic march.

Listen, she said to herself again, her body relaxing. A single droplet of rain made a tiny plinking impact. Then silence. The world without time. Where she wasn’t hurried or forced into action. Listen, she thought again. And then she heard. Dominik’s shoes thudding against the path . . . Leading away . . .His ragged breath wheezing— Removing him from the scene. The cries of the girls reverberating in his mind— Remembering the thud of blows. The ringing slaps to tender faces— The sobs pounding into his brain. The house that he had been working from. Creaking from the strain. The place he was returning to.

Thunder rocked the air as Hannah’s eyes opened, lifting to the house in front of her. A sigh of anguish escaped her lips.

There.

Hannah quietly grasped the doorknob and felt the door swing lazily inward, left ajar by someone before her. Stepping into the house as quietly as possible, she paused. If he was in the house still, she didn’t want him to know. Not yet. There would be a moment soon, when she had something to report, that she would need to call the police to finish this. But visions of the past weren’t evidence enough. She needed to find the girls. To know for certain they were here before she did something that might spook Dominik.

She moved into the living room. Shoddy furniture bulleted with holes. An ashtray on the coffee table filled to the brim with dark ash and cigarette butts. The whole place reeked of stale smoke. Magazines littered the remaining surface of the coffee table—like a doctor’s waiting room.

Men, sitting in the living room—each waiting their turn.

A quick thump reverberated through her chest. These had been different girls, before the ones Hannah was looking for. Older—Russian? It wasn’t any easier to consider.

Her stomach churned, and she stepped into the next room— the kitchen. No signs of cooking or supplies. No one lived here. At least no one ate here.

Hannah looked at the table—a sprawling forest of vials, needles, alcohol, and soda bottles. She picked up a container of medicine, reading the label.

Flunitrazepam. Whatever that was.

There was a smacking sound, and Hannah turned. The back door hung open, the screen door slapping loudly in the rainy wind.

Dominik exiting out the back.

She thought about following him—but this was what she was looking for. This was where they’d brought the girls—she could feel it. If she was going to find the girls, she was going to have to do it here.

There was a set of stairs near the hallway, leading up. It felt right, like this was the way they had taken the girls.

The girls, Hannah thought. She didn’t even know their names. But that wasn’t how this worked. She wasn’t called out of personal obligation. She was called to help them because it was her purpose.

Hannah reached the top of the stairs, looking around. There was a set of three bedrooms lining the hallway. She stepped toward one with the door ajar. The door pushed aside easily, revealing a virtually empty room.

An old mattress lay in the middle of the room, filthy blankets thrown across it in twisting heaps.

And suddenly Hannah saw the horrible truth of what had been happening here.

Dominik kicked open the door to the shed, scowling into the darkness as the spring rain shower assaulted the tin roof in a reverberating frenzy. He shoved the lawn mower to the side, ripping a canvas tarp away from a stack of tools. The cold canvas twisted with a kind of whiplash as its soggy corners tried to double over onto the shell of hard cloth that had molded itself to the stack of tools.

A toolbox scattered with a rough toss, and it hit the floor somewhere to the right with a raucous clatter. He kicked a bag of screws out of the way, and the contents went spilling in a deluge of tinkling barbs.

There.

Dominik grabbed the gas can by the handle and gave it a forceful jiggle. Half a can’s worth of gasoline sloshed inside the container, undulating on a swishing axis that caused the whole can to swing in a wide arc.

It was enough to do the job. To get rid of as much evidence as he could before whoever that girl was could find her way back here. Dominik hated the place anyway, all the time he’d spent there minding the shop while the others stayed in the big house across town. He wouldn’t miss it.

It would be obvious that it was arson. The investigators might even find some of the things they had been hiding, but with luck they’d be out of the state by the time anything was found—and the merchandise would be out of the country by then. And it wouldn’t be traced back to them. They’d made sure the lease wasn’t in any of their names.

Dominik reached into his pocket, found the metal object, removed it from his pocket, and flicked the cap open. His thumb spun on the back of the lighter, checking to see if there was enough fuel.

A tiny flame leapt upward, then was dashed out by the snapping of the cap back over it. He walked back toward the house in the rain.

Hannah backed away from the bedroom door, stumbled into the wall, and slid to the floor. Her body shook as she ran her hands over her head, trying to blot it all out of her head. So many girls had been brought through here. So much pain. And suffering. And hopelessness. So many monsters lurking in the shadows.

The walls remembered what had happened here—and they were closing in.

“O God,” she stammered in agonized prayer, mind freewheeling with the torment of it all.

And she felt something else: another calling—

She looked up at the ceiling and saw the wide hatch leading to the attic. A padlock dangled open at the end of a swinging latch that had been left undone.

She reached upward, and the trapdoor snapped downward as she grabbed at the string, tugging, the ladder sliding downward with a gentle pull. Hannah stepped onto the bottom rung and moved upward, compelled by purpose but delayed by dread.

She lifted her head into the attic. The floor was covered in brown carpet; drenched in dust that made her cough. Hannah lifted herself into the darkness. Tiny fingers of light glowed through the slits between the boards covering the one tiny window at the far end. The hatch below her swung gently upward, pulled back into position by creaking springs.

Her hands groped for a moment as she stood, hunched in the low space. A dangling string brushed her fingertips, and she tugged. The lightbulb snapped on from an overhead fixture, and she looked around.

She thought she might never start breathing again.

Both sides of the attic were lined with bunk beds, chicken wire surrounding them in tightly fastened grids that filled in the gaps between small metal struts. Hinged doors with padlocks locked every set of beds, making each its own tiny prison.

Lurid underwear hung from hooks and littered the floor. Dirty clothes were piled in the corner.

Hannah walked to one of the beds, its door hanging open, and looked in. Sitting on yellowed sheets was a ratty stuffed bear with one eye missing. She picked up the bear and looked it over as a hot tear ran down Hannah’s face as she saw the face of the girl who had clung to this bear—

Maybe fourteen years old.

The bear fell from her hands and hit the floor.

Whoever these people were—she would stop them.

Wherever the girls were that they had taken—she would find them.

Then she heard something.

Petroleum-scented splashes of gasoline washed across the walls and tables as Dominik slung the can in all directions. He set the can down for a moment and rummaged under the sink for a trash bag. Quickly he swept the drugs off the table into the plastic and pulled the tethers shut with a swift yank. He set the bag near the door, stuffed his cell phone between his shoulder and ear, and reached for the gas can again.

“Hello?” a female voice said in Dominik’s native language.

“Do you know who she is?” Dominik replied in the same language as he soaked the curtains in gasoline.

“Who?”

“The girl that followed me. She knew where I was and where I was going.”

“What are you talking about?”

Dominik sloshed more gasoline onto the living room carpet, sending a splash across the back of a ratty recliner. “Some girl—midtwenties maybe. She found me in the liquor store. She followed me. Chased me back to the house.”

“You ran away from a girl?”

“Shut up, Misha.” He grunted. “She came out of nowhere. She knew where I was and where I was going. She must have been watching us for days.” He moved up the stairs, spilling a trail of gas.

“What are you going to do about it?”

Dominik let the last drops trickle from the can, dousing a pile of sheets in the bedroom, then tossed the can into the corner. “I’m closing down the storefront.”

“Use the gas can in the shed. Burn it down.”

“I’ve already started.”

“Good. Get going, and get out of there.” There was a click, and the line went dead.

Dominik felt the lighter in his pocket as he moved toward the stairs, then stopped. A creaking in the ceiling from the attic above. He looked at the trapdoor in the ceiling, slightly ajar.

Another creak and the distinct sound of footsteps overhead.

He eyed the padlock dangling from the hatch—an overt violation of fire code if he wasn’t mistaken—but the reasons for that seemed more useful than ever.

Hannah took another step back.

Someone was in the house.

They were down there, but there was no way to know for certain if they’d heard her. She wanted to get away from the hatch—away from the center of the noise she’d heard. There had been the sound of someone talking. It wasn’t English. Russian maybe.

She herself had been kidnapped just over a year before. Nothing as hideous as this—but it had still left its mark on her—a lingering fear, almost a dread, hung over her like a cloud. She’d chosen to face it head-on, to walk straight into the blackness alone. Now she feared it would engulf her.

There was a clattering sound near the far wall and a funny smell.

She took another step back.

Footsteps moved toward the hatch—then stopped just below. What were they doing down there?

Hannah turned, looking at the boarded window. Was it a way out? Maybe she could tear the boards away. The hinges on the hatch squeaked with a minute adjustment.

Were they coming up here? To grab her? To kill her?

Hannah forced herself to stop it. To let go of the questions. To silence her mind. Her life really could be in danger, but this time she could choose to do something. To take control. She was not tied up or caged, and she would not let fear paralyze her. She could act.

Then she heard it.

A click.

She thought of the window. A moment of quiet, then footfalls moving down the stairs. They were leaving.

Hannah moved to the hatch, putting a hand on the thick wood. It didn’t budge. She shoved. It wouldn’t move. She stomped.

She was trapped.

Dominik heard a loud thump strike the attic entrance. They’d figured out that it was locked. There was another thump. They’d specifically reinforced the hatch to keep the girls from knocking it open if they ever had the guts to try. The padlock would hold, and the thick bolts would stay in place.

He kicked the back door open and stood in the threshold.

The lighter came open with a snap.

His thumb rolled across the wheel, and a thin blade of flame conjured itself up from the metal casing. He shielded the tiny flame for a moment, then tossed it into a puddle of gasoline.

There was a split second where nothing happened—Dominik froze, worried that the puddle had drowned the fire. Then it spread in a violent blossom, devouring the surrounding air with an audible howl. The house caught ablaze in a matter of seconds, fire consuming up the stairs.

Dominik pulled on a jacket he’d taken from one of the closets and zipped it as he walked away.

Hannah knew something wasn’t right.

She couldn’t have explained how, but something had changed. The smell—the pungent aroma that had been rising from below— suddenly seemed to vanish, replaced by something else.

Then she recognized the smell that had been. And her eyes went wide as she realized what the new smell was that had replaced it.

Greenish smoke slithered up from the cracks around the attic hatch. The smell was foreign—not like campfire smoke with its earthen richness, but the putrid scent ofmelting plastic and burning synthetics.

Then the floor started to get warm.

Fire travels up, she thought. Heat rises. Smoke rises. There was nowhere further up to go. She was at the tip of the spear.

She turned to the window, tugging at the boards that covered it—the rain smacking down just beyond.

The amount of smoke doubled in seconds, filling the attic with an acrid cloud. No fire yet. Just smoke. Her eyes stung,

pinpricks stabbing at her tear ducts. Hot tears slid involuntarily down her warming face. It was all happening so fast. It reminded her of the fire safety videos she’d seen in elementary school, depicting how a cigarette in a trash can could send a house into an unrecoverable blaze in less than two minutes.

Arson could work so much faster.

She hacked and coughed, fingers digging into the boards, pulling at the wood. She lifted her foot, giving a solid kick that split the boards, crushing the glass beyond. Hannah grabbed the loose pieces and pulled them free, revealing the window.

Street light poured in through the rapidly thickening smoke. Rain tapped at the spiderwebbed glass. The whole window was little more than a slit. Less than six inches. She would never fit. It had been boarded up purely to keep light out.

Her lungs seized, fighting to keep out the dark haze. Her

body convulsed with a violent cough. Heat permeated her.

Hannah coughed once more, then lifted her leg, jamming her heel into the tiny window, sending beads of glass splashing outward. It wasn’t big enough for her to get out, but it was big enough to let a little air in.

She shoved her face to the opening and pulled in a lungful of the chilled air beyond. Then she pulled the jacket off her back and put it to her mouth. She crouched down, moved back into the prisonlike room, and searched for the trapdoor. Found it. Her hands worked at the latch, pulled. Nothing. There had to be some way to get out.

The blurring of her vision worsened, tears and smoke clawing at her eyes.

She coughed. Her body felt heavy and unwieldy. She tried to adjust her body with her right arm, but all the strength seemed to be slipping out of her. Fighting hurt so much. Moving sapped her energy. The searing floor suddenly seemed welcoming. Her body started to relax, curling into a ball. The unrelenting stinging in her eyes suddenly seemed unbearable.

Her eyelids shut.

The attic suddenly seemed far away. Her mind slipped into silence. The kind of silenceshe could try so hard to cultivate in times of trouble now seemed so easy. Everything that seemed to worry faded, and rather than doing she was simply . . .

Being.

She could feel the past again.

Before it had been such a horrible place. When others had lived here. When family pictures and Christmas ornaments had been stored here in cardboard boxes. And then the old occupants moved out and others moved in—the ones who had perverted this place to be something else. Rolling carpet over the plywood, not bothering to nail it to the rafters.

Hannah’s eyes snapped open, and she stumbled toward the window for a life-saving breath of cool air. Then she dropped to the floor and grasped at the carpet, pulling the shaggy covering loose. She reached for the floor, pulling at the boards, only to realize that she was standing on the edge.

Hannah moved and gave another pull—the heat was overwhelming. The plywood pulled away, clattering to the side as she tossed it.

Rafters—a few feet apart—partitioned themselves between sections of pink insulation. It looked like cotton candy, she thought.

Her hesitation lasted only a second, and then she jumped, feet first toward insulation.

The world seemed to freeze.

Then her body crashed through the billowy pink insulation, smashing through the thin layer of sheet rock, and she felt herself hurtling through the gray smoke toward the carpet one floor below.

She landed with a thud, losing her balance as her body slammed into the wall.

The heat enveloped her, blasting at her like a furnace, smoke stabbing at her eyes. Hannah looked up and saw the window at the far end of the hall. She pulled her jacket tight against her face and rushed forward, trying to stay low. Moments later she was at the window, the glass fogged over with a greasy black smear from the heat and smoke. Then she saw the gas can, tossed at the floor below it, fire clinging to the outside wall

where gas dribbled down.

A kick could break the glass—but glass shards would slice her leg to unrecognizable ribbons if she tried. She took a smoky breath and reached for the can with her jacket, grabbing the handle. Her body swung, then released the metal container.

The smoke-fogged glass exploded outward and skittered across the sloping roof that covered the back porch.

She threw herself through the window—arms and legs catching on the fragile teeth of glass that remained, her body landing on glass shards that pricked her skin. She rolled uncontrollably down the roof, then slammed into the soggy grass below.

Hannah looked up at the blazing house—bleeding, burned, and weak.

Her eyes fluttered shut, only to open again after several minutes, and she found herself on the other end of the yard, farther from the flames. She was looking up at a man with long

dark hair, in a black coat. Rain rolled off him as he said something to her. His lips moved, but she didn’t hear anything.

And then the world faded to black.

Darlington Woods by Mike Dellosso

2010-05-18T06:00:00.000-06:00

Today's Wild Card author is:

Mike Dellosso

and the book:

Darlington Woods

Realms; 1 edition (May 4, 2010)

***Special thanks to Anna Coelho Silva | Publicity Coordinator, Book Group | Strang Communications for sending me a review copy.***

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

Born in Baltimore, Maryland, Mike now lives in Hanover, Pennsylvania, with his wife, Jen, and their three daughters. He is a regular columnist for AVirtuousWoman.org, was a newspaper correspondent/columnist for over three years, has published several articles for The Candle of Prayer inspirational booklets, and has edited and contributed to numerous Christian-themed Web sites and e-newsletters. Mike is a member of the American Christian Fiction Writers association, the Christian Fiction Blog Alliance, the Relief Writer’s Network, and FaithWriters, and plans to join International Thriller Writers once published. He received his BA degree in sports exercise and medicine from Messiah College and his MBS degree in theology from Master’s Graduate School of Divinity.

Visit the author's website.

Product Details:

List Price: $13.99
Paperback: 281 pages
Publisher: Realms; 1 edition (May 4, 2010)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 1599799189
ISBN-13: 978-1599799186

AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:

Present day

As he pressed his beat-up Ford down an uneven stretch of asphalt, Rob Shields had death on his mind. His own. The void within him had grown to colossal proportions, opening its gaping black maw and swallowing any hope or happiness he once had. Lost forever. No chance of return. Death welcomed him, enticed him, drew him in with its easy ways and comfortable charm.

Oh, he knew he would never do it. Taking his own life had a certain appeal to it, held a certain freedom that his bleak outlook on life longed for, but it took a much braver— or dumber—man than he to actually pull it off. But still he wanted, maybe needed, to pretend he was as serious as murder. And that meant it was time to see the house. If he was to fantasize about putting an end to his journey, he at least wanted to see the place that had promised a better life. Just one visit, one look, would satisfy him.

He glanced over at the empty passenger seat then into the rearview mirror at the vacant spot in the backseat. Kelly would be jabbering about what beautiful country this was.

“Look at the wildflowers. Oh, I love wildflowers.”

And little Jimmy would be singing away to his MP3 player, getting the lyrics all wrong.

Man, he missed them.

A familiar sadness overcame him, and he once again thought of his own death. He couldn’t bear to live without them any longer . . .

Life had become a great burden, an endless source of sadness. Every day was lived in despair. Unhappiness and discontent had become his bedfellows. He would see the

house, allow himself one evening of pleasant dreams about what could have been, then return to Massachusetts to live out the rest of his life in isolated misery. And in his mind,

that in itself was a form of suicide. A living death.

Rob depressed the accelerator, and the odometer needle climbed nearer to seventy. On the horizon, heat devils performed an arrhythmic dance, and the sun-scorched

blacktop appeared to be glossed with mercury. The road cut through pastureland like a hardened artery. To his right, a handful of horses stood motionless, their noses to the ground. To his left, the land stretched out like a green sea, undulating slowly to an even tempo.

Mayfield had to be no more than an hour away, but the fuel

gauge said he needed gas now. Up ahead, an elderly man in a ball cap was on both knees working his garden. Rob slowed the car and stopped beside him. The older gent turned his body slowly, revealing a patch over one eye.

Rob leaned across the center console and spoke loudly. “Where’s the nearest gas station?”

The old man cupped one hand around his ear and raised his eyebrows.

Rob said it louder. “Where’s the nearest gas station?”

The man nodded in the direction Rob had been traveling. “’Bout a mile down the road. Shell station on the left.”

“Thanks,” Rob said, and he pulled away. In the rearview mirror he could see the man watch him for a moment then return to his garden.

Exactly one mile down the road Rob steered into a cracked-asphalt lot and up to an old-style analog gas pump, the kind with the rotating numbers. He didn’t even know those kind still existed. The station had seen better days. From the sun-bleached Shell sign to the grime-coated plate-glass window of the little convenience store to the scarred and faded blacktop, everything spoke of neglect. This was one outpost time had forgotten.

Rob got out of the car and noticed the handwritten sign on the pump: Pre-pay inside. Management.

Walking across the lot, he could feel the day’s heat radiating through the soles of his shoes. A little bell chimed when he opened the door. A thin, fair-skinned man with shoulder-length hair nodded at him from behind the counter.

“Thirty in gas,” Rob said, reaching for his wallet.

The clerk punched some buttons on the register and said, “Thirty.”

Rob paid him. “How far to Mayfield?”

The clerk looked up. “Where?”

“Mayfield.”

After a quick shrug, “Fifty, sixty miles.” He looked like he wanted to say more, so Rob waited. “Not much in Mayfield.”

“A house,” Rob said.

“Your house?”

“Should have been.” Then he turned and left. The bell chimed again on his way out.

At the pump, Rob unscrewed the fuel cap and inserted the nozzle. Jimmy always loved to squeeze the trigger.

“Can I pull the trigger, Daddy?”

That’s what he called it, a trigger. He’d pretend the nozzle was a cowboy gun. Thoughts of his son flooded Rob’s mind, and he did nothing to stop them. Now was a time for remembering, for soaking up every good feeling and every fond image left to enjoy.

When the rolling numbers hit seventeen dollars, a quick movement caught Rob’s attention. He jerked his head up and toward the side of the store where a stand of shrubs sat quiet and motionless. Then he heard it, a muffled giggle, and his breath caught in his throat. He knew that giggle. Knew it like the sound of his own voice. The movement was there again. An image ran from the shrubs to the rear of the store and out of sight. The nozzle snapped off and fell to the ground with a solid clunk. Rob knew that run too, the shortened stride, the slightly exaggerated pumping of the arms. He could feel his heart thudding all the way down to his fingertips.

It was Jimmy. His little buddy.

Crossing the lot in large walking strides at first, then a run, Rob rounded the building fully expecting to find his son, Jimmy, red-faced with brown hair matted to his forehead,

waiting in a crouch to scare him.

“I got you, Daddy!”

Instead, all he found were a few rusted-out fifty-gallon drums, a stack of dry-rotted tires, and a haphazard pile of rebar. His breathing rate had quickened from the short sprint, and beads of sweat now popped out on his forehead and upper lip. He wiped them away with the sleeve of his T-shirt.

He walked the length of the building, scanning the field of

knee-high grass behind it. “Jimmy?”

But no answer came. Not even a rustle of grass. And no giggle.

“Jimmy,” Rob said in a normal volume, more to himself than the phantom of his son that had haunted him now for going on two months. The visions—the psychologist called

them hallucinations—had come frequently at first, sometimes as much as once a day, then grew more sporadic. Until now, he hadn’t had one for over two weeks. At first,

Rob was convinced there was a purpose to them, a meaning. Maybe they even meant Jimmy was still alive, waiting for his daddy to find him and rescue him. Maybe. The psychologist disagreed. Rob thought he was a quack and stopped attending the weekly sessions.

Scolding himself for once again allowing his frazzled imagination to dupe him, Rob returned to his car like a man taking his final stroll down the long corridor to the electric

chair. The sun’s heat now seemed more intense, and his shirt clung to his back and chest.

He picked the nozzle up from the ground and balanced it in his hand.

“Can I pull the trigger, Daddy?”

Every time he pumped gas he’d think of Jimmy. It was one of those little things that would haunt him the rest of his life. But it was a haunting he welcomed. After squeezing out the rest of his thirty bucks, Rob returned the nozzle to the pump, opened the car door, and was hit by a breath of heat.

Sitting in his car was like hanging out in an oven, but Rob did not turn the ignition. The air outside was still and the heat sweltering. Sweat seeped from his pores, wetting the front of his shirt. He thought of the image of his son and that familiar gait and noticed his hands were trembling. Tears formed in his eyes, blurring his vision.

“Jimmy.” He said the name again, as if it were some holy word that could cross the span of the finite and infinite and bring his little boy back. He wanted to hold him, bury his

face in Jimmy’s hair, and draw in the smell of sweat and cookies.

“I like how you smell, Daddy. You smell like a daddy.”

Wiping the tears from his eyes, Rob started the car, pulled away from the pump, and headed east toward Mayfield.

As he drove, the empty seats beside and behind him burned like hot coals. As much as he tried, he could not dismiss the memory of Kelly reaching over and placing a graceful hand on his thigh, her hair rippling in the wind, a smile stretched across her face. Nor could he stop glancing in the rearview mirror, half hoping to see Jimmy bouncing against the back of the seat.

Rob slapped at the steering wheel. He knew he was going mad, that the solitude of the last three months had nearly driven him over the edge and blurred the line between reality and fantasy. And he was obsessing again. He had to think of something else, so he turned his mind to the house his great-aunt Wilda had left him. He’d never seen the place, had never even met Wilda. But when he found out he was the sole heir to the house, his mother raved about how much Kelly and Jimmy would love the place. That was six months ago.

Before his world got flipped on its head and everything went to pot.

Before he went insane and entertained thoughts of death. The boy and his mommy walk back to the car to clean his hands. He’s been working on a candy apple for some time, and it’s creating quite the mess. Daddy told them he’d meet them at the lemonade stand. Lemonade is great for a warm day, he said. The grass in the parking area is brown and ground into the dry dirt from everyone walking and driving on it. His mommy is holding his clean hand and singing a Sunday school song about Joshua and the battle of Jericho. The boy is still thinking about the eagle the man behind the table was holding. He never knew eagles were so big. And when it looked at him, it seemed to see right past his skin and into his insides. They had other things at the stand too—an owl with big yellow eyes, a couple different kinds of snakes, and an aquarium full of toads—but the eagle was his favorite. He wondered what it would be like to be able to fly like an eagle, way up in the sky where no one could bother you, seeing the whole world at once.

“Here we are,” Mommy says. Their car looks extra clean because Daddy washed it just before they left. The black paint looks like a dark mirror and makes him look funny, like one of those curvy mirrors at the carnival.

Mommy opens the trunk and leans over into it, looking for the napkins. It reminds him of a poem about a crocodile with a toothache. He wishes he could remember all the words. Something about the crocodile opening so wide and the dentist climbing inside, then SNAP! Mommy always claps her hands real hard at that part, and it always makes him jump.

A man comes up behind Mommy. He’s wearing dirty old blue jeans and a tight black T-shirt. His face is big and round, and there are a lot of little scars on his cheeks. His eyes are placed real close together and pushed back into his head. With his shaggy hair and large face, the boy thinks he looks like a head of cabbage.

“Excuse me,” the man says. He reaches out to touch Mommy’s hip then looks at the boy.

Mommy jumps and stands up fast. She turns around and looks at the man, crossing her arms in front of her. She seems nervous. “Yes?”

Cabbage Head looks nervous too. He pushes his hand through his hair, and the boy notices the sweat on his forehead. It makes his hair wet where it comes out of the skin. “It’s your husband—”

Now Mommy looks scared. “Wha–what’s wrong?” Her voice shakes.

“I need you to come with me.” He looks at the boy with those deep eyes then back at Mommy. “The boy can stay here at the car. We’ll only be a minute.”

Mommy bites her lower lip and looks around. She kneels beside the boy. She looks real scared and is breathing fast. Her hands are shaking, and she’s still biting her lower lip. “Stay here, OK? Don’t leave the car. I’ll be right back. Don’t leave the car.”

She hugs the boy then kisses him on the cheek. Opening the back door of the car, she motions for the boy to get in. “Remember, stay here. Don’t go anywhere. I’ll be back for you soon.” She closes the door, blows him a kiss, and leaves with Cabbage Head. The boy watches as they walk away and disappear behind a trailer.

It doesn’t take long for it to get too hot to stay in the car. He opens the door and slides out, staying low to the ground so no one will see him. He leans against the car, but the black metal is too hot. So he sits Indian-style on the ground next to the back tire and picks at the grass. He wonders what could be wrong with Daddy. Did he have a heart attack or get cancer? Mr. Davies next door got cancer last year and died. This scares the boy. Maybe Daddy’s just lost and the man needs Mommy to help find him. He thinks about the man and his deep eyes. They were like the eagle’s eyes. Something about them didn’t look right, though. The boy feels like if he looked at them long enough he’d see things that would give him nightmares for a very long time. And they would see things in him too.

It seems like a long time of sitting by the tire and picking at brown grass before the boy hears footsteps coming, the sound of dry grass crunching like stale potato chips. He stands and looks around, hoping it’s Mommy. But Cabbage Head is coming toward him, alone. Where’s Mommy? Is she with Daddy, and the man is coming to take him to them?

Cabbage Head comes close. He’s sweating even worse now, and his hair looks like it has been messed up. He offers the boy his hand, a big meaty thing that looks like a bear’s paw. “C’mon, son. You must come with me.”

“Where’s my mom?” the boy asks. He notices his own voice is shaking.

“She’s fine. She wants me to bring you to her.”

The boy can tell the man is lying. He wants to run away but is afraid he’ll never find Mommy or Daddy on his own. “Where is she?”

Cabbage Head closes his hand and opens it again. His wide palm is all shiny with sweat. “Come. She’s waiting for you.”

There’s no way the boy is going to hold the man’s hand. He turns to run but the man catches him by the arm. “Oh, no, you don’t. You’re coming with me.”

The boy tries to holler, but the man’s sweaty hand is over his mouth, pressing so hard it hurts. The boy has never known what it is like to be so scared. He’s sure Cabbage Head is going to kill him, or worse, keep him alive but never allow him to see his mommy or daddy again.

Pastor arrested

2010-05-16T06:36:00.000-06:00

On April 16, an armed rebel group kidnapped a Baptist pastor from his home in a remote village in Bangladesh. The group, called terrorist activists by locals, ransacked the pastor's church, throwing Bibles on the floor, seizing a mobile phone and taking the pastor to their leader's home, according to VOM contacts.
The pastor was allegedly beaten and taken to a Buddhist temple where he was told to deny his faith in Christ and believe and obey Buddha. Later that day, two Christian men were taken by the rebels to the Buddhist temple and released when they agreed to the rebels' demands. The men are now in hiding to avoid further problems.
The pastor remains inside the Buddhist temple where he is allowed to move about freely, but he is constantly surrounded by monks who are instructing him in their rituals and teachings.
The villagers were told they would be shot dead if they involved the police.

Please Pray!

Pray for God's grace and protection over this pastor and the Christian men who are in hiding. Pray that they will not be moved from their faith in Jesus Christ. Pray that the monks and the members of the rebel group will come to a saving knowledge of Jesus Christ.

(Information from Voice of the Martyrs)

Chosen Ones by Alister McGrath

2010-05-12T06:40:00.000-06:00

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!

When my son was in the 9-12 year old age range of this book, he had a hard time finding interesting stories. He wanted adventure, intrigue, battles. And I wanted a story that gave him characters with values of truth, honor, perseverance. Here's a book that fills that need. I appreciated the values blended into the story - not layered and labeled on the top - but part of a thrilling adventure.

Today's Wild Card author is:

Alister McGrath

and the book:

Chosen Ones (Aedyn Chronicles, The)

Zondervan (April 13, 2010)

***Special thanks to ***Special thanks to Pam Mettler of ZonderKidz for sending me a review copy.***

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

Alister E. McGrath is one of the most respected Christian theologians of this century. Born in Belfast, Northern Ireland, Dr. McGrath currently serves as Professor of Theology, Ministry and Education, and Head of the Centre for Theology, Religion and Culture at King's College, London.

Visit the author's website.

Product Details:

List Price: $14.99
Reading level: Ages 9-12
Hardcover: 208 pages
Publisher: Zondervan (April 13, 2010)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 0310718120
ISBN-13: 978-0310718123

TO BROWSE THE BOOK, CLICK ON THE BUTTON BELOW:

Chosen Ones (The Aedyn Chronicles)

Which state?

2010-04-27T12:19:00.001-06:00

We're studying elements of writing good fiction together. My teens and I want to write stories that make an impact and so we read this example today regarding interior monologue:

Monroe settled into one of the plastic chairs outside the examining room and flipped through a magazine.

Who was he kidding? He knew he couldn't read anything in the state he was in. Still, better to look at the pictures in the ads than to stare at the other patients….

I turned to my young writers. "So do you see how the viewpoint switched from description to Monroe's thoughts?"
"I don't get why he couldn't read." That was Timothy, who was laying on the recliner with a puppy nestled against his neck.

"He couldn't read in the state he was in," I said.

"Well, what state was he in?"

"It's hard to tell. Maybe he's sick or maybe he's injured."

"OH!! I thought it meant a state like Colorado."

Then his sister jumped in. "Yeah, it's illegal to read in some states. Like California. 'No reading for you or you'll want a different system.'"

That was the end of our discussion on interior monologue for the day.

Unchanged

2010-04-23T06:25:00.001-06:00

"We are challenged these days, but not changed; convicted, but not converted. We hear, but do not; and thereby we deceive ourselves."

-Vance Hafner

2010-04-21T06:00:00.000-06:00

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!

For a leisurely, yet intriguing, stroll into medieval England, this book fills the book. You'll feel like you're walking the streets with our hero, trying to sort through the clues of mysteries while meeting an assortment of interesting people. I enjoyed this book.

Today's Wild Card author is:

Mel Starr

and the book:

A Corpse at St. Andrew’s Chapel

Monarch Books (February 19, 2010)

***Special thanks to Cat Hoort - Trade Marketing Manager - Kregel Publications for sending me a review copy.***

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

Melvin R. Starr has spent many years teaching history, and has studied medieval surgery and medieval English. He lives in Michigan.

Visit the author's website.

Product Details:

List Price: $14.99
Paperback: 304 pages
Publisher: Monarch Books (February 19, 2010)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 1854249541
ISBN-13: 978-1854249548

AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:

I awoke at dawn the ninth day of April, 1365. Unlike French Malmsey, the day did not improve with age.

      There have been many days I awoke at dawn but remembered not the circumstances three weeks hence.   I remember this day not because of when I awoke, but why, and what I was compelled to do after. Odd, is it not, how one extraordinary event will burn even the mundane surrounding it into a man’s memory.

     I have seen other memorable days in my twenty-five years. I recall the day my brother Henry died of plague. I was a child, but I remember well Father Aymer administering extreme unction. Father Aymer wore a spice bag about his neck to protect him from the malady. It did not, and he also succumbed within a fortnight. I can see the pouch yet, in my mind’s eye, swinging from the priest’s neck on a hempen cord as he bent over my stricken brother.

     I remember clearly the day in 1361 when William of Garstang died. William and I and two others shared a room on St. Michael’s Street, Oxford, while we studied at Baliol College. I comforted William as the returning plague covered his body with erupting buboes. For my small service he gave me, with his last breaths, his three books. One of these volumes was, Surgery, by Henry de Mondeville. How William came by this clumes I know not. But I see now in this gift the hand of God, for I read de Mondeville’s work and changed my vocation.

     Was it then God’s will that William die a miserable death so that I might find God’s vision for my life? This I cannot accept, for I saw William’s body covered with oozing pustules. I will not believe such a death is God’s choice for any man. Here I must admit a disagreement with Master Wyclif, who believes that all is foreordained. But out of evil God may draw good, as I believe He did when he introduced me to the practice of surgery. Perhaps the good I have done with my skills balances the torment William suffered in his death. But not for William.

     I remember well the day I met Lord Gilbert Talbot. I stitched him up after his leg was opened by a kick from a groom’s horse on Oxford High Street. This needlework opened my life to service to Lord Gilbert and the townsmen of Bampton, and brought me also the post of bailiff on Lord Gilbert’s manor at Bampton.

     Other days return to my mind with less pleasure. I will not soon forget Christmas Day, 1363, and the feast that day at Lord Gilbert’s Goodrich Castle hall. I had traveled there from Bampton to attend Lord Gilbert’s sister, the Lady Joan. The fair Joan had broken a wrist in a fall from a horse. I was summoned to set the break. It was foolish of me to think I might win this lady, but love has hoped more foolishness than that. A few days before Christmas a guest, Sir Thomas de Burgh, arrived at Goodrich. Lord Gilbert invited him knowing well he might be a thief. Indeed, he stole Lady Joan’s heart. Between the second and third removes of the Christmas feast he stood and for all in the hall to see offered Lady Joan a clove-studded pear. She took the fruit and with a smile delicately drew a clove from the pear with her teeth. They married in September, a few days before Michealmas, last year.

    But I digress.

      I awoke at dawn to thumping on my chamber door. I blinked sleep from my eyes, crawled from my bed, and stumbled to the door. I opened it as William the porter was about to rap on it again.

     “It’s Alan . . . . the beadle. He’s found.”

     Alan had left his home to seek those who would violate curfew two days earlier. He never returned. His young wife came to me in alarm the morning of the next day. I sent John Holcutt, the reeve, to gather a party of searchers, but they found no trace of the man. John was not pleased to lose a day of work from six men. Plowing of fallow fields was not yet finished. Before I retired Wednesday evening John sought me out and begged not to resume the search next day. I agreed. If Alan could not be found with the entire town aware of his absence another day of poking into haymows and barns seemed likely also to be fruitless. It was not necessary.

     “Has he come home?” I asked..

     “Nay. An’ not likely to, but on a hurdle.”

     “He’s dead?”

     “Aye.”

     “Where was he found?”

     “Aside t’way near to St. Andrew’s Chapel.”

     It was no wonder the searchers had not found him. St. Andrew’s Chapel was near half a mile to the east. What, I wondered, drew him away from the town on his duties?

     “Hubert Shillside has been told. He would have you accompany him to the place.”

     “Send word I will see him straightaway.”

     I suppose I was suspicious already that this death was not natural. I believe it to be a character flaw if a man be too mistrustful. But there are occasions in my professions – surgery and bailiff – when it is good to doubt a first impression. Alan was not yet thirty years old. He had a half-yardland of Lord Gilbert Talbot and was so well thought of that despite his youth Lord Gilbert’s tenants had at hallmote chosen him beadle these three years. He worked diligently, and bragged all winter that his four acres of oats had brought him nearly five bushels for every bushel of seed. A remarkable accomplishment, for his land was no better than any other surrounding Bampton. This success brought also some envy, I think, and perhaps there were wives who contrasted his achievement to the work of their husbands. But this, I thought, was no reason to kill a man.

     I suppose a man may have enemies which even his friends know not of. I did consider Alan a friend, as did most others of the town. On my walk from Bampton Castle to Hubert Shillside’s shop and house on Church View Street I persuaded myself that this must be a natural death. Of course, when a corpse is found in open country, the hue and cry must be raised even if the body be stiff and cold. So Hubert, the town coroner, and I, bailiff and surgeon, must do our work.

     Alan was found but a few minutes from the town. Down Rosemary Lane to the High Street, then left on Bushey Row to the path to St. Andrew’s Chapel. We saw – Hubert and I, and John Holcutt, who came also – where the body lay while we were yet far off. As we passed the last house on the lane east from Bampton to the chapel we saw a group of men standing in the track at a place where last year’s fallow was being plowed for spring planting. They saw us approach, and stepped back respectfully as we reached them.

     A hedgerow had grown up among rocks between the lane and the field. New leaves of pale green decorated stalks of nettles, thistles, and wild roses. Had the foliage matured for another fortnight Alan might have gone undiscovered. But two plowmen, getting an early start on their day’s labor, found the corpse as they turned the oxen at the end of their first furrow. It had been barely light enough to see the white foot protruding from the hedgerow. The plowman who goaded the team saw it as he prodded the lead beasts to turn them.

     Alan’s body was invisible from the road, but by pushing back nettles and thorns – carefully – we could see him curled as if asleep amongst the brambles. I directed two onlookers to retrieve the body. Rank has its privileges. Better they be nettle-stung than we. A few minutes later Alan the beadle lay stretched out on the path.

     Laying in the open, on the road, the beadle did not seem so at peace as in the hedgerow. Deep scratches lacerated his face, hands, and forearms. His clothes were torn, and a great wound bloodied his neck where flesh had been torn away. The coroner bent to examine this injury more closely.

     “Some beast has done this, I think,” he muttered as he stood. “See how his surcoat is torn at the arms, as if he tried to defend himself from fangs.

     I knelt on the opposite side of the corpse to view in my turn the wound which took the life of Alan the beadle. It seemed as Hubert Shillside said. Puncture wounds spread across neck and arms, and rips on surcoat and flesh indicated where claws and fangs had made their mark. I sent the reeve back to the Bampton Castle for a horse on which to transport Alan back to the town and to his wife. The others who stood in the path began to drift away. The plowmen who found him returned to their team. Soon only the coroner and I remained to guard the corpse. It needed guarding. Already a vulture floated high above the path.

     I could not put my unease into words, so spoke nothing of my suspicion to Shillside. But I was not satisfied that some wild beast had done this thing. I believe the coroner was apprehensive of his explanation as well, for it was he who broke the silence.

     “There have been no wolves hereabouts in my lifetime,” he mused, “nor wild dogs, I think.”

     “I have heard,” I replied, “Lord Gilbert speak of wolves near Goodrich.   And Pembroke. Those castles are near to the Forest of Dean and the Welsh mountains. But even there in such wild country they are seldom seen.”

     Shillside was silent again as we studied the body at our feet. My eyes wandered to the path where Alan lay. When I did not find what I sought I walked a few paces toward the town, then reversed my path and inspected the track in the direction of St. Andrew’s Chapel. My search was fruitless.

     Hubert watched my movements with growing interest. “What do you seek?” He finally asked. It was clear to him I looked for something in the road.

     “Tracks. If an animal did this there should be some sign, I think. The mud is soft.”

     “Perhaps,” the coroner replied. “But we and many others have stood about near an hour. Any marks a beast might have made have surely been trampled underfoot.”

     I agreed that might be. But another thought also troubled me. “There should be much blood,” I said, “but I see little.”

     “Why so?” Shillside asked.

     “When a man’s neck is torn as Alan’s is there is much blood lost. It is the cause of death. Do you see much blood hereabouts?”

     “Perhaps the ground absorbed it?”

     “Perhaps . . . . let us look in the hedgerow, where we found him.”

     We did, carefully prying the nettles apart. The foliage was depressed where Alan lay, but only a trace of blood could be seen on the occasional new leaf or rock or blade of grass.

     “There is blood here,” I announced, “but not much. Not enough.”

     “Enough for what?” the coroner asked with furrowed brow.

     “Enough that the loss of blood would kill a man.”

     Shillside was silent for a moment. “Your words trouble me,” he said finally. “If this wound,” he looked to Alan’s neck, “did not kill him, what did?”

     “T’is a puzzle,” I agreed.

     “And see how we found him amongst the nettles. Perhaps he dragged himself there to escape the beasts, if more than one set upon him.”

    “Or perhaps the animal dragged him there,” I added. But I did not believe this for reasons I could not explain.

     It was the coroner’s turn to cast his eyes about. “His staff,” Shillside mused, “I wonder where it might be?”

     I remembered the staff. Whenever the beadle went out of an evening to watch and warn he carried with him a yew pole taller than himself and thick as a man’s forearm. I spoke to him of this weapon once. A whack from it, he said, would convince the most unruly drunk to leave the streets and seek his bed.

     “He was proud of that cudgel,” Hubert remarked as we combed the hedgerow in search of it. “He carved an ‘A’ on it so all would know t’was his.”

     “I didn’t know he could write.”

     “Oh . . . . he could not,” Shillside explained. “Father Thomas showed him the mark and Alan inscribed it. Right proud of it, he was.”

     We found the staff far off the path, where some waste land verged on to a wood just behind St. Andrew’s Chapel. It lay thirty paces or more from the place where Alan’s body had lain in the hedgerow.

     “How did it come to be here?” Shillside asked. As if I would know. He examined the club; “there is his mark . . . . see.” He pointed to the “A” inscribed with some artistry into the tough wood.

     As the coroner held the staff before me I inspected it closely and was troubled. Shillside saw my frown.

     “What perplexes you, Hugh?”

     “The staff is unmarked. Were I carrying such a weapon and a wolf set upon me I would flail it about to defend myself; perhaps hold it before me so the beast caught it in his teeth rather than my arm.”

     Shillside peered at the pole and turned it to view all sides. Its surface was smooth and unmarred. “Perhaps,” he said thoughtfully, “Alan swung it at the beast and lost his grip. See how polished smooth it is . . . . and it flew from his grasp to land here.”

     “That might be how it was,” I agreed, for I had no better explanation.

     As we returned to the path we saw the reeve approach with Bruce, the old horse who saw me about the countryside when I found it necessary to travel. He would be a calm and dignified platform on which to transport a corpse.

     We bent to lift Alan to Bruce’s back, John at the feet and Shillside and me at the shoulders. As we swung him up Alan’s head fell back. So much of his neck was shredded that it provided little support. I reached out a hand to steady the head and felt a thing which made my hackles rise.

     “Wait,” I said, rather sharply, for my companions started and gazed in wonder at me. “Set him back on the road.”

     I turned the beadle’s head and felt the place on the skull which had startled me. There was a soft lump on the skull, just behind Alan’s right ear. This swelling was invisible for the thick shock of hair which covered it. I spread the thatch and inspected Alan’s scalp, then showed my discovery to reeve and coroner.

     John Holcutt was silent, but Shillside, after running his fingers across the swelling looked at me and asked, “How could a wolf do this?”

Remember when

2010-04-20T06:41:00.001-06:00

"Men more frequently require to be reminded than informed."Samuel Johnson, prolific writer and lecturer, wrote that over 300 years ago. It's still true.

You see the same idea throughout the Bible as well. In the Old Testament, the feasts and festivals came about to remind the people of pivotal events in their history. Patriarchs built altars so that others would ask and the tales repeated.

Why? People forget.

Moses, in his final speech to the people of Israel before they entered the Promised Land, reminded them to care for those who couldn't care for themselves. Why? "The Lord your God redeemed you."

Although the Israelites had been slaves in Egypt, unable to care for themselves, God had set them free. God wanted them to give as they had been given. They had been given a free gift but they tended to forget.

And we do, too.

Peter wrote that "I will always remind you of these things, even though you know them and are firmly established in the truth you now have." (2 Peter 1:12)

What we know, we still forget. We need remembrances. And they can be found in the simplest places: church services, fellowship with believers, Bible studies, conferences, retreats. I knew a woman once who cut her hair to celebrate God's hand in her life. Another planted a tree.

All to remember. What will you do today to remember?

The Secret Holocaust Diaries

2010-04-12T08:00:00.001-06:00

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!

This is a valuable and interesting addition to the historical reports about the Holocaust. The editors did a nice job explaining without changing Nonna Bannister's report. If you're interesting in this time period - and about the Holocaust (and we cannot forget the lessons learned there) - this is an important resource.

Today's Wild Card author is:

Nonna Bannister

and the book:

The Secret Holocaust Diaries: The Untold Story of Nonna Bannister

Tyndale House Publishers (March 4, 2010)

***Special thanks to Vicky Lynch of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc. for sending me a review copy.***

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

Nonna Bannister was a young girl when World War II broke into her happy life. She went from an idyllic early-twentieth-century Russian childhood, full of love and comforts, to the life of a prisoner working in labor camps—though she was not a Jew—eventually bereft of her entire family. But she survived the war armed with the faith in God her grandmother taught her and a readiness to start a new life. She immigrated to America, married, and started a family, keeping her past secret from everyone. Though she had carried from Germany the scraps of a diary and various photographs and other memorabilia, she kept it all hidden and would only take it out, years later, to translate and expand her writings. After decades of marriage, Nonna finally shared her secret with her husband . . . and now he is sharing it with the world. Nonna died on August 15, 2004.

Visit the author's website.

Product Details:

List Price: $14.99
Paperback: 336 pages
Publisher: Tyndale House Publishers (March 4, 2010)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 1414325479
ISBN-13: 978-1414325477

AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:

Start Here by Alex and Brett Harris

2010-04-10T07:17:00.001-06:00

With two teenagers in my house, I am always looking for fresh resources to encourage them in their walk. The Harris brothers provide youthful encouragement to go beyond for the Lord. This book is a practical companion to their first and I recommend this resource. Teamed with Do Hard Things this book is a valuable tool as we disciple our young people.

Today's Wild Card authors are:

Alex and Brett Harris

and the book:

Start Here

Multnomah Books; 1 edition (March 16, 2010)

***Special thanks to Staci Carmichael of WaterBrook Multnomah Publishing Group for sending me a review copy.***

ABOUT THE AUTHORS:

Alex and Brett Harris are the coauthors of the best-selling book Do Hard Things, which they wrote when they were eighteen. Today, the twins speak regularly to audiences of thousands on The Rebelution Tour, maintain a large online community through their blog, TheRebelution.com, and have been featured on CNN, MSNBC, NPR, and in the New York Times. Raised in Portland, Oregon, the brothers currently attend Patrick Henry College in Virginia.

Visit the authors' website.

Product Details:

List Price: $12.99
Paperback: 176 pages
Publisher: Multnomah Books; 1 edition (March 16, 2010)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 1601422709
ISBN-13: 978-1601422705

AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:

YOU ARE HERE

Opening the door to your own rebelution

Simple ideas and unbelievable dreams. First steps and great miracles. Ordinary teenagers and a God who still uses young people to accomplish His big plans.

      That’s what our first book, Do Hard Things, is all about. Do Hard Things shows how young people can take hold of a more exciting option for their teen years than what society suggests. We wrote the book to counter the Myth of Adolescence, which says the teen years are a time to goof off and have fun before “real life” starts. We invited our peers to choose to do hard things for the glory of God and, in the process, turn the world’s idea of what teens are capable of upside down.

      We were nineteen when we wrote Do Hard Things, twin brothers who wanted to follow God’s call and challenge our generation. We’re twenty-one now and sophomores in college. We still dream big dreams, still want to follow God completely, and still believe just as strongly that God wants to use our generation to change the world. (And, as you might have guessed, we’re still twin brothers.)

      Whether or not you’ve read Do Hard Things (we’d recommend it—but, of course, we’re a little biased), this companion book continues the Do Hard Things message and piles on stories, practical suggestions, and detailed how-tos. You can use it either on your own or in a group setting, depending on your situation.

      In other words, Do Hard Things marked the beginning of a movement. Start Here is your personal field guide to jumping in and getting involved.

The Rebelution Movement

The concept of doing hard things actually started as a blog we created when we were sixteen. We called it The Rebelution—a combination of rebellion and revolution to create a whole new word with a whole new meaning. We defined rebelution as “a teenage rebellion against low expectations.” (By the way, the blog still exists. Check it out at TheRebelution.com.)

      Since Do Hard Things came out, the Rebelution movement has exploded. In the past year, rebelutionary teens have raised tens of thousands of dollars to bring the gospel to and dig wells in Africa, won prestigious film festivals, fought human trafficking in the United States and around the world, and made it on the cover of ESPN The Magazine. Around the world, young people are moving out of their comfort zones—whether that means standing for Christ in a hostile classroom, raising money to build a dormitory for orphans in China, or mending relationships with parents or younger siblings.

      Maybe you’re part of the Rebelution already, or maybe you just want to find out more. Maybe you’re asking one of the questions we get most frequently from readers: “Where do I start?”

      This book is about taking the next step. It includes ideas from us and dozens of other young people on topics like:

      • How to stand up for what you believe

• Strategies for overcoming stage fright, fund-raising fright, and phone-calling fright (hint: it gets easier as you go!)

      • Ways to get going when you feel stuck and keep going when you feel discouraged

      • How to understand God’s will and glorify Him through your efforts

      • God-honoring ways to think, feel, and act after you’ve completed a big project

      In short, this is a handbook full of practical steps and real-life stories to encourage and equip you on your journey of doing hard things. We want you to feel as if you’re at one of our conferences, or in a small group of people talking about doing hard things—which you may be!

      All the questions in the pages that follow come from people just like you, collected on our website and through personal conversations. We’ll do our best to answer them with stories and insights from our own lives. We’re traveling alongside you in this adventure—and we want to share with you what God has been teaching us these past few years.

      But just like Do Hard Things, this book isn’t about us. It’s about the incredible, seemingly impossible things God is doing in our generation. That’s why in Start Here you’ll find dozens of true stories from rebelutionaries who are making a difference in their homes, at their schools, and around the world. We love sharing other young people’s stories because they challenge us as well—and remind us that we’re not alone. We also love the way real-life stories provide a glimpse of the diverse ways God wants to use each of us to do hard things for Him.

      Toward the end of the book, we’ll be sharing the stories of two rebelutionaries in particular: Ana Zimmerman and John Moore. As you’ll see, Ana and John took on very different hard things, each with the purpose of glorifying God and helping others.

      At the age of fifteen, Ana raised more than six thousand dollars and organized an event called Love the Least in her hometown. The event introduced her community to the work of Abort73, an organization that exists to show the injustice of abortion.

      With a group of fellow teens, John Moore wrote, produced, and directed his own feature film at the age of nineteen—and went on to win the $101,000 grand prize at the San Antonio Independent Christian Film Festival.

      John and Ana faced many of the same hurdles and questions you’re encountering. Their stories provide an in-depth look at the beginning, middle, and end of the “do hard things” process. We think you’ll be encouraged and inspired.

Pursuing Faithfulness, Not Success

As thousands of young people around the world are discovering, doing hard things is the most satisfying, thrilling way to live some of the best years of our lives.

      So where do you start? As you’ll find in the pages that follow, the answer is: right where you are. Being a rebelutionary means committing to doing even ordinary things extraordinarily well.

As each of us is faithful in that, God will be faithful to prepare us for whatever calling He has for us.

      For some of us, that calling will be big in the world’s eyes, and for some of us it will be small. Whether it is big or small, God will be glorified—and the world will be changed by a generation that gives up seeking worldly success to pursue a life of faithfulness.

      That’s when the ordinary becomes extraordinary. And that’s what this book is about.

      Ready to start?

Deadly Disclosures by Julie Cave

2010-04-09T07:06:00.001-06:00

Today's Wild Card author is:

Julie Cave

and the book:

Deadly Disclosures

New Leaf Publishing Group/Master Books (February 15, 2010)

***Special thanks to Stacey Drake of New Leaf Press for sending me a review copy.***

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

Julie first heard a creation science speaker at her church when she was just 15, igniting her interest in creation science and sparking an enthusiasm for defending the Bible’s account of creation. She has obtained a degree in health science, and is currently completing a degree in law. Julie is married with one daughter and lives on the east coast of Australia.

Visit the author's website.

Product Details:

List Price: $9.99
Paperback: 288 pages
Publisher: New Leaf Publishing Group/Master Books (February 15, 2010)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 0890515840
ISBN-13: 978-0890515846

AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:

Thomas Whitfield climbed out of the Lincoln Towncar and stood in the snappy, early morning fall air, breathing deeply. The temperature had fallen a few more degrees overnight, signaling that winter was truly on its way.

   Thomas glanced up and down the wide street. There was nobody around at this early hour, and he took a moment to drink in the sights of his beloved city. The graceful willows, their branches arching over the street, were turning gold and red and, in the gentle yellow morning light, threw off highlights like burnished copper. This street was like many others in the center of DC — wide and tree-lined, with magnificent government buildings standing one after the other. That was another thing that Thomas found so delicious about this city — so much of it hinted at the enormous wealth and prosperity of the country, and yet only a few streets behind these world-famous landmarks, the seedier side of American poverty flourished. It was a city of contradictions, Thomas thought.

   His gaze fell finally to the building right in front of him — the main complex of the Smithsonian Institution. Enormous stone pillars flanked the entryway into a marble lobby, and behind that were laid out the evidence of mankind’s brilliance. Everything about the institution was testament to the scientific and anthropological advances of man over the pages of history — the inventions, the discoveries, the deductions, the sheer radiance of a human being’s intelligence at its finest.

   Thomas Whitfield had always been immensely proud of this place, and everything it showcased. He had boasted about it, defended it, nourished it, and protected it, the way a proud father would his prodigious child.

   He was the secretary of the Smithsonian, after all, and he felt a strange kind of paternal relationship with the buildings and their contents.

   He stood for a moment longer, a slender whippet of a man dressed immaculately, with highly polished shoes gleaming, thinning dark hair cut short, and a gray cashmere scarf to ward off the cold. Then he purposefully strode down the path and into the main building, scarf fluttering behind him.

   To the malevolent eyes watching him through high-powered binoculars down the street in a non-descript Chevy, he presented a painfully easy target.

   Thomas settled in his large office with the door shut, turned on the computer, and shut his eyes briefly as he contemplated what he would do next. The course of events he had planned for this day would change everything, and the impact would be felt right up to the president himself. Courage, Thomas, he told himself silently. What you are about to do is the right thing to do.

   He began to type, slowly and decisively, feeling within himself a great sense of conviction and purpose. He was so lost in concentration that he was startled by the door suddenly swinging open.

   “What are . . . ?” he exclaimed, almost jumping off his seat. Then he recognized his visitor and he glanced at his watch.

   “What are you doing here?” Thomas asked. “It’s a little early for you, isn’t it?”

   “I wanted to be sure I caught you,” his visitor replied, moving closer to the desk. “Without any interruptions.”

   “I see. What can I do for you then?” Thomas asked, trying to hide his irritation. He hadn’t wanted to be interrupted during this most important task.

   “What are you working on?” the unannounced guest asked, ignoring him and moving around the side of the desk and trying to look at Thomas’s computer screen.

   “Oh, it’s nothing,” Thomas answered with a falsely airy tone. “It’s just a family project. Nothing to do with work. Is there something I can help you with?”

   Thomas was suddenly aware that his visitor was standing close by him. He felt uncomfortable, and tried to roll his chair away to maintain some space.

   “You see,” his visitor said in a quiet voice, “there are people out there who don’t agree with you. They think the project you are working on could be very dangerous. In fact, I believe they have already tried to warn you about continuing with this project.”

   Thomas now felt distinctly uncomfortable and a little afraid. He decided to assert his authority. “Listen here,” he said, in a voice that betrayed his anxiety. “What I am working on is none of your business. The subject is certainly not up for discussion with somebody like you. I suggest you leave my office immediately.”

   The visitor managed to fuse sorrow and menace into his words as he said, “I’m afraid I can’t do that. You will have to come with me.”

   Thomas retorted, “I’m not going anywhere with you. In fact, I. . . .” He broke off abruptly as he saw the small handgun in the visitor’s hand, pointing directly at him. There was no sorrow or pity on his face — only menace.

   “Do I need to force you to come with me?” the visitor wondered, his tone like flint.

   Thomas leapt to his feet, his eyes darting about wildly. He needed to get out of here, to try to get away from this situation that had so rapidly gotten out of hand. A hand shot out and grabbed Thomas by the collar with surprising strength. Thomas was shocked as he strained to get away from the man, who was intently staring at the computer screen.

   “You traitor!” Thomas spat. “I should’ve known you were nothing more than a trained monkey!”

   The visitor chuckled heartily. “That’s ironic, Thomas.”

   The visitor, much younger and stronger than Thomas, began to drag him out of the room. Thomas was determined not to go down without a fight, and drove his heel backward into the visitor’s shin. There was a yelp of pain, but the unrelenting grip did not lessen around Thomas’s arm. Instead, a thick arm curled around Thomas’s throat and squeezed, applying pressure to the carotid artery. It took only a few seconds for Thomas to fall limply into the arms of his abductor as the blood supply to his brain was cut off.

   That was the last anyone saw of the secretary of the Smithsonian Institute.

• • • •

   Dinah Harris woke with a scream dying in her throat, the sheets twisted hopelessly around her legs. Her nightgown was damp with panicked sweat, her heart galloping like a runaway horse. She stared, blinking, at the pale dawn light streaming through the window, while the shadowy vestiges of her nightmare slithered from her memory.

   As she lay in bed, joining the waking world from sleep, the familiar blanket of depression settled over her, dark and heavy as the Atlantic winter. The dread she felt at facing another day was almost palpable in the small bedroom. Dinah glanced across at her alarm clock, where the flashing numbers showed 6 a.m.

   She threw aside the sheets and stumbled into the tiny bathroom, where she purposefully avoided looking at herself in the mirror. She was only in her mid-thirties and had once been relatively attractive. Certainly not beautiful, but with what her first boyfriend had once told her — a pleasant face and athletic body. Now her eyes were always underscored by dark bags, her skin pale and paper-thin, and the weight fell off her in slow degrees without ceasing. She dressed in her trademark dark pants suit, pulled her black hair from her face in a severe ponytail, and washed her face.

   She made strong coffee and sat in the kitchen as she drank the bitter liquid. The dining alcove was still stacked with moving cartons, filled with books and music that she couldn’t face opening. The gray light of morning lent no color to the apartment, which suited Dinah just fine. Her world didn’t contain color anymore.

   Though traffic often seemed at a standstill in the mornings, Dinah always arrived early to the J. Edgar Hoover building. She turned directly to the teaching wing, avoiding the eye contact and morning greetings of many she knew in the building. She knew what they whispered about during after-work drinks and at the water cooler. Her fall from grace would go down as one of the most spectacular in FBI history.

   So she kept up the ice-cool veneer until she arrived at her desk, checking her e-mails and teaching schedule for the week.

   She didn’t look up as an imposing shadow fell across her desk.

   “Special Agent Harris, how are you?” boomed the voice of her former colleague, David Ferguson. He was a big man, six-four and two hundred pounds, with a loud, booming voice and a penchant for pork rinds. He stood above her, his hand resting easily on the holstered gun at his hip; the twin of a gun Dinah no longer wore but kept underneath her pillow.

   “Ferguson,” she replied. “Fine, how are you?”

   “Feel like a coffee?” he asked.

   “Don’t you have a killer to catch?” Dinah asked, dryly.

   He waved his hand dismissively. “Oh, they can wait. Come on.”

   He took her to a tiny Italian café a block away from the FBI headquarters. While they ordered, Dinah wondered at his ulterior motive for bringing her here. It certainly isn’t for my sparkling wit and charm, she thought. Rumor had it that the freshman criminology classes were afraid of her.

   “So I’m just wondering if I could get your opinion on something,” Ferguson began, tentatively testing the water.

   She scowled at him. “You know I don’t get involved in cases.”

   He held up his hands in mock surrender. “Okay, calm down, Harris. I just want your opinion. I know you’ve given up your real talents to teach some snotty freshmen.”

   His comment stung her, but she narrowed her eyes at him and pretended she hadn’t even noticed. “So get on with it already.”

   “I don’t remember you always being this prickly,” complained Ferguson, draining his macchiato. “Anyway. What would you say if I told you the secretary of the Smithsonian Institution had gone missing?”

   “Missing?” Dinah raised her eyebrows and slurped her latte. “In what context?”

   “As in, turned up for work at six this morning and disappeared off the face of the earth shortly thereafter.”

   “How do you know he turned up for work at six?” Dinah asked.

   “Security cameras have him arriving in the lobby and heading for his office. After that, who knows?”

   “So he’s an adult, maybe he took a trip to get away from work stress or his wife has been giving him grief or his kid is in trouble.” Dinah frowned. “Why are we even involved at this early stage?”

   Ferguson paused. “It’s due mostly to his rather prestigious position. It wouldn’t do for the secretary of the Smithsonian to simply disappear. Congress is rather anxious.”

   Dinah knew of political influence that ran high in this city but didn’t press the issue. “Is there evidence of homicide?”

   “Not really, although I haven’t been to his office yet.” Ferguson made it sound like a confession, and he looked at her sheepishly.

   Dinah stared at him. “What do you really want, Ferguson?”

   He gathered up his courage. “I need you to work this case with me, Harris.”

   Dinah opened her mouth to respond indignantly, but Ferguson held up his hand and continued with a rush. “You know I’m not good with sensitive cases. I. . . .”

   “Or complex ones,” interjected Dinah, bad-temperedly.

   “I’m operating on a hunch that this is a bad case, that it involves people in the White House.” Ferguson must have needed her very badly to allow her comment to go unheeded.

   “Well, I’m sorry, but I have a heavy teaching workload,” she said. “So I’ll have to limit my involvement to opinions only.”

   Ferguson didn’t say anything but looked even guiltier.

   “What have you done?” Dinah demanded.

   “I may have cleared your schedule so you could work with me.” Ferguson examined his fingernails with great concentration.

   Dinah waited for a beat. “I see. You’ve spoken to my superiors?”

   He nodded. “They’ve agreed to lend you to me for as long as the case takes.”

   Dinah stood abruptly. “Thanks for the coffee.” She walked angrily from the café.

   Ferguson stared at her as she walked off, then slapped down some crumpled notes and heaved his bulk out of the chair. “Where are you going?” Ferguson asked, struggling to keep up with her.

   She wheeled around and glared directly at him. “Who do you think you are? Do you think I’m lesser than you so you can sneak around behind my back?”

   “Dinah, we really need you back in the field. You were — are — brilliant.” Ferguson spoke softly, hoping to calm her down.

   “My field days are behind me, with very good reason,” snapped Dinah. I can’t see a dead body anymore. I can’t feel desire to catch the person who did it. I just want to lie down beside the body and feel the same endless peace of sleep.

   “Please, I’m begging you. I need you back,” Ferguson said. Then it hit her. Dinah realized that this situation was very serious. Ferguson was the last person on the planet to beg anybody.

   “I don’t really have a choice, do I?” she said dully. She knew that this case could break her.

   Ferguson didn’t reply, and his answer was in his silence.

• • • •

   The Smithsonian Institution was bustling with tourists and school kids as if nothing had gone wrong. Dinah and David strode into the main lobby, trying unsuccessfully to look casual. When they flashed their badges discreetly, they were allowed into the inner sanctum, where Thomas Whitfield’s personal assistant was fielding phone calls.

   The secretary was young and pretty, with thick, dark hair waving gracefully to her shoulders, startlingly blue eyes, and a creamy olive complexion. Her only downfall was the thick eye makeup, applied to make her eyes stand out but which had the effect of making her look like a scared raccoon. “I’m afraid Mr. Whitfield simply cannot be interrupted at present,” she snapped into the phone. “I’ll have him call you back if you’d leave a message.”

   She glanced up and saw the two agents standing at her desk. She gave them a wave to acknowledge their presence, repeated the details of the caller, scribbled furiously, and then hung up.

   “Good morning,” she said, jumping to her feet. “If you caught the end of that conversation, you’ll know that Mr. Whitfield is in an extremely important meeting and. . . .”

   “Save it,” interrupted Dinah, showing the secretary her badge. The young woman blushed. “We’re here to investigate the disappearance of Mr. Whitfield. What is your name?”

   The secretary sat down hard, looking relieved. “I’m Lara Southall. I’m so worried about Mr. Whitfield.”

   Ferguson flashed his partner a frown and took charge. “I’m Special Agent David Ferguson and this is Special Agent Dinah Harris. You’ll have to excuse her; she’s been out of the field for some time and has forgotten how to relate to people.”

   Dinah opened her mouth to reply with outrage, but Ferguson continued, “Can you tell us about this morning?”

   Lara Southall regarded Dinah with a mixture of amusement and fear, which Dinah filed away for future reference. “I got to work at eight o’clock as usual,” she replied. “Mr. Whitfield always arrives before me. I usually turn on my computer, get settled, and then get us both a coffee. When I opened his office door to give him the coffee, the room was empty.” As the girl spoke, she tapped perfectly manicured fingernails together absently. Dinah hated manicured fingernails: they reminded her of her distinctly unattractive, chewed-to-the-quick fingertips.

   “Mr. Whitfield was due to give a presentation at eleven o’clock,” Lara continued. “So I didn’t really start worrying until about ten-thirty. He hates to be late, and he had to come back to get his presentation and make it uptown in less than half an hour. At eleven, I started to make some calls.”

   “Has he ever been absent from the office before?” Ferguson asked.

   “Sure, he often has meetings or goes out into the museum to talk to visitors. The thing is, I always know what he’s doing. That’s part of my job. He never goes anywhere during the day without letting me know.”

   “So you started making calls at eleven. Who did you call?” Dinah asked impatiently.

   Lara ticked off her fingers as she remembered. “I called his cell phone, and I called the other museums. I thought maybe he’d just forgotten to tell me he had a meeting. Nobody had seen him and his cell just rang out. So I called his home. His wife told me he’d left for work at about five-thirty and she hadn’t seen him since. Then I called some of the senior executives. I thought they might’ve had an emergency. But nobody had seen him.”

   “Did the people you called — his wife, the executives — seem concerned about his whereabouts?” Ferguson asked.

   “Yes, they did. It’s so unusual for Mr. Whitfield to act this way that everyone I spoke to was concerned. I think his wife is actually here somewhere at the moment.”

   “So then you called the police?” Dinah said.

   “No, one of the directors came over to look at the security tapes. She specifically told me not to call anyone until she’d viewed the footage. I thought that Mr. Whitfield might’ve had an accident on the way to work. Mrs. Whitfield was calling the hospitals when Ms. Biscelli — the director — came back from security.”

   “What did the tapes show?” Dinah asked.

   “They showed him arriving at six-thirty or so. That’s all I know.”

   “Did any of the tapes show him leaving?”

   “Not as far as I know.”

   “Right. So what then?”

   “I called the police.”

   Ferguson nodded. “What did they tell you?”

   “Basically they won’t do anything until he’s been missing 24 hours.” Lara stopped clicking her nails together and started twisting her hair with one finger. “So I told Ms. Biscelli, and she wasn’t happy with that. I think she must’ve pulled some strings, because here you are.”

   Dinah and Ferguson both raised their eyebrows at her in confusion.

   “The FBI,” explained Lara. “You guys wouldn’t normally get involved, would you?” She may have been a very pretty secretary, but Lara Southall was an intelligent girl. She’d asked the very question Dinah had been mulling over all morning.

   “We’re going to look in his office,” Ferguson said, ignoring the question. He handed her his card. “Please call me if you think of anything else that might be helpful.”

   She nodded and picked up the ringing phone. “No,” she said, sounding very weary. “Mr. Whitfield is in a meeting at the moment and can’t be disturbed.”

• • • •

   Ferguson opened the door to the office while Dinah waited to get the log-on details for Thomas Whitfield’s computer. Dinah stood in the doorway, looking into the impressive room, and felt the thrill of the chase wash over her like a wave. It had been a long time since she had felt anything.

   The office was furnished with heavy cedar furniture that consisted of a large desk, a leather-bound chair, a couch, and two armchairs grouped around a glass-topped coffee table and one entire wall of built-in bookcases. The floor was covered with thick burgundy carpet, and the drapes at the picture window were also burgundy. The walls contained portraits of several great scientists and inventors — Dinah recognized Charles Darwin, Thomas Edison, and the Wright Brothers — as well as photos of the secretary with the president, the queen of England, and other dignitaries. The room itself was clean and uncluttered, likely symbolic of the man himself, Dinah thought.

   Ferguson was moving around the room, muttering to himself, as was his habit. Dinah had forgotten how intensely annoying she found this habit. She preferred silence so that she could concentrate.

   Having received the log-on details from Lara, Dinah strode to the desk and pulled on her latex gloves. The top of the desk was shiny and would be a great medium to obtain fingerprints. She was careful not to allow herself to touch the desktop while she turned on the laptop.

   “By the way, Harris,” Ferguson said from the wall of bookcases, “I forgot to mention that if something has happened to Mr. Whitfield, the media scrutiny is likely to be intense.”

   Dinah scowled at the screen of the laptop. She hated the media, and it was a long-term grudge she held from the last case she’d been involved in. “You can handle it,” she said. “I want nothing to do with those vultures.”

   Ferguson glanced over at her. “Of course I’ll handle it. But I can’t guarantee that they’ll leave you alone.”

   Dinah tapped her foot against the leg of the desk impatiently as the laptop struggled to come to life. “Sticks and stones, Ferguson,” she said tightly. “Words can never hurt me.”

   She could see that Ferguson didn’t buy the lie, but he’d decided to let it go. He at least knew not to push too far.

   “This whole office is giving me a weird vibe,” he said after a moment. “It’s too . . . organized.”

   Dinah logged onto the laptop. “I’m listening.”

   “Look at the desk,” Ferguson mused. “No files or paperwork. Not even a pen or a Post-It note. No diary.”

   “Maybe he’s just really neat,” Dinah said, opening Outlook on the laptop.

   Ferguson went back to his muttering as he continued drifting around the room. Dinah frowned as she clicked through the folders in Outlook. Then she opened the other programs on the computer and looked through the folders there.

   “That’s odd,” she commented at last. Ferguson looked up and came over to her.

   She clicked through the inbox, sent items, and calendar of the e-mail program. There were no entries in any of them. “They’re completely clean,” she said. “The calendar is the strangest. You’d think the secretary of the Smithsonian Institution would have at least a couple of meetings a week.”

   “Maybe he uses a paper diary,” suggested Ferguson.

   “Certainly a possibility,” agreed Dinah. “But couple the empty calendar with the fact that he’s neither received nor sent an e-mail from this computer and something isn’t right.”

   Ferguson opened the desk drawers and started looking through them.

   “Also,” added Dinah, “there is not one single saved document in any other program — no letters, articles, presentations, anything. The entire computer is as if it’s never been used.”

   Ferguson sat back on his heels. “You think someone has wiped his computer?”

   “Well, the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question is: did Thomas Whitfield wipe his own computer before disappearing or did someone else wipe his computer before abducting him?” Dinah began to shut down the programs. “After all, there is no evidence to suggest that he has been abducted. There’s no sign of a struggle in here or blood stains, is there?”

   Ferguson shook his head. “No, there isn’t. But there is something off about this office. Nobody, least of all a man in his position, can get through a working day without sending an e-mail or doing paperwork of some kind.” He gestured at the desk drawers. “There’s absolutely nothing in them.”

   “I agree,” Dinah said. She closed the laptop and picked it up. “I’m going to have the lab look at the hard drive. What else?”

   “I’ll call in crime scene to lift some fingerprints and check for blood.” Ferguson paused, thinking. “I’d like to talk to Ms. Biscelli, and I’d like to talk to his wife.”

   Dinah nodded. “If Mr. Whitfield has been abducted, what do you suppose is the motive?”

   Ferguson considered. “I don’t know. Money? Fame? Half the time I think these loonies go around killing people just so they can get their name in the news.”

   Dinah stared at him. “Do you think Thomas Whitfield is dead?”

   He shrugged. “Right now, Harris, I know nine-tenths of absolutely nothing. Let’s talk to Ms. Biscelli. Maybe she’ll know what happened and we can solve this case before dinner time and I’ll get a decent night’s sleep.”

   Flippancy, Dinah remembered, was just Ferguson’s way of dealing with the intensity of this job and the horror they’d witnessed over the years.

Rain water

2010-04-07T06:50:00.001-06:00

Outside my window, a farmer sliced open his field with plow and disk, preparing the ground for seed. This seems no place to grow crops. We average 12 inches of rain a year in this high desert of Colorado.

Yet, because of the magic of irrigation, corn and wheat abound. During the heat of July, the corn soaks in the sun's rays – necessary to produce rapid growth – while drinking in cool water flooding the field.

It reminds me a little of the situation in ancient Egypt, when the Israelites served as slaves for 400 years. As Moses reminded his people in Deuteronomy, the land of Egypt was watered by irrigation from the Nile River.

But, he cautioned, "the land that you are about to enter to occupy is not like the land of Egypt, from which you have come, where you sow your seed and irrigate by foot like a vegetable garden" (Deut 11:1)

The new land wasn't that way. These people were used to doing what was needed to get their food. But in this new land, they would have to depend on rain from the sky.

Moses put it differently. They were going to "a land that the Lord your God looks after." (Deut 11:12a)

I've lived in areas where farmers depended on rain only for their crops. Now I live in a place where they can use irrigation.

It's easy to depend on lakes and canal systems and wells when you use irrigation. It's easy to depend on your own resources and inventiveness.

God took his people to a place where they were dependent on his hand.

The Israelites had learned the religion and ways of Egypt after living there for 400 years. Now, God was teaching them his ways. And what better way than taking them into a land where the harvest depended on rain from God?

Sometimes we, too, prefer the irrigation system because we depend on ourselves. But when God takes us to places where we are dependent on his hand, we walk into that land that God looks after.

"The eyes of the Lord your God are always on it, from the beginning of the year to the end of the year." (Deut 11:12)

End of the Beginning

2010-04-03T21:00:00.000-06:00

A reminder on Easter:

Storylines

2010-03-29T06:26:00.000-06:00

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!

If you work with youth, this is a new resource to offer them. Writtenwith lively, humorous text, this book gives a simple overview of biblical stories - and reveals purpose and application. It's a good resource.

Today's Wild Card author is:

Mike Pilavachi

and

Andy Croft

and the book:

Storylines: Your Map to Understanding the Bible

David C. Cook; New edition (March 1, 2010)

***Special thanks to Audra Jennings - Senior Media Specialist - of The B&B Media Group for sending me a review copy.***

ABOUT THE AUTHORS:

Mike Pilavachi is the founder and public face of the U.K.’s biggest Christian youth event, Soul Survivor (25,000 annual attendance), and senior pastor of the Soul Survivor church in Watford, North London. He is the author of Live the Life, For the Audience of One, Wasteland?: Encountering God in the Desert, and Worship, Evangelism, Justice.

Visit the Mike's MySpace.

Andy Croft is a young twenty-something who has just been awarded a First Class Theology degree from Cambridge University. He is due to be the next leader of Soul Survivor.

Visit the authors' Website.

Product Details:

List Price: $12.99
Paperback: 208 pages
Publisher: David C. Cook; New edition (March 1, 2010)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 1434764753
ISBN-13: 978-1434764751

AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:

The Jesus Storyline

Years ago, when I was in my teens and Mike was having his first midlife crisis, a series of very popular picture books came out. Perhaps you remember them: They were called Where’s Waldo? The basic idea was you would look at a big picture that would tell a story; there’d be loads of characters in it and tons of stuff going on. Waldo (a little bloke in a red-and-white shirt) was hiding somewhere in the picture. Sometimes he’d be up a tree, sometimes under water, sometimes he’d be in a massive crowd, often he’d be peering out from behind a corner, and almost always he’d be hidden from plain view. The challenge was to find him hidden in the story the picture told.

Two thousand years ago Jesus said to a bunch of Pharisees, “Where’s Waldo?” But he said it like this, “You diligently study the Scriptures because you think that by them you possess eternal life.

These are the Scriptures that testify about me, yet you refuse to come to me to have life” (John 5:39–40). Jesus wasn’t talking about the New Testament, because his biography hadn’t been written yet, so he must have been talking about the Old Testament. But how could he have been? Everyone knows the Old Testament was about Israel and Moses, David, Abraham, Joshua, and others. Did Jesus get this one wrong? Had he eaten a rotten fig for breakfast? Or …have we all been missing something? Could it be possible that, like Waldo in the picture books, Jesus appears hidden all over the Old Testament?

You probably already know that Jesus is all over the Bible; in the Old Testament he’s concealed, in the New Testament he’s revealed. Finding Jesus in the Old Testament is not just a game, like finding Waldo. It’s more like a treasure hunt, and it brings the story of God to life in a whole new way. Throughout the Old Testament we see strong hints, images, and prophecies about Jesus. In the New Testament those hints, images, and prophecies are unveiled; the curtain is ripped apart, from top to bottom, to reveal the star of the whole show. Let’s go on a journey together to find Jesus in the crowd of Old Testament heroes.

Noah

The LORD saw how great man’s wickedness on the earth had become, and that every inclination of the thoughts of his heart was only evil all the time. The LORD was grieved that he had made man on the earth, and his heart was filled with pain. So the LORD said, “I will wipe mankind, whom I have created, from the face of the earth—men and animals, and creatures that move along the ground, and birds of the air—for I am grieved that I have made them.” But Noah found favor in the eyes of the LORD. (Gen. 6:5–8)

The human race was so messed up there was no way to straighten it out. God decided to bring a flood and wipe out every creature. There was just one problem. Noah.

Noah and God were friends, and Noah was a righteous man. To destroy every living creature would have meant the unjust of killing his friend. God longed to save Noah, and so he commanded him to build a massive ark. We’ve been to the Middle East, and in case you hadn’t realized, it’s a desert! Despite how stupid he looked, Noah obeyed God to the point of humiliation. But it meant that, when the rains hit, Noah was saved. What’s more, his whole family came with him. Why was Noah’s family saved? Were they righteous? No. Noah

was the only righteous one around, but because they were attached to him, his family got to come along!

The first hero of the Old Testament is our first signpost to Jesus. The flood didn’t solve the problem of humanity’s wickedness. God’s righteous judgment is still that humanity deserves to die in its wickedness and be cut off from him forever. However, God has found one totally righteous man, even more righteous than Noah. This righteous man obeyed God to the point of utter humiliation, dying on a cross. What’s more, all the unrighteous people who attach themselves to him are saved. After the flood a rainbow was the sign of God’s promises; today it is the cross. All who shelter in Jesus, the ark of salvation, are not wiped out but given eternal life. Sometimes when we read about the cross, it can seem mysterious—something that’s difficult to get our heads around. Discovering things like this throughout the Old Testament on one level helps us to understand it better—the patterns of salvation often reoccur. But on another level it speaks of the wonder and increases the mystery. Thousands of years before the birth of Jesus, God was carefully laying out the foundations for his master plan …

Abraham and Isaac

Several chapters later in Genesis, we come across a strange scene. In Genesis 22 we find an old man holding a knife over the chest of a young boy he’s about to sacrifice. Years ago God had promised the old man that he would have a son, and after an age of waiting, Isaac was born. The baby became a boy, and Abraham loved him dearly. It was at that point God said to Abraham, “Take your son, your only son, Isaac, whom you love, and go to the region of Moriah. Sacrifice him there as a burnt offering on one of the mountains I will tell you about” (Gen. 22:2).

How could God command someone to sacrifice his own son? And yet—“For God so loved the world that he gave his one and only Son …” (John 3:16). The words of John, describing God’s giving of his beloved Son, deliberately echo those of Genesis 22:2. God asked no more of Abraham than God himself was willing to give. God gave up his only Son, whom he loved, completely out of choice and love for us.

The old man obeyed God: “Early the next morning Abraham got up and saddled his donkey” (Gen. 22:3). Father, son, and donkey headed to the region of Moriah. When Mike and I visited Israel, we were amazed to discover that the region of Moriah is where, hundreds of years after Abraham, Jerusalem was built! And so when we read about Jesus entering Jerusalem riding on a donkey, we’re reading about another father, another son, and another donkey riding into

exactly the same area Abraham had been told to head to. In little, subtle ways—ways that we wouldn’t notice unless we looked for them—God is laying down hints in the Old Testament of the plans he has for his Son in the New Testament.

When Abraham and Isaac arrived, we read that the father placed the wood for the sacrifice on the back of his son: “Abraham took the wood for the burnt offering and placed it on his son Isaac, and he himself carried the fire and the knife” (Gen. 22:6). Isaac then carried the wood for his own sacrifice up a hill in the region of Moriah. Isn’t this amazing? Centuries later,the Father placed the cross, the wood for the sacrifice, on the back of his Son. Jesus then carried the wood for his own sacrifice up a hill in the region of Moriah.

Upon reaching the top of the hill, Isaac said to Abraham, “The fire and wood are here … but where is the lamb for the burnt offering?” (Gen. 22: 7). “Abraham answered, ‘God himself will provide the lamb for the burnt offering, my son’” (Gen. 22:8). Abraham then tied his son to the wood and was about to kill him when the Lord cried for him to stop. God told Abraham to sacrifice a ram he saw caught in a hedge. Rejoicing, Abraham took it and sacrificed it in the place of his son. “So Abraham called that place The LORD Will Provide. And to this day it is said, ‘On the mountain of the LORD it will be provided’”(Gen. 22:14). Two thousand years later

on a mountain in the region of Moriah, the Lord did provide. He provided not a ram but a lamb for the offering … the Lamb of God. He is “my Son, whom I love; with you I am well pleased” (Luke 3:22). This provision of Jesus for us was something God had planned and intended from the beginning, before any of us were born. The storyline of Jesus running through the life of Abraham and Isaac shows us that even before most of the people in the Old Testament had been born, God knew what was going to happen, and he knew what it was going to cost him. He knew what you were going to cost—and then he went ahead anyway.

Joseph

So we move on to Joseph. Jesus is everywhere in his story. God’s plan from the beginning, revealed to Joseph in his dreams (Gen. 37), was that he would achieve a high status and bring blessing and salvation to many others through that ruling status. Jesus was born to rule. He

was born to be King, and because of his kingship many would find salvation.

Joseph’s brothers became jealous and did what many of us want to do with our siblings: They sold him into slavery. Joseph was sold to merchants for twenty pieces of silver. Years later Jesus was sold to the Jewish leaders for thirty pieces of silver. Just think—if only it had been the same price, it would have been a perfect parallel … what a shame … But wait! The Bible tells us that Joseph was sold for the going price of a slave in 1900 BC and Jesus for the going price of a

slave in AD 30. The price had gone up, but God had accounted for inflation!

Joseph was eventually sold to Potiphar, a high official in Egypt, and soon became his right-hand man. Mrs. Potiphar tried to seduce Joseph. She was very subtle—“Come to bed with me!” she begged. “No way, José!” Joseph replied, and when Mrs. Potiphar came in one door, he ran out the other. Jesus was tempted in the desert by the Devil. The Devil offered him all the kingdoms of the world if only Jesus would bow down and worship him. In response to the Devil’s seduction, Jesus said, “Get lost!” (or words to that effect). By not sleeping with Potiphar’s wife, Joseph resisted abusing the power his master had given him; by not “getting into bed” with the Devil, Jesus refused to abuse the power God had given him.

Mrs. Potiphar accused Joseph of a crime he did not commit. He was unjustly sentenced and thrown into the deepest dungeon. Jesus, years later, was accused of crimes he did not commit and was unjustly sentenced. While Joseph was serving his sentence, two criminals came to join him. Years later, while Jesus was serving his sentence on the cross, two criminals joined him. You can read in Genesis 40 about how Joseph, through the interpretation of a dream, spoke words of life to one of those criminals. Joseph promised he would be saved, and the criminal was later released. You can also read in Luke 23 about how, as he was dying between two criminals, Jesus spoke words of life to one. Jesus promised he would be saved, and we can be sure that criminal is now with Jesus in paradise.

Joseph was eventually released from prison. From the lowest pits of jail, he became Pharaoh’s prime minister, the highest position in Egypt. He named his second son Ephraim (meaning “fruitful”) and said, “God has made me fruitful in the land of my suffering” (Gen. 41:52). Egypt was an alien land that was not his home. When God became man, he was born into an alien land that was not his home, and yet it was in this land of suffering that God made Jesus fruitful. He was raised up from the lowest point—death—and is now seated at the right hand of God.

Famine struck the whole area, and Joseph’s brothers came to Egypt to buy food. They were reunited with Joseph, the brother they’d sold into a life of slavery. Instead of having them killed, Joseph forgave them, assuring them, “You intended to harm me, but God intended it for good to accomplish what is now being done, the saving of many lives” (Gen. 50:20). He went on to save the lives of all his brothers, of those who had sinned against him. He brought them from a place of famine and death to one of abundant life.

The Jewish religious leaders, Pilate, and the Roman soldiers—as our representatives—accomplished what they intended in harming Jesus to the point of death on the cross. Jesus, as he was dying, cried out, “Father, forgive them” (Luke 23:34). We, the human race, meant the death of Jesus for harm, but God meant it for good. He intended it to accomplish what is now being fulfilled, a passage from certain death to abundant life, the saving of many lives.

Isn’t this incredible? Joseph was born to be a ruler, he was sold into slavery, he was severely tempted, he went through great suffering, he predicted the salvation of one he suffered with, he was raised up again by God, he forgave those who’d sinned against him, and he declared it had happened that many might be saved.

Jesus’ storyline is central to the story of the Bible, and it runs like a bullet through the story of Joseph. This is more than just an amazing biblical parallel—it carries with it a message for us today. Ever felt insecure about God’s love? Ever been a little unsure as to whether or not he’ll bring about what he’s promised? Ever messed it up and thought, “It’s been one too many; God’s probably going to quit on me this time”? We can draw deep confidence from the fact that God planned his death on the cross. The way that Joseph’s life prophesies Jesus’ shows in an incredible way that God always thought we were going to be worth it—his decision to come to earth wasn’t a last-minute afterthought. John’s gospel tells us that Jesus is from “the beginning,” and Joseph’s story backs that up—he is from the beginning, and he was always going to bring about the ending. This picture is yet another guarantee to our hearts of the love God has—and has always had—for us.

Moses

Hundreds of years later the descendants of Joseph and his brothers had undergone a population explosion. They were now the people of Israel and were being used and abused as slaves by the Egyptians.

God heard the cry of those he loved, now slaves to Pharaoh, and through Moses he set out to do something about it. We read that, at the start of Exodus (chapter 3), the Lord revealed himself to Moses and commanded him to go and save the Israelites. Before he went anywhere, Moses wanted to know who this burning bush of a God was: “Who shall I say has sent me?” he asked. God replied, “I am who I am. This is what you are to say to the Israelites: ‘I AM has sent me to you’” (Ex. 3:14). God’s name was “I AM.”

Also, Moses was understandably a bit nervous about taking on Egypt single-handedly, and he asked God, “Who am I, that I should go?” This time God ignored his question. He didn’t say “You’re Moses, kung fu champion!” He just replied, “I will be with you” (Ex. 3:12). The only thing Moses needed to know on this account was that God had his back.

So God’s rescue operation for a people who were suffering as slaves involved one man. The reason this one man was going to save anyone was because God was with him. Who was this God that was with him? I AM.

Hundreds of years later God again heard the cry of those he loved who were slaves to sin, and through Jesus he set out to do something about it. Moses had asked the God of the burning

bush who he was. The Pharisees asked Jesus, “Who do you think you are?” (John 8:53). Amazingly Jesus said in response, “‘Before Abraham was born, I am!’ At this, they picked up stones to stone him …” (8:58–59). Some of the Jews responded with outrage; they wanted to kill Jesus. Why? Because he was claiming to be God. When they asked him who he was, he told them he was I AM. The God I AM went with Moses to save a people; the God I AM came in

person to save a world. One of Jesus’ titles is Emmanuel. It means “God with us.”

Moses confronted the evil powers of Egypt, defeated them—and Pharaoh released Israel. They started the hike out of Egypt, but before long Pharaoh changed his mind; he sent everything he had after them. If we pick up the trail in Exodus 14, we find Israel trapped. In front of them lay the Red Sea, and behind them the Egyptian army was closing in. They had no options. Then God told Moses to raise his staff out over the waves of the Red Sea. Moses obeyed, and the waters parted. Through Moses’ actions a way to freedom and life opened up—Israel now had one option! They passed through the waters and passed from death to life.

In front of all of us lies death; in and around all of us is the evil of this age. Do we have any options? Miraculously God provided an option for all who are trapped. Jesus defeated the evil power of this age (Satan); he conquered sin and death. Through Jesus’ actions a way to freedom and life has opened up. We now have one option! In following Jesus we can be saved. Like the Israelites following Moses, on our journey we, too, pass through water in our crossing from

death to life: “I tell you the truth, no one can enter the kingdom of God unless he is born of water and the Spirit” (John 3:5). Ours is the water of baptism.

Moses’ and Israel’s hike through the wilderness went on for years and years. Mike and I recently went hiking down the Grand Canyon. It lasted for hours rather than years. Still, when we walked through the Grand Canyon, it was baking hot and hard work. After an hour or so, Mike started to moan … “I’m thirsty, I want some water!” He’s Greek, so he tends to exaggerate, and he started to whine, “This is the end, I’m going to die!” Throughout the hike down, Mike complained, moaned, and whined at me. First he wanted water. Then he wanted food. After he’d eaten five PowerBars, he wanted a different sort of food … and so it went …

Moses was in a similar situation in the desert with Israel. They moaned, they whined, they groaned, and they rebelled. If we pick up the story in Exodus 32, we read that the people of Israel had just built themselves another god! Despite all God’s amazing miracles they still mutinied and wanted to worship gods of their own hands. When Moses discovered this, he exclaimed in horror, “You have committed a great sin. But now I will go up to the LORD; perhaps I can make

atonement for your sin” (Ex. 32:30).

Earlier, God, knowing what the people of Israel were up to, said to Moses, “Leave me alone so that my anger may burn against them and that I may destroy them. Then I will make you into a great nation” (Ex. 32:10).

What an offer! God told Moses to get out of the way; he was going to destroy Israel and start again with Moses’ own children. Moses had a chance to get rid of the nation that had been a pain in his backside ever since leaving Egypt, and to start his own dynasty! There were moments when, had God appeared to me at the bottom of the Grand Canyon and offered to kill Mike, I would have replied, “Brilliant idea, Lord! In fact I’ll help you!”

Moses didn’t respond like that. He didn’t ask for a machine gun. Instead, after seeing Israel’s sin, he said this: “Oh, what a great sin these people have committed! They have made themselves gods of gold. But now, please forgive their sin—but if not, then blot me out of the book you have written” (Ex. 32:31–32).

Astonishing! Instead of offering to help God wipe out Israel, Moses asked to be wiped out in their place! God refused Moses’ offer. He had another plan. Moses’ offer was well meant, but he didn’t realize he didn’t have the right qualifications. God didn’t blot Moses out for the sake of Israel’s sin. He already had someone else in mind. About 1,400 years later it was the life of Jesus, not the life of Moses, that was blotted out to make up for sin.

Sometimes the Bible can seem a little disjointed—we can read one story and wonder if it’s got anything at all to do with the one we were reading the week before. Jesus is the center and the heart of the Bible; again here we see how the life and actions of Moses point forward to who Jesus is and what he was coming to do.

[Note: Mike would like it to be known that he was not allowed to contribute to this section, and in fact disassociates himself from the accuracy of the illustration used above … I, however, insist it’s true, and I’ve got the emotional scars to prove it.]

David

David was born in the small town of Bethlehem. Samuel the prophet declared he was chosen by God to be king of Israel. When Samuel poured the oil onto David, God anointed him for this task. Soon afterward David fought the great battle with Goliath. We find the site of the battle in 1 Samuel 17. The people of Israel were lined up against their archenemies, the Philistines. The huge Philistine champion would daily shout to all the Israelite soldiers, “C’mon then, if you think you’re tough enough!” None of Israel’s soldiers thought they were tough enough, and no one would go and fight Goliath. This went on for weeks until David the shepherd boy arrived and volunteered. He went out alone to face the enemy as the representative of his people, Israel. David won a great victory without using the weapons of the world—he refused to wear a sword or armor. Instead he used a sling, the weapon of a shepherd boy, and it was in this apparent weakness that he defeated Goliath. David declared, “All those gathered here will know that it is not by sword or spear that the LORD saves; for the battle is the LORD’s …” (1 Sam. 17:47).

Jesus was born in the same small town of Bethlehem. At Jesus’ baptism John the Baptist declared that Jesus had been chosen by God to be the Savior of the world, and the Holy Spirit was poured out on him (Luke 3:22)—Jesus was spiritually anointed for his task. Having been prepared in this way, Jesus faced the Enemy of the human race, Satan. He entered the battlefield of the desert where he encountered and withstood Satan for forty days. Three years later he went alone to the cross as the representative of the whole world. He won the victory over Satan without using the weapons of the world. Instead Jesus, the Good Shepherd, won the victory in

the weakness of the cross; it was not to be by sword or spear that the Lord would save but by laying down his life for the sheep.

David was anointed to be king of Israel. Jesus, the Christ (which means “the anointed one”), was called “The King of the Jews” at his crucifixion. Jesus was also called “the Son of David,” and people expected the Messiah to be like David. Many expected a David-type military leader who would arrive to kick the Romans’ heads in. Jesus was like David, but not in the ways that were expected.

Of all David’s psalms, Psalm 23 is the most well known, but the psalm that comes immediately before it is an incredible prophecy about the death of Jesus. It is one of the so-called “messianic

psalms” (because it points ahead to the Messiah), and it begins with “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” Jesus knew his Scriptures, and so when he cried these words on the cross, he knew he was quoting from Psalm 22. Before we go on to look at this psalm further, we suggest you put this book down, open your Bible, and read Psalm 22 for yourself. Where do you see Jesus in this psalm?

Now let’s look together:

The psalm that begins with the words “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” continues with many other striking references to Jesus on the cross.

David says, “But I am a worm and not a man, scorned by men and despised by the people. All who see me mock me; they hurl insults, shaking their heads: ‘He trusts in the LORD; let the LORD rescue him. Let him deliver him, since he delights in him’” (22:6–8). The cries of scorn heaped on Jesus by those present at the crucifixion are almost identical:

In the same way the chief priests, the teachers of the law and the elders mocked him. “He saved others,” they said, “but he can’t save himself! He’s the King of Israel! Let him come down now from the cross and we will believe in him. He trusts in God. Let God rescue him now if he wants him, for he said, ‘I am the Son of God.’” (Matt. 27:41–43)

The psalm continues, “From my mother’s womb you have been my God” (Ps. 22:10). If anyone could say those words with more integrity than David, it was the son of Mary. The psalmist goes on, “My strength is dried up like a potsherd, and my tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth; you lay me in the dust of death” (22:15). The phrase “my tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth” is simply another way of saying “I’m thirsty.” Jesus said on the cross, “I am thirsty” (John 19:28).

The next verse is translated, “Dogs have surrounded me; a band of evil men has encircled me, they have pierced my hands and my feet” (Ps. 22:16). David wrote these words hundreds of years before the Roman punishment of crucifixion had even been invented.…

He continues, “They divide my garments among them and cast lots for my clothing” (22:18). Luke tells us that at the scene of Jesus’ crucifixion “… they divided up his clothes by casting lots” (Luke 23:34).

Psalm 22:22 says, “I will declare your name to my brothers; in the congregation I will praise you.” The stunning thing about this verse is that the writer to the Hebrews in the New Testament tells us that Jesus said it too: “So Jesus is not ashamed to call them brothers. He says, ‘I will declare your name to my brothers; in the presence of the congregation I will sing your praises’” (Heb. 2:11–12).

Perhaps most amazing of all, the psalm that started with the words that began Jesus’ crucifixion—“My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”—ends with these five words: “for he has done it” (Ps. 22:31). Only Jesus was able to put these five words into the first person: “It is finished” (John 19:30). For he has done it—it is finished.

How amazing that David, without knowing it, should have written these words for the “Son of David,” his Lord, to speak on the cross a thousand years later!

~~~~~~~~

We have listed just a few of the references to Jesus in the Old Testament. There are many others. We encourage you to go on a treasure hunt of your own! None of this is to say that the stories in

the Old Testament don’t have a power, force, and meaning of their own—they do very much! In this chapter, however, we are only interested in tracing the storyline of Jesus through the Old Testament. It’s like going to an IMAX cinema and being given special 3–D goggles when you go in. Try watching the screen without the goggles, and the pictures are there—though slightly blurred. Once you’ve put on the 3–D goggles, there’s suddenly a whole new, sharp, remarkable

dimension that comes into view. We’ve just watched some events of the lives of only a few of the characters of the Old Testament—Noah, Abraham, Isaac, Joseph, Moses, and David—wearing our 3–D goggles; even with only this brief snapshot, some of what was concealed has been revealed. What we need to remember is that this isn’t just a clever joining of dots to make neat parallels—this is rich and glorious truth. It’s the plan of salvation for our lives laid out through the lives of the Old Testament heroes. It’s part of the mystery and wonder of God that he was able to weave the story of Jesus into the lives of his most faithful followers in the Old Testament in such an incredible way. In the same way, he is weaving the story of Jesus into our lives and our individual stories.

The Messianic Prophecies

There are also over three hundred prophecies in the Old Testament that are fulfilled in the birth, life, death, and resurrection of Jesus. As we said at the beginning of this chapter, Jesus identified himself in the Old Testament when he said to the Pharisees, “You diligently study the Scriptures because you think that by them you possess eternal life. These are the Scriptures that testify about me, yet you refuse to come to me to have life” (John 5:39–40).

At the end of the chapter, we’ve listed tons of the messianic prophecies, and we hope you’ll take the time to open your Bible and discover more of them. But for now, we’d like to look at one of

the most significant passages, found in Isaiah 53. Before this chapter Isaiah has been talking about the plight of Israel, how they have turned from their God, worshipped idols, and broken his laws by acting unjustly toward one another. The book of Isaiah begins before the exile in Babylon and then continues during the exile. Isaiah begins to speak hope to a hopeless people. He declares that God has not given up on his people and describes the coming of an anointed

one, a Messiah who will bring salvation to Israel. In chapter 53 this Messiah is described in detail. We again urge you, put down this book, open the Bible to Isaiah 53, and read it. Too much explanation of this chapter is unnecessary; it speaks clearly for itself.

In Isaiah 53:2 we notice that when God came to earth, he didn’t look like Brad Pitt. We are also told the coming king would be “a man of sorrows, and familiar with suffering” (53:3). This is key, as many of the Jews were expecting a victorious and powerful leader. Verse 6 lays out the sin for which the servant of God would die, the sin of human beings choosing their own way instead of God’s. This verse reminds us that the heart of sin is going astray, choosing to live

independently from him; the choice made by Adam and Eve. Verse 7 speaks of the fact that when Jesus, the Lamb of God, was brought before his accusers, he did not defend himself. Jesus himself even quotes verse 12 at the Last Supper in Luke 22:37: “It is written: ‘And he was numbered with the transgressors’; and I tell you that this must be fulfilled in me. Yes, what is written about me is reaching its fulfillment.” Isaiah 53 was fulfilled hundreds of years later when Jesus, dying on the cross, “bore the sin of many, and made intercession for the transgressors” (53:12).

We began this chapter by saying that Jesus is concealed in the Old Testament and revealed in the New. The fact is that Jesus hasn’t been concealed very well—we’ve looked at only a few examples, yet pictures and prophecies of Jesus are all over the place!

What does all this tell us? First, Jesus Christ is the central character of the whole Bible. He does not just appear in the last scene. The person of Jesus is, if you like, the glue that holds the whole Bible together. Secondly, this tells us that Jesus was not Plan B. His birth, life, death, and resurrection were written into the script from the very beginning. Our sin and rebellion did not take God by surprise, and Father, Son, and Holy Spirit did not need to have an emergency

cabinet meeting in heaven to work out the rescue plan. Before creation began, God knew that he would have to become part of, and suffer with, his creation. (Take a look at Revelation 13:8.)

A wise couple counts the cost before deciding to have a baby. There is the possibility of several months of vomiting followed by hours of agony for one partner. Then years of sleepless nights for both, followed by the expenditure of ridiculous amounts of money on toys, school uniforms, etc. Then more sleepless nights as they wonder where the teenage offspring are at 2:00 a.m. and even more expenditure if they try and send them to college.

A couple who has counted the cost of all this, but who has decided to love deeply and with commitment, decides to pay the price. God counted the cost and decided to pay the price. From the beginning he said we were worth it. From the beginning he said you were worth it. The whole of the Bible, the Word of God, is a revelation of Jesus, the Word made flesh.

A few years ago a friend of ours proposed to his girlfriend. He went all out. The day before the proposal he went into the countryside and laid an elaborate trail of messages. It began with a note hidden in the branch of a tree. The note was a love letter but also directions and clues as to where the next note was. She soon found, under a rock, another love letter with a clue as to where the next was hidden. Then there was another, inside a bottle concealed by a hedge. This went on for hours until she came to the final love letter. With this love letter, buried in the earth, was a box. When she opened the box, she saw the engagement ring, and he was already kneeling. The fact that he had gone to such a huge effort and carefully laid this elaborate trail was all to show her just how much he desired and loved her. Most women will never forget their wedding day; this woman will never forget the day he proposed. It was spectacular. He planned it down to the last detail; he left the clues everywhere, and it meant the world to her.

In the same way, we, as the bride of Christ (and we know this can seem corny), should be rejoicing and know ourselves to be much loved because our God has laid the paper trail throughout the Old Testament. He has hidden the clues of his love and amazing salvation.

It is our prayer that as you’ve read this chapter you have gone on a journey of discovery, not simply of Jesus, but of how deep God’s love is for us—of how he loved you before you were even conceived.

Jesus Storyline Paperchase:

– John 5:39–40 (Jesus asks, “Where’s Waldo?”)

Pictures in the lives of the Old Testament characters

– Genesis 6–9 (Noah)

– Genesis 22 (Abraham and Isaac)

– Genesis 37–50 (Joseph)

– Exodus 3, 14, 32 (Moses)

– 1 Samuel 17; Psalm 22 (David)

Messianic prophecies

As we said before, there are over three hundred prophecies about Jesus in the Old Testament that are fulfilled in the New Testament. To help you get started discovering the Jesus storyline throughout Scripture, we’ve listed a few of them for you, and we pray that God will reveal wonderful things to you as you study!

1. The Messiah will be born in Bethlehem

Micah 5:2–5a

“But you, Bethlehem Ephrathah, though you are small among the clans of Judah, out of you will come for me one who will be ruler over Israel, whose origins are from of old, from ancient times.” Therefore Israel will be abandoned until the time when she who is in labor gives birth and the rest of his brothers return to join the Israelites. He will stand and shepherd his flock in the strength of the LORD, in the majesty of the name of the LORD his God. And they will live securely, for then his greatness will reach to the ends of the earth. And he will be their peace.

2. He will be King

Isaiah 9:6–7

For to us a child is born, to us a son is given, and the government will be on his shoulders. And he will be called Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace. Of the increase of his government and peace there will be no end. He will reign on David’s throne and over his kingdom, establishing and upholding it with justice and righteousness from that time on and forever. The zeal of the LORD Almighty will accomplish this.

Daniel 7:13–14

In my vision at night I looked, and there before me was one like a son of man, coming with the clouds of heaven. He approached the Ancient of Days and was led into his presence. He was

given authority, glory and sovereign power; all peoples, nations and men of every language worshiped him. His dominion is an everlasting dominion that will not pass away, and his kingdom is one that will never be destroyed.

Zechariah 9:9

Rejoice greatly, O Daughter of Zion! Shout, Daughter of Jerusalem! See, your king comes to you, righteous and having salvation, gentle and riding on a donkey, on a colt, the foal of a donkey.

3. He will be a descendant of David/family lineage

2 Samuel 7:12–16

When your days are over and you rest with your fathers, I will raise up your offspring to succeed you, who will come from your own body, and I will establish his kingdom. He is the

one who will build a house for my Name, and I will establish the throne of his kingdom forever. I will be his father, and he will be my son. When he does wrong, I will punish him with the rod of men, with floggings inflicted by men. But my love will never be taken away from him, as I took it away from Saul, whom I removed from before you. Your house and your kingdom shall endure forever before me; your throne shall be established forever.

Psalm 132:11

The LORD swore an oath to David, a sure oath that he will not revoke: “One of your own descendants I will place on your throne …”

Jeremiah 23:5–6

“The days are coming,” declares the LORD, “when I will raise up to David a righteous Branch, a King who will reign wisely and do what is just and right in the land. In his days Judah will be saved and Israel will live in safety. This is the name by which he will be called: The LORD Our

Righteousness”

Jeremiah 33:15

In those days and at that time I will make a righteous Branch sprout from David’s line; he will do what is just and right in the land.

Isaiah 11:1

A shoot will come up from the stump of Jesse; from his roots a Branch will bear fruit.

Numbers 24:17

I see him, but not now; I behold him, but not near. A star will come out of Jacob; a scepter will rise out of Israel. He will crush the foreheads of Moab, the skulls of all the sons of Sheth.

4. He will be born of a virgin

Isaiah 7:14

Therefore the Lord himself will give you a sign: The virgin will be with child and will give birth to a son, and will call him Immanuel.

5. He will be a priest

Zechariah 6:11–13

Take the silver and gold and make a crown, and set it on the head of the high priest, Joshua son of Jehozadak. Tell him this is what the LORD Almighty says: “Here is the man whose name is the Branch, and he will branch out from his place and build the temple of the LORD. It is he who will build the temple of the LORD, and he will be clothed with majesty and will sit and rule on his throne. And he will be a priest on his throne. And there will be harmony between the two.”

Psalm 110:4

The LORD has sworn and will not change his mind: “You are a priest forever, in the order of Melchizedek.”

6. He will be Lord

Psalm 110:1

The LORD says to my LORD: “Sit at my right hand until I make your enemies a footstool for your feet.”

7. He will be God

Isaiah 9:6

For to us a child is born, to us a son is given, and the government will be on his shoulders. And he will be called Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace.

Jeremiah 23:6

This is the name by which he will be called: The LORD Our Righteousness.

8. He will bring salvation

Isaiah 49:6

He says: “It is too small a thing for you to be my servant to restore the tribes of Jacob and bring back those of Israel I have kept. I will also make you a light for the Gentiles, that you may bring my salvation to the ends of the earth.”

Zechariah 9:9

Rejoice greatly, O Daughter of Zion! Shout, Daughter of Jerusalem! See, your king comes to you, righteous and having salvation, gentle and riding on a donkey, on a colt, the foal of a donkey.

9. He will atone for sins

Isaiah 53:4–6

Surely he took up our infirmities and carried our sorrows, yet we considered him stricken by God, smitten by him, and afflicted. But he was pierced for our transgressions, he was crushed for

our iniquities; the punishment that brought us peace was upon him, and by his wounds we are healed. We all, like sheep, have gone astray, each of us has turned to his own way; and the LORD has laid on him the iniquity of us all.

Isaiah 53:7–8

He was oppressed and afflicted, yet he did not open his mouth; he was led like a lamb to the slaughter, and as a sheep before her shearers is silent, so he did not open his mouth. By oppression and judgment he was taken away. And who can speak of his descendants? For he was cut off from the land of the living; for the transgression of my people he was stricken.

Isaiah 53:10–12

Yet it was the LORD’s will to crush him and cause him to suffer, and though the LORD makes his life a guilt offering, he will see his offspring and prolong his days, and the will of the LORD will prosper in his hand. After the suffering of his soul, he will see the light of life and be satisfied; by his knowledge my righteous servant will justify many, and he will bear their iniquities. Therefore I will give him a portion among the great, and he will divide the spoils with the strong, because he poured out his life unto death, and was numbered with the transgressors.

For he bore the sin of many, and made intercession for the transgressors.

10. He will heal the sick/preach the good news

Isaiah 61:1 (and whole chapter)

The Spirit of the Sovereign LORD is on me, because the LORD has anointed me to preach good news to the poor. He has sent me to bind up the brokenhearted, to proclaim freedom for the captives and release from darkness for the prisoners …

Isaiah 35:5–6

Then will the eyes of the blind be opened and the ears of the deaf unstopped. Then will the lame leap like a deer, and the mute tongue shout for joy. Water will gush forth in the wilderness and streams in the desert.

11. He will teach in parables

Psalm 78:2

I will open my mouth in parables, I will utter hidden things, things from of old …

12. He will be a light to the Gentiles

Isaiah 42:6

I will keep you and will make you to be a covenant for the people and a light for the Gentiles …

Isaiah 49:6

I will also make you a light for the Gentiles, that you may bring my salvation to the ends of the earth.

13. He will enter Jerusalem riding a donkey

Zechariah 9:9

Rejoice greatly, O Daughter of Zion! Shout, Daughter of Jerusalem! See, your king comes to you, righteous and having salvation, gentle and riding on a donkey, on a colt, the foal of

a donkey.

14. He will be rejected/mocked/suffer and die

Isaiah 53:1–3 (and verses 4–12)

Who has believed our message and to whom has the arm of the LORD been revealed? He grew up before him like a tender shoot, and like a root out of dry ground. He had no beauty or majesty to attract us to him, nothing in his appearance that we should desire him. He was despised and rejected by men, a man of sorrows, and familiar with suffering. Like one from whom men hide their faces he was despised, and we esteemed him not.

Psalm 118:22

The stone the builders rejected has become the capstone.

Psalm 22:7–8

All who see me mock me; they hurl insults, shaking their heads: “He trusts in the LORD; let the LORD rescue him. Let him deliver him, since he delights in him.”

15. His enemies will pierce his hands and feet, divide his clothes among themselves, and cast dice for his garments; and he will be served by future generations

Psalm 22:16–18

Dogs have surrounded me; a band of evil men has encircled me, they have pierced my hands and my feet. I can count all my bones; people stare and gloat over me. They divide my garments

among them and cast lots for my clothing.

Psalm 22:30

Posterity will serve him; future generations will be told about the Lord.

16. He will be betrayed by a friend

Psalm 41:9

Even my close friend, whom I trusted, he who shared my bread, has lifted up his heel against me.

17. He will be betrayed for thirty pieces of silver

Zechariah 11:12

I told them, “If you think it best, give me my pay; but if not, keep it.” So they paid me thirty pieces of silver.

18. The thirty pieces of silver will be thrown to the potter.

Zechariah 11:13

And the LORD said to me, “Throw it to the potter”—the handsome

price at which they priced me! So I took the thirty pieces of silver

and threw them into the house of the LORD to the potter.

19. He will be beaten, mocked, and spat upon

Isaiah 50:6

I offered my back to those who beat me, my cheeks to those who pulled out my beard; I did not hide my face from mocking and spitting.

20. His bones will not be broken

Psalm 34:19–20

A righteous man may have many troubles, but the LORD delivers him from them all; he protects all his bones, not one of them will be broken.

21. His side will be pierced

Zechariah 12:10

And I will pour out on the house of David and the inhabitants of Jerusalem a spirit of grace and supplication. They will look on me, the one they have pierced, and they will mourn for him

as one mourns for an only child, and grieve bitterly for him as one grieves for a firstborn son.

22. He will be raised from the dead

Isaiah 53:8–12

By oppression and judgment he was taken away. And who can speak of his descendants? For he was cut off from the land of the living; for the transgression of my people he was stricken. He was assigned a grave with the wicked, and with the rich in his death, though he had done no violence, nor was any deceit in his mouth. Yet it was the LORD’s will to crush him and cause him to suffer, and though the LORD makes his life a guilt offering, he will see his offspring and prolong his days, and the will of the LORD will prosper in his hand. After the suffering of his soul, he will see the light of life and be satisfied; by his knowledge my righteous servant will justify many, and he will bear their iniquities. Therefore I will give him a portion among the great, and he will divide the spoils with the strong, because he poured out his life unto death, and was numbered with the transgressors. For he bore the sin of many, and made intercession for the transgressors.

Psalm 16:10

… because you will not abandon me to the grave, nor will you let your Holy One see decay.

Psalm 49:15

But God will redeem my life from the grave; he will surely take me to himself.

23. He will ascend to heaven

Psalm 68:18

When you ascended on high, you led captives in your train; you received gifts from men, even from the rebellious—that you, O LORD God, might dwell there.

Discussion Questions:

• Are you surprised at the extent to which the Old Testament points to Jesus? If so, why? If not, then why aren’t you?

• What does this tell us about the way that the Old Testament links to the New Testament?

• What practical relevance does this knowledge—that Jesus’ life was foretold in so many miraculous ways—have?

©2010 Cook Communications Ministries. Storylines by Andy Croft and Mike Pilavachi. Used with permission. May not be further reproduced. All rights reserved.

God heals

2010-03-26T06:00:00.000-06:00

As I continue to do research regarding the craft of writing, I stumbled onto Brandilyn Collins' blog. If you don't know much about Brandilyn, she is a Christian best-selling author with an amazing talent for writing suspense. But she also has an amazing story about God's work in her life.

She's described it here. See if the Holy Spirit tingles in your heart as it did in mine as I read this account.

Planting with hope

2010-03-25T07:11:00.002-06:00

From greedy Czars to power-hungry Communists, rulers of Russia have often treated the people with abandon. We're over 90 years from the Russian Revolution, which was to free the people and instead plunged into them into hopelessness.

I'm praying over Europe with Campus Crusade for 40 days. If you haven't heard about it, check out this link.

Since 1990, when socialism fell and religious freedom was written into their new constitution, American Christians were hopeful that we could bring new faith and hope to them.

Even though Russia is the largest country in the world, spanning 11 time zones and inhabiting more than 160 million people, Christians have been busy explaining the gospel throughout the country. Campus Crusade reports that "there is not a region, republic, city or village where seeds of the gospel have not been planted."

Yet the fruit has been slow in coming.

Cuba still sleeps under a socialist dictator, which little religious freedom. Yet there is a flourishing Christian community there.

A Cuban Christian explained why: "Americans came to our country 150 years ago. Missionaries came to teach us about Jesus. Today, we are your fruit."

A foreign missions movement in the 1800's left spiritual seeds that have blossomed today.

In the first century, Paul faced a similar problem where the message was not always well received. His viewpoint is valuable. " I planted the seed, Apollos watered it, but God made it grow. So neither he who plants nor he who waters is anything, but only God, who makes things grow." (1 Cor 3:6-7)

Without God, many lose hope. Let us not join them but continue on planting and watering. God will bring growth.

Deliver us from Evil by Robin Caroll

2010-03-23T07:16:00.000-06:00

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!

WARNING: you might lose some sleep with this book because you can't put it down. Robin Carroll has crafted a action-packed story with characters you will care about. There's suspense, romance, and characters that grip your heart. Check it out.

Today's Wild Card author is:

Robin Caroll

and the book:

Deliver Us From Evil

B&H Academic (February 1, 2010)

***Special thanks to Julie Gwinn of B&H Publishing Group for sending me a review copy.***

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

Robin Caroll has authored eight previous books including Bayou Justice and Melody of Murder. She gives back to the writing community as conference director for the American Christian Fiction Writers organization. A proud southerner through and through, Robin lives with her husband and three daughters in Little Rock, Arkansas.

Visit the author's website.

Product Details:

List Price: $14.99
Paperback: 320 pages
Publisher: B&H Academic (February 1, 2010)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 0805449809
ISBN-13: 978-0805449808

AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:

Tuesday, 3:30 p.m.
FBI Field Office
Knoxville, Tennessee

Jonathan’s throat closed as he stared at the building from the parking lot. He gripped the package tight in his arthritic hands. Could he do this? Turn over evidence that would implicate him?

   His heart raced and he froze. Not the best time for his atrial fibrillation to make an appearance. Despite being on the heart transplant list for eight months, it looked like his progressed heart disease would do him in. The most important reason he couldn’t go to prison—he’d never get a heart and would die. While Carmen wanted him to confess his crimes, she wouldn’t want him to die. The memory of saying good-bye to his beloved mere hours ago scorched his soul.

   Her eyes fluttered open. Those blue orbs, which had once sparkled even in the absence of light, now blinked flat and lifeless.

   He swallowed hard.

   “Jonathan,” her voice croaked, “it’s time.”

   Tears burned the backs of his eyes, and he rested his hand over her parchmentlike skin. “No, Carmen. Please, let me get the medicine.”

   Her eyelids drooped and she gasped. Air wheezed in her lungs. “Sweetheart, the fight’s . . . gone from me.” She let out a hiss, faint and eerie. “The cancer’s . . . won.”

   Jonathan laid his lips against her cheek, her skin cold and clammy, as if in preparation for the morgue. How could she continue to refuse the medicine? Even though she didn’t approve of his means of acquisition, the drugs had kept her alive for five years. Five years he cherished every minute of. He’d do anything to keep her alive and the pain at bay—the intense pain that had become her constant companion these last two weeks. It killed him to witness her agony.

   She licked her bottom lip, but no moisture soaked into the cracked flesh. “You’ve done . . . your best by me, Jonathan. I know . . . you meant . . . no harm to . . . anyone.” Her eyes lit as they once had. “Oh, how I’ve enjoyed loving you.”

   His insides turned to oatmeal. Stubborn woman—she’d allow herself to die, all because she discovered how he’d gotten the money.

   “Promise me . . . you’ll . . . tell the . . . truth. Admit what . . . you’ve done.” Her breath rattled. “What you’ve . . . all done.”

   Pulling himself from the wretched memory, Jonathan breathed through the heat tightening his chest. He’d secure himself the best deal possible—immunity—or he wouldn’t decipher the papers. And without him no one could make sense of the accounting system he’d created more than five years ago. Officials hadn’t a clue.

   With a deep breath he headed to the guardhouse in front of the fenced FBI building. His legs threatened to rebel, stiffening with every step. He forced himself to keep moving, one foot in front of the other.

   At the guardhouse, a man behind bulletproof glass looked up. “May I help you?”

   “I need to . . . see someone.”

   “About what, sir?”

   “I have some information regarding a crime.” He waved the file he held.

   “One moment, sir, and someone will be with you.”

   Jonathan stared at the cloudy sky. He could still turn back, get away scot-free. His heartbeat sped. The world blurred. No, he couldn’t lose consciousness now, nor could he go back on his promise. He owed it to Carmen. No matter what happened, he’d honor Carmen’s dying wish.

   “Sir?” A young man in a suit stood beside the fenced entry, hand resting on the butt of his gun. “May I help you?”

   Jonathan lifted the file. “I have some evidence regarding an ongoing crime ring.”

   The agent motioned him toward a metal-detector arch. “Come through this way, sir.”

   Jonathan’s steps wavered. He dragged his feet toward the archway.

   A car door creaked. Jonathan glanced over his shoulder just as two men in full tactical gear stormed toward them. He had a split second to recognize one of the men’s eyes, just before gunfire erupted.

   A vise gripped Jonathan’s heart, and he slumped to the dirty tile floor, the squeezing of his heart demanding his paralysis.

   Too late. I’m sorry, Carmen.

Two Weeks Later—Wednesday, 3:45 p.m.
Golden Gloves Boxing of Knoxville

Ooof!

   Brannon Callahan’s head jerked backward. She swiped her headgear with her glove.

   “You aren’t concentrating on your form. You’re just trying to whale on me.” Steve Burroughs, her supervisor and sparring partner, bounced on the balls of his feet.

   “Then why am I the one getting hit?” She threw a right jab that missed his jaw.

   He brushed her off with his glove. “Don’t try to street fight me. Box.”

   She clamped down on her mouthpiece and threw an uppercut with her left fist. It made contact, sending vibrations up her arm.

   He wobbled backward, then got his balance. “Nice shot.”

   It felt good to hit something. Hard. Sparring with Steve was the best form of venting. The energy had to be spent somehow—why not get a workout at the same time? She ducked a right cross, then followed through with a left-right combination. Both shots made full contact.

   Steve spit out his mouthpiece and leaned against the ropes. “I think that’s enough for today, girl. I’m an old man, remember?”

   She couldn’t fight the grin. Although only in his late forties, the chief ranger looked two decades older. With gray hair, hawk nose, and skin like tanned leather, Steve had already lived a lifetime.

   She removed her mouthpiece, gloves, and headgear before sitting on the canvas. “Old? You’re still kickin’ me in the ring.”

   He tossed her a towel and sat beside her. “So you wanna tell me what’s got you all hot and bothered this afternoon?”

   She shrugged.

   “Come on, spit it out. I know something’s gnawing at you, just like you were picking a fight with me in the ring. What’s up?”

   How could she explain? “I’m not exactly keen that the district feels there’s a need for another pilot in the park.” She tightened the scrunchie keeping her hair out of her face.

   “That’s a compliment—having you on staff has been so successful they want to expand.”

   “But I have to train him. Did you notice his arrogance?” She ripped at the tape bound around her knuckles. “He’s nothing more than a young upstart with an ego bigger than the helicopter.” While only thirty-six, she often felt older than Steve looked.

   “You’re so good, you can come across a bit intimidating at first, girl.” Steve grabbed the ropes and pulled to standing, then offered her a hand. “Give him a chance.”

   She let Steve tug her up. “Yeah, yeah, yeah. Even if he had maturity, I still have to train him. With all the rescues we’ve been called out on of late . . . well, I really don’t have the time.” She exited the ring. “Like those kids yesterday.” She shook her head as she waited for Steve to join her on the gym floor. “Their stupidity almost cost them their lives.”

   “They were young, Brannon.”

   “Please. Any amateur with half a brain should know better than to try to climb Clingmans Dome in winter.” Didn’t people realize if something happened to them they’d leave behind devastated family and friends? Loved ones who would mourn them forever? She fought against the familiar pain every time she participated in a search and rescue. All because people hadn’t taken necessary precautions.

   “They didn’t know any better.”

   “It takes a special kind of stupid not to have researched your climb.” Most SARs could be avoided if people planned a little more. It ripped her apart that so many parents, grandparents, siblings . . . fiancées . . . survived to deal with such grief. She’d tasted the bitterness of grief—twice—and the aftertaste still lingered.

   Steve paused outside the locker rooms and shifted his sparring gear to one hand. “I agree, but most people don’t see the dangers we do every day.” He tapped her shoulder. “Hit the showers, champ. You stink.”

   She laughed as she headed into the ladies’ locker room. Maybe Steve was right and the new pilot just made a lousy first impression. Maybe he’d be easy to train.

   Please, God, let it be so.

Friday, 2:15 p.m.
US Marshals Office, Howard Baker Federal Courthouse
Knoxville, Tennessee

“You want me to escort a heart?” Roark struggled to keep his voice calm. He tapped the butt of his Beretta, welcoming it back to its rightful place on his hip.

   Senior US Marshal Gerald Demott glared. “Look, I know you think this is a slight, but it’s important. And for your first assignment back on the job . . .”

   “IA cleared me of all wrongdoing. I’m seeing the shrink and everything.” He gritted his teeth and exhaled. “I’ve been released to return to active duty.”

   “This is active. It’s a field assignment, and it’s important. Here’s the case information.” Demott passed him a folder, then glanced at his watch. “You’d better hurry or you’ll miss your flight.”

   Roark grabbed the file and turned to go.

   “Holland.”

   He looked back at his boss. “Yeah?”

   Demott held out Roark’s badge. “You might want to take this with you, too.”

   Roark accepted the metal emblem, then clipped it to his belt before marching out of Demott’s office. A heart. His job was to escort a human heart from North Carolina to Knoxville. Any rookie could handle that. But no, they still didn’t trust him enough to handle a real assignment.

   He’d done everything they asked—took a medical leave of absence while Internal Affairs went over every painful minute
of his failed mission, saw the shrink they demanded he speak to every week since Mindy’s death, answered their relentless questions. The shrink reiterated he’d been forgiven for acting on his own.

   Maybe one day he’d forgive himself. How many innocent lives would he have to save for his conscience to leave him be?

   Roark slipped into the car, then headed to the airport. But to be assigned a heart transport? Not only was it wrong, it was downright insulting. After almost fifteen years as a marshal, he’d earned the benefit of the doubt from his supervisors. Especially Demott. His boss should know him better, know he’d only disregard orders if it was a matter of life and death.

   But Mindy Pugsley died. They’d all died.

   He pushed the nagging voice from his mind. Even Dr. Martin had advised him not to dwell on the past. On what had gone wrong. On disobeying a direct order.

   If only Mindy didn’t haunt his dreams.

   Roark touched the angry scar that ran along his right cheekbone to his chin. A constant reminder that he’d failed, that he’d made a mistake that took someone’s life. He’d have to live with the pain for the rest of his life.

   He skidded the car into the airport’s short-term parking lot. After securing the car and gathering the case folder, Roark grabbed his coat. Snowflakes pelted downward, swirling on the bursts of wind and settling on the concrete. The purple hues of the setting sun streaked across the mountain peaks beyond the runways, making the January snow grab the last hope of light.

   Yes, he’d handle this mundane assignment, then tell Demott he wanted back on real active duty. Making a difference would be the best thing for him. Would make him feel whole again.

Chosen

2010-03-19T06:00:00.001-06:00

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!

This book tells the story of Esther and her thrilling rescue of the Jewish people in Persia from a fresh viewpoint thanks to Ginger Garrett’s creative approach and striking historical detail. Esther’s diary has been uncovered and we follow her journey from a village orphan to queen of an empire through her own eyes as she writes. Written with rich description and palace intrigue, this book isn’t one easily set aside – or forgotten.

Today's Wild Card author is:

Ginger Garrett

and the book:

Chosen

David C. Cook; New edition (March 1, 2010)

***Special thanks to Audra Jennings, Senior Media Specialist, of The B&B Media Group for sending me a review copy.***

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

Focusing on ancient women’s history, critically acclaimed author Ginger Garrett creates novels and nonfiction resources that explore the lives of historical women. In addition to her writing, Garrett is a frequent radio and television guest. A native Texan, she now resides in Georgia with her husband and three children.

Visit the author's website.

Chosen, by Ginger Garrett from David C. Cook on Vimeo.

Product Details:

List Price: $14.99
Paperback: 304 pages
Publisher: David C. Cook; New edition (March 1, 2010)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 1434768015
ISBN-13: 978-1434768018

AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:

Prologue

Fourth Day of the Month of Av

Year 3414 after Creation

If you have opened this, you are the chosen one.

For this book has been sealed in the tomb of the ancients of Persia, never to be opened, I pray, until G-d1 has put His finger on a new woman of destiny, a woman who will rise up and change her nation. But we will not talk of your circumstances, and the many reasons this book may have fallen into your hands. There are no mistakes with prayer. You have indeed been called. If this sounds too strange, if you must look around your room and question whether G-d’s finger has perhaps slipped, if you are not a woman with the means to change a nation, then join me on a journey. You must return with me now to a place without hope, a nation that had lost sight of G-d, a girl with nothing to offer, and no one to give it to.

I must introduce myself first as I truly am: an exiled Jew, and an orphan. My given name was Hadassah, but the oppression of exile has stripped that too from me: I am now called Esther,2 so that I may blend in with my captors. My people, the Hebrew nation, had been sent out of our homeland after a bitter defeat in battle. We were allowed to settle in the kingdom of Persia, but we were not allowed to truly prosper there. We blended in, our lives preserved, but our heritage and customs were forced underground. Our hearts, once set only on returning to Jerusalem, were set out to wither in the heat

of the Arabian sun. My cousin Mordecai rescued me when I was orphaned and we lived in the capital city of Susa, under the reign of King Xerxes.3 Mordecai had a small flock of sheep that I helped tend, and we sold their fleece in the market. If times were good, we would sell a lamb for someone’s celebration. It was always for others to celebrate. We merely survived. But Mordecai was kind and good, and I was not forced into dishonor like the other orphans I had once known. This is how my story begins, and I give you these details not for sympathy, but so you will know that I am a girl well acquainted with bitter reality. I am not given to the freedom in flights of fantasy. But how can I explain to you the setting of my story? It is most certainly far removed from your experience. For I suspect that in the future, women will know freedom. And freedom is not an easy thing to forget, even if only to entertain an orphan’s story.

But you must forget now. I was born into a world, and into this story, where even the bravest women were faceless specters. Once married, they could venture out of their homes only with veils and escorts. No one yet had freed our souls. Passion and pleasure, like freedom, were the domain of men, and even young girls knew the wishes of their hearts would always be subject to a man’s desire for wealth. A man named Pericles summed up my time so well in his famed oration: “The greatest glory of a woman is to be least talked about by men, whether they are praising you or criticizing you.” Our role was clear: We were to be objects of passion, to receive a man’s attention mutely, and to respond only with children for the estate. Even the most powerful woman of our time, the beautiful Queen Vashti, was powerless. That was my future as a girl and I dared not lift my eyes above its horizon. That is how I enter this story. But give me your hand and let us walk back now, past the crumbling walls of history, to this world forgotten but a time yet remembered. Let me tell you the story of a girl unspared, plunged into heartache and chaos, who would save a nation. My name is Esther, and I will be queen.

1 Out of respect for God, Jews write the name of God without the vowels, believing that the name of God is too holy to be written out completely by a human. God is referred to as either “G-d” or “YHVH.”

2 The name Esther is related to the Persian name of Ishtar, a pagan goddess of the stars.

3 Esther refers to the king by his Persian name. In the Hebrew texts of antiquity, he is also referred to as Ahasuerus.

1

Eleventh Day of Shevat

Third Year of the Reign of Xerxes

Year 3394 after Creation

Was it today that I became fully awake, or have I only now begun to dream? Today Cyrus saw me in the marketplace haggling gently with my favorite shopkeeper, Shethana, over the price of a fleece. Shethana makes the loveliest rugs—I think they are even more lovely than the ones imported from the East—and her husband is known for his skill in crafting metals of all kinds. When I turned fifteen last year, he fashioned for me a necklace with several links in the center, painted various shades of blue. He says it is an art practiced in Egypt, this inlaying of colors into metal shapes. I feel so exotic with it on and wear it almost daily. I know it is as close to adventure as Mordecai will ever allow.

But as Shethana and I haggled over the fleece, both of us smiling because she knew I would as soon give it to her, Cyrus walked by eating a flatbread he had purchased from another vendor. He grimaced when he took a bite—I think he might have gotten a very strong taste of shallot—and I laughed. He laughed back, wiping his eyes with his jacket and fanning his mouth, and then, oh then, his gaze held my eyes for a moment. Everything in my body seemed to come alive suddenly and I felt afraid, for my legs couldn’t stand as straight and steady and I couldn’t get my mouth to work. Shethana noticed right away and didn’t conceal her grin as she glanced between Cyrus and me. I should have doubled the price of her fleece right then!

Cyrus turned to walk away, and I tried to focus again on my transaction. I could not meet Shethana’s eyes now—I didn’t want to be questioned about men and marriage, for everyone knows I have no dowry. To dream of winning Cyrus would be as foolish as to run my own heart straight through. I cannot dream, for it will surely crush me. And yet I can’t stop this warm flood that sweeps over me when he is near.

I haven’t told you the best part—when Shethana bought her fleece and left, I allowed myself to close my eyes for a moment in the heat of the day, and when I opened them again, there was a little stack of flatbread in my booth. I looked in every direction but could see no one. Taking a bite, I had to spit it out and started laughing. Cyrus was right—the vendor used many bitter shallots. The flatbread was a disaster.

©2010 Cook Communications Ministries. Chosen by Ginger Garrett. Used with permission. May not be further reproduced. All rights reserved.

Humbly

2010-03-17T06:38:00.001-06:00

Remember the long way that the Lord your God has led you these forty years in the wilderness, in order to humble you, testing you to know what was in your heart, whether or not you would keep his commandments. He humbled you by letting you hunger, then by feeding you with manna, with which neither you nor your ancestors were acquainted, in order to make you understand that one does not live by bread alone, but by every word that comes from the mouth of the Lord. Deut 8:1-3

Am I open to wandering in the wilderness if it brings me to humility? Will I submit to God's hand if it means both hunger and manna? Will I cherish humility as I learn to treasure every word that comes from the mouth of the Lord? Help me embrace humility and the training at your hand, Lord!

Found Art: Discovering Beauty in Foreign Places by Leeana Tankersley

2010-03-14T20:42:00.002-06:00

Memoirs these days had better be something or someone special. Otherwise, they risk being chucked into the pile of "seen that, done that" books.

Leeana Tankersley has entered the world of memoirs with her book Found Art: Discovering Beauty in Foreign Places. Yet she brings something special to the table. Whisked off to Bahrain in the Middle East with her new husband, a Navy SEAL, Tankersley explores a new world with fresh eyes.

She wraps the story of early marriage around observations. She and her husband meet a Yousef, a rug salesman, who brings out his most prized rugs, "Introducing them as if they were friends and telling us their stories." He's only one of many people who brush against them in Bahrain.

In examining the colors and smells and sounds of Bahrain, Tankersley discovers beauty. Beauty is not a luxury in life, she learns, but a necessity.

And so her book goes, weaving stories with discoveries. She bring humor but mostly reflection to her recollections. Transparent emotion and wry examination are interlaced through the chapters.

It's a thoughtful book, one that digs below the surface and finds treasures of beauty and wisdom.

Tankersley took a risk in writing a memoir but hers is special, one of found art and hidden beauty. Check it out.

Found Art: Discovering Beauty in Foreign Places can be found at Amazon here.

Tankersley's website can be found here.

A list of others blogging about this book can be found here.

Note: the publisher provided me with a free copy of this book for review.

Christian Nigerians killed

2010-03-11T07:00:00.002-07:00

We live in a dangerous world. It's easy to forget when our feet are propped up and our TV tuned in, but there are those in other places dying as Christians. Here's an example:

Laws and decrees, oh my!

2010-03-10T05:55:00.001-07:00

In the future, when your son asks you, "What is the meaning of the stipulations, decrees and laws the LORD our God has commanded you?" tell him: "We were slaves of Pharaoh in Egypt, but the LORD brought us out of Egypt with a mighty hand. Before our eyes the LORD sent miraculous signs and wonders--great and terrible--upon Egypt and Pharaoh and his whole household. But he brought us out from there to bring us in and give us the land that he promised on oath to our forefathers. The LORD commanded us to obey all these decrees and to fear the LORD our God, so that we might always prosper and be kept alive, as is the case today. And if we are careful to obey all this law before the LORD our God, as he has commanded us, that will be our righteousness." Deut 6:20-25

Why do we have commands and laws? We ask that at times, not wanting to reduce our faith to a set of rules. Or not wanting to have our freedom clipped. Why do we have the stipulations and decrees and laws?

Here's why: we were slaves and God set us free. We were captives and God gave us a marvelous abundant place. We fell in the wilderness but God kept his promises. When he asks us to obey the decrees and commandments, what have we already learned about him? That he is our redeemer, setting us free. We can trust him. The laws and decrees are given for our prosperity and life. We obey, not out of fear, but out of love.

Found Art: Discovering Beauty in Foreign Places II

2010-03-04T20:58:00.001-07:00

Yesterday's post featured a photo posted in response to a challenge to find beauty in foreign places. I love the concept of searching for beauty, seeing things and people with fresh eyes, alert to where God has pressed his thumbprint.

All this is stirred by Leeana Tankersley's new book, Found Art: Discovering Beauty in Foreign Places.

Check out Leeana's website here. You can also connect with her on Facebook.

I haven't completed the book yet so will be posting a review when I get that accomplished. For now, take in others' views of her book from those participating in the blog tour.

Participating bloggers:
Admissions of a Suburban Philosopher
All Grown Up?
Be Your Best Mom
Bell Whistle Moon
Bible Dude
Cafe Lily
Carly Bird’s Home
Deus E Fiel
Faith Deployed
Fresh Brewed Writer
i don’t believe in grammar
Krellfish
Life’s Like This
Lost in Translation
Merrie Destefano
Musings by Lynn
Paper Bridges
Ponderings by Andrea
Scraps and Snippets
Sky-High View
Sumballo
Suzy Q Homemaker
The 160-acre Woods
The Hahn Hunting Lodge
The Prairie Maid
Uma Pirralha Na Universidade
Wives of Faith
Word-Up Studies

Found Art: Discovering Beauty in Foreign Places

2010-03-03T20:57:00.000-07:00

I'm participating in a blog tour for Leanna Tankersley's new book, Found Art: Discovering Beauty in Foreign Places. I love the concept. To discover beauty is to look with new eyes, to pull back the assumptions and reveal what has often been overlooked.

Writer and photographer Tasra Dawson is hosting an interesting photography program at her website prompted by Found Art. Her challenge is to find beauty in foreign places - and post a photo of the discovery. Check out her website for more insights.

Here's my idea. I shot this on a fall day in a ripe corn field just before the combine swept away the crop.

God hides treasures for us in unexpected places. When I find beauty, I find God.

Tomorrow, I'll include more about Found Art.

Standing at the door

2010-03-02T06:47:00.001-07:00

She stood at our door, rubbing the head of our big dog with one hand and holding a suspicious bag in the other. Sure enough, another waited in the car for her.

"I think a Jehovah's Witness is here," my son announced.

And so I went to the door, dreading the blank-itis that generally strikes when I want stand firm. Her opening was different than I'd heard before: "Have you noticed how many people don't use the Bible anymore?"

Well, I agreed with that. "They do miss out. I think the Bible is God's communication to us and it's a treasure."

She immediately opened to 1 Tim 3:16 to read me about how God's Word was a benefit to believers. Then she launched into stage 2, pulling out her literature and fanning open the pages to show me key articles. I prayed desperately, wanting to respond with intelligence and yet grace. I was better at blurting than building up.

When the pause came, I smiled at her. "I'm a Christian and I think we disagree about Jesus. "

"Oh, he's our savior!" she responded.

"I believe he's God."

She nodded. "We believe he is a god, to be honored."

"I believe he is God, who became a man so that he could stand in my place and take my death. I am saved by grace."

"I have a question for you," she said. I noticed that she slipped the literature back into her bag. "Some Christians tell me that once saved, always saved. That they can do anything they want because they're saved. I don't understand that."

"Some might say they weren't ever saved," I said. "When we believe, Jesus comes into our hearts and changes us. Because we are transformed, that will affect our actions. Our actions don't transform our heart but our heart transforms our actions."

"It's actions that matter, not words," she said. Then she smiled broadly and shook my hand. "You have a wonderful day."

My kids were standing close by, curious to hear how I'd deal with this visitor to my door. But I had a chance to tell them what I can tell you: God worked. He gave me a compassion for the woman at the door and words to say. I'm praying that there was a nugget in our conversation that will comfort and challenge her. But this was God's moment and he was amazing.

Story

2010-03-01T14:15:00.000-07:00

I was in Colorado Springs last weekend for the Peak Fiction Writers Conference and was reminded again of the importance of story.

God, of course, knew that and connected with our minds and emotions through story. The Bible is filled with narratives about people who came to understand God better through some amazing circumstances.

Here's the summary for the story of Ruth: two widows are destitute but God redeems them. The book of Ruth is so much better!

Look at this one: A boy trusts God and defeats a giant soldier with a stone. Or read the story of David and Goliath. No comparison.

So go read a story today!

Morocco: Christians arrested

2010-02-24T14:53:00.001-07:00

On Feb. 4, Moroccan military authorities raided a Christian meeting and arrested 18 people. The authorities also confiscated Bibles and personal belongings, according to The Voice of the Martyrs contacts.

“We were surprised by more than 60 Moroccan Gendarmes attacking the house [where we had just started our Bible study],” a VOM contact said. “Eleven believers (including an American), two non-believers and five children… were [held] by the Moroccan government for 14 hours.”

After 14 hours in detention, the American was deported and the others were released. Authorities kept the American’s laptop computer, along with Bibles, books, a laptop, a digital photo camera and a cell phone that belonged to the others arrested.

“It’s the first time in our current Moroccan church history that the Moroccan government used this size of a legion to attack a small Christian meeting,” VOM contacts added. “All the time they kept repeating that this was ordered personally by the new Moroccan Justice Minister [Mohamed Naciri] and by the highest level General of the Gendarmerie [Housni Benslimane].”

The Voice of the Martyrs encourages you to pray for believers in Morocco. Pray that God will protect these believers and grant them peace as they face these new challenges. Also pray that the authorities will return their confiscated belongings. Ask God to draw the persecutors into fellowship with him.

“Our Moroccan brothers and sisters have asked believers here in the US to speak out on their behalf,” said Todd Nettleton, VOM’s director of media development. “They believe international attention and pressure can make a difference in getting their possessions returned, and in protecting future Christian activities.”

VOM encourages you to write to the Moroccan Embassy at the address below to protest this abuse of religious freedom:

Moroccan Ambassador:
H.E. Aziz Mekouar
1601 21st St. NW
Washington, DC 20009
Fax: 202-265-0161

Also send an email to the Deputy Chief of Mission, Ms. Aicha Afifi, at aafifi@moroccous.com. You can contact the United States embassy in Morocco by visiting http://rabat.usembassy.gov/ or sending an email to ircrabat@usembassy.ma.

Some fruit

2010-02-22T15:29:00.000-07:00

Fruit? In that wilderness? Adadiah leaned back against his father’s knee, listening to the reader with some concern.

   The story had gripped Adadiah as the reader recounted the adventures. Adadiah had especially liked the part where the thundering cavalry seemed ready to capture the people, but had been tricked and defeated. That army had thought it was so strong but not against God!

   But the narrative had now taken the group to the edge of the land promised to them. Adadiah was astonished that they were fearful but listened intently as the people crafted a good plan: send in spies and see what they were up against.

   The spies had brought back fruit. Adadiah had expected the wilderness to be rocky and dry. The whole region seemed to him to be a desert. He hadn’t been there, of course, but he had heard about the caves and cliffs.

   But there had been all those big juicy grapes that had made his mouth water.

   He was intrigued by the fruit, because it reminded him of another section of the story. What was it?

   This new land had been filled with sweet fruit like some other land. What land?

   Ah! He had it. When the reader had first unrolled the scroll and began reading. At the beginning of the story.

   When God had created the world, he had made a garden filled with trees heavy with fruit. Lots and lots and lots of fruit. The man, Adam, didn’t have to work for his food like Adadiah and his father had to work.

   What kind of god would give his people lots of sweet fruit?

   Adadiah had heard about the gods in Babylon, even though his father scolded him for listening to the tales. They were supposed to be mighty in battle, with great strength, but they demanded sacrifices or they’d turn their power on the people. They didn’t give anything freely.

   Who was this God who gave so much fruit? Adadiah knew he had to learn more.

A giveaway!

2010-02-18T20:25:00.002-07:00

My good friend Maxine over at The SG Notebook is holding a giveaway right now. Hop on over, leave her a comment, and tell her I said hi! She's committed to serving Jesus in so many ways, including through Christian gifts, so take a look at her site.

New cartoon

2010-02-18T08:27:00.002-07:00

I'm trying an experiment here. I have linked to Jeff Larson's The Back Pew cartoons and the only place those fit on this page is at the top. I don't really like it there, but we'll see if I get used to it - or get another idea. In any case, I hope you enjoy Jeff's humor. If you'd like to use his cartoons in some way, you can ask for permission at his site.

Pray for Europe

2010-02-16T20:46:00.001-07:00

A good friend who has worked in Europe for over 20 years send this information to me. Maybe you'd be interested, too:

"Hey friends!

"This is just a quick note to invite you to join me and boatloads of folks around the world in praying for Europe during lent (which starts tomorrow, by the way!!). So many major moves of God in the world have been preceded by concerted times of prayer in the body of Christ (think back to all that took place in the fall of the Soviet Union and Eastern Europe). Well, this lent is your chance to join the body of Christ in praying for the “prodigal continent” of Europe!!

http://www.prayeurope.com/prayerupdate.php

At the gate

2010-02-12T06:00:00.000-07:00

Maybe Uncle Eli had dropped him a little roughly today but Samuel was always glad that someone carried him to the gate. He settled himself into his familiar spot, anxious for his day to begin.

Behind him, the doors of the gate rose majestically. It took several men to push wide the gigantic gates and Samuel always marveled at the ornate bronze plating illuminating the wood. These were beautiful gates and he knew that many people would soon be making their way through them into the temple.

Samuel had never seen inner part of the temple, although he often tried to imagine it. He’d understood all his life that he’d never go in. His legs were crippled at birth, making him unclean. He could never enter the temple to worship. His focus was always to learn his trade well.

“Alms!” he cried out suddenly as a cluster of people approached. Jews, he knew, were encouraged to give to the poor as part of their worship. And he heard the sound of coins clattering into his basket.

The sun was shining brightly, warming Samuel. He pushed his limp legs out to make his uncleanness even more evident.

He saw two men approaching the gate. “Alms for the poor!” he called out.

Then he heard a strong voice: “Look at us.” Samuel was confused, for he knew his uncleanness was repulsive to most. The people ignored him, tossing in a coin to meet their worship duty, before marching into the temple courts. He had learned to keep his eyes down.

“We have no gold or silver,” the man said to him. Samuel glanced at the second man and then back to the first. Why was this man addressing Samuel if he had no alms?

“But what I have, I give to you.” He strode to Samuel’s side and extended his hand. When Samuel gripped his hand, the man lifted him to his feet. “In the name of Jesus Christ of Nazareth, walk.”

Fear shook Samuel but then he realized that he was standing. His legs were no longer weak. He took a step.

“What…” Samuel couldn’t speak for a moment. And then the reality of these muscular legs filled him. He tested them. He walked, ran, jumped. They worked.

But suddenly a greater reality hit him. He could enter the temple now. He was no longer unclean.

Walking and leaping and praising God, he joined the two men in the temple to worship.

He didn’t understand fully, but he knew that this Jesus Christ had removed his uncleanness so that he could go into the presence of God.

For Samuel, the worship had only begun.

Thin Places by Mary DeMuth

2010-02-09T06:00:00.000-07:00

Every two minutes, someone in the U.S. is sexually assaulted and of the millions of sexual abuse and rape victims, 15 percent are under the age of 12, according to a 2007 study by the U.S. Department of Justice. Critically acclaimed author Mary DeMuth is among the millions of adults who are victims of childhood rape and are living with the emotional scars of the haunting abuse.

DeMuth bravely shares her painful story in her new memoir, Thin Places (February 2010). Repeatedly raped by two neighborhood boys at a young age, DeMuth details her traumatic and disturbing childhood in the memoir. Raised in a broken home, she lost her biological father when she was ten and was stripped of her innocence growing up in an unstable environment where drugs were commonplace.

But Thin Places is about hope and healing more than it is about the traumatic events of DeMuth’s childhood. According to DeMuth, thin places are “snatches of time, moments really, when we sense God intersecting our world in tangible, unmistakable ways.” When she encountered the true love of Jesus at a Young Life camp in high school, DeMuth’s life trajectory changed. God reassembled the pieces of her emotionally fragile self, which initiated true healing and peace.

“Folks may wonder why I’ve spent all this time looking back,” says DeMuth, “dredging up what God sees of my story, what my eyes see. Jesus says truth sets people free. This is my way of doing that—of telling the stark truth on the page so others can be set free.”

DeMuth’s desire is to see readers set free from their family secrets. In light of that, she’s started a blog for readers to anonymously share their family secrets. Since the blog launched in February 2009, over 200 survivors have emailed their family secrets for DeMuth to anonymously post, and the blog was featured on Christianity Today’s blog, Her.meneutics. For more information, visit: http://blog.myfamilysecrets.org.

“Thin Places offers a poignant look at the development of a well-known Christian writer,” says Christian Retailing, and author Tosca Lee calls Thin Places, “brave, moving and poignant.”

Writing is a cathartic experience for DeMuth, and remnants from her past influence her books. They are infused into her nonfiction parenting advice as well as her fictional characters and plots. Her literary fiction features gritty story lines and touches on the dark subject of abuse. Her first novel, Watching the Tree Limbs, featured a 9-year-old girl who was raped by a neighborhood bully, and the Defiance Texas Trilogy examines the emotional pain that results from the disappearance of a young girl in Texas. DeMuth talks about these writing projects in Thin Places. “Writing [Watching the Tree Limbs] is a thin place where I see
God’s desire to heal me,” says DeMuth, “and I understand that He loves me no matter what emotions I express.”

About the Author:

Mary DeMuth
Author and speaker Mary DeMuth helps people turn their trials to triumph. Her books include Ordinary Mom, Extraordinary God; Building the Christian Family You Never Had; Watching the Tree Limbs; Wishing on Dandelions; Authentic Parenting in a Postmodern Culture and the first two books in the Defiance, Texas Trilogy: Daisy Chain and A Slow Burn.
National media regularly seek Mary’s candid ability to connect with their listeners. Her radio appearances include FamilyLife Today, Moody Midday Connection, Point of View and U.S.A. Radio Network and is frequently featured on Chuck Colson’s BreakPoint. She has published articles in In Touch, HomeLife, Writer’s Digest and The Writer.
Mary lives with her husband Patrick and their three children in Texas.

Learn more about Mary at http://marydemuth.com.

Thin Places
Release: February 2010
Soft cover, 224 pp., $14.99
Zondervan
ISBN: 031028418X

A free Kindle!

2010-02-08T11:50:00.003-07:00

The previous post is a true story that I've recounted in part for a contest to publicize Mary DeMuth's new book, Thin Places. You can enter the contest as well. Please follow this link to find the rules. The winner will receive a Kindle Reader.

Tomorrow, I'll post information about Mary's book which deals with the journey from hurt to healing. Mary's love of Jesus shines through her work. Return tomorrow for a peak into her latest work.

Restoring what the locusts had eaten

2010-02-08T11:49:00.000-07:00

Most women love the lure of flowers, an evening stroll, the attention of a suitor.

I was wooed in those summer months. I deserved no courtship. I had chosen a silent separation; in my reckoning, my Bridegroom had not done his part.

The miscarriage happened in March. On a summer camping trip, with a time for quiet and reflection, my heart began to expand. I missed my Lord. I felt his warm breath as he called my name. I opened my Bible and began a slow climb out of a black hole.

I did not understand my loss but I was reminded that I was loved by the Creator of the universe. My soul soared like the eagle.

Invited to speak at our church’s Christmas tea in early December, my joy expanded when I discovered I was pregnant again. I felt certain that God was restoring what had been lost.

But I gave the long-anticipated speech knowing that life was draining away. I was desperate not to lose the relationship. My cry that weekend was that my Lord not leave me.

I had once hoped that my friends or family would comfort me during the one-two punch of miscarriage. But the Bridegroom never left my side. He whispered my name and drew me back. He kept his part of the covenant: He never left me.

He repaid me for the years the locusts had eaten a year later when our son was born. As the prophet Joel said, I praise the Lord’s name for he worked wonders for me.

Tebow ad

2010-02-08T10:36:00.002-07:00

Since I highlighted the Tebow ad controversy last week, I thought I'd include the actual ad today. Do you think a few people over-reacted to rumors and assumptions? I'd say the ad is a nice celebration of life and family. Take a look:

Super Bowl uproar

2010-02-04T20:36:00.002-07:00

I didn't mean to discuss the Super Bowl too much this week, but in case you've missed the uproar over the Tebow ad scheduled to air during the Super Bowl, here's a video clip about that:

2010-02-03T06:00:00.001-07:00

Our family enjoys watching professional football and, although we're primarily Denver Bronco fans, we're looking forward to the Super Bowl. I am always glad to hear professional players who honor God. Here's a clip from the New Orleans Saints quarterback, Drew Brees:

Heartbreak for Haiti

2010-02-02T15:00:00.001-07:00

Directions

2010-02-01T07:51:00.001-07:00

I began this blog nearly three years ago to connect my passion for writing with my passion for my Savior. I have posted over 700 essays examining Christian issues, ideas and my own passions.

God is directing me in a new way and I'm still exploring how that will look. I have clearly heard his call to write stories. I am currently working on a novel based loosely on the book of Ruth.

How that impacts this blog, I still have to explore. But expect to see more posts about fiction, writing, and God's great stories.

And we'll see where the journey takes me.

Except

2010-01-29T07:47:00.000-07:00

Rebecca Kiessling delivered two stones to the Goliath she battles as she told her story to crowds in our area last week. Rebecca is the child of a rape, given life by a mother for whom abortion was then illegal.

Christians often make one of two concessions in the ongoing abortion debate. They may oppose abortion except in the case of rape or incest. Or they are willing to allow abortion remain legal but try to educate people about its results.

Rebecca spoke powerfully. “My mother would have aborted me if abortion had been legal in those days,” she said. “I wouldn’t be here.”

She brings strong fabric to our world, an intelligent passionate woman who is a lawyer, mother, speaker, writer.

But she wouldn’t be here if the rape had happened in 1975 instead of 1969.

Many who would see abortion made illegal are willing to concede the point in cases of rape or incest. Who wants to force a victim to endure a pregnancy and birth after such a horrendous event?

Those people would have allowed Rebecca’s life to be blotted out as well.

“I remember feeling like I was garbage….that I was disposable,” Rebecca commented.

Hers is a voice not easily ignored. Check out her website here.

Rules and rights

2010-01-28T07:03:00.001-07:00

My best friend in high school couldn’t go to movies.

“I don’t know why exactly,” she told me once. “But our family just waits til the movie shows up on TV and then we watch it.”

Devin couldn’t play cards when he was growing up and so his favorite card game today is Rook, because it was not considered evil. He doesn’t know why, either.

I’ve heard about orthodox Jews paying someone to trip light switches on the Sabbath so that they don’t do any work that day. I know the Pharisees of ancient times had involved explanations so that people didn’t walk too far and break the Sabbath rest.

I’ve working my way through 1 Corinthians right now, where Paul responded to questions by a church plant in ancient Corinth. There was a stew of Jews, Greeks, Romans, pagans who had discovered Jesus and were trying to figure out how that all worked within a church.

They asked practical questions: Can we eat meat sacrificed to idols? Is it better to serve God as a single person? And, if so, should we leave our spouse?

They wanted rules. Couldn’t Paul just give them specifics for living?

Paul gave them principles. On the question of meat sacrificed to idols, he acknowledged that idols are nothing. Having recently left pagan practices behind, some in Corinth were uncomfortable eating sacrificial meat.

If it didn’t bother me, was it proper for me to indulge my freedom?

It was, Paul confirmed, but not if that freedom tore at another’s faith. My freedom was not the trump card in decisions; love was.

“Love builds up,” Paul told the church. The principle was simple: my choices must not hinder another’s spiritual life.

I might have to trim my freedom to keep another from falling. Paul didn’t give them a set of rules for purchasing or not purchasing meat in the marketplace. He gave them principles to use.

Though I am free and belong to no man, I make myself a slave to everyone, to win as many as possible. 1 Cor 9:19

Manhattan Declaration

2010-01-14T06:58:00.002-07:00

I signed the Manhattan Declaration in December but received a letter from them this week. The authors are hoping to collect a million signatures. Here are portions of the letter they have sent out, alerting Christians to this opportunity:

Dear colleague,

Thank you for your support of the Manhattan Declaration.

It is off to an amazing start - over 370,000 signers and growing. And it is indeed historic: Evangelicals, Catholics, Anglicans, and Eastern Orthodox Christians uniting to give common witness to the sanctity of human life, the dignity of marriage, and religious liberty for all persons.

But we need your help: our goal is one million signatures.

The marketing pros tell us we will never get to a million signatures without expensive advertising. But we want to prove them wrong. And we can: just think if each person who has signed the Declaration were to get just two others to sign. That would be one million people standing arm in arm in defense of the most vital moral truths in our society.

Remember, too, we are not just collecting signatures; we seek a movement of people defending the truth in the public square. We are already witnessing signs of this: Christians in Mobile, Alabama called us 13 days before Christmas to tell us they were planning a large ecumenical gathering for the 23rd of December. I (Chuck Colson) agreed to speak. At 6:00 AM on December 23, 2,000 citizens, led by clergy from all over the city, gathered in a packed hall in the Convention Center for a rousing rally. Seldom have I seen so much excitement in one room - and all of this was accomplished just by word of mouth with only 11 days to organize!

Just ten days ago, Cardinal Rigali of Philadelphia, Archbishop Wuerl of Washington, DC, Archbishop Dolan of New York and Archbishop Kurtz of Louisville reached out to all of their brother Catholic bishops asking them to spread this document throughout their dioceses and encourage their clergy and faithful to study it and join as signatories.

The Archbishop of Detroit has planned a grassroots effort throughout his archdiocese. The Bishop of Phoenix has already organized a grassroots effort there.

We are also receiving many reports of evangelical gatherings in a number of areas - and many evangelical pastors referring to the Manhattan Declaration in their sermons.

As with any grassroots movement, the strength and energy has to come from the people. We have no staff and limited budget. We're people who care passionately and deeply about life, marriage, and liberty. So here's what we are asking you to do.

Pray fervently. Great movements of faith have always spread on the wings of prayer.
Know the issues. If you study this Declaration - and a study guide is available on our website - then you can winsomely explain and defend it to your neighbors and friends. The document itself makes a great apologetic defense for these moral truths.
Look for resources on this website as we're able to post them, and search the websites of the Christian organizations that offer resources in these three areas. You can see the names of the various leaders who have signed the Declaration and then visit their websites.
Of utmost importance, get your own church involved. As pastors preach, the movement will spread. Prayer meetings and Bible studies on the Declaration are being conducted in many churches, which is a great step.

Just think what might happen in our land if one million courageous Christians declared their uncompromising allegiance to Jesus Christ and to biblical faithfulness on some of the most urgent moral issues of our day.

May God give us the strength to do what He is so clearly calling us to do. From our perspective, this is a cause worth giving every last ounce of effort and energy we have.

Dr. Robert George
Dr. Timothy George
Chuck Colson

ManhattanDeclaration.org

Weather complaints?

2010-01-06T06:54:00.001-07:00

Truly, then, God governs inanimate matter. Earth and air, fire and water, hail and snow, stormy winds and angry seas, all perform the word of His power and fulfill His Sovereign pleasure. Therefore, when we complain about the weather we are, in reality, murmuring against God.

-Arthur Pink, The Sovereignty of God

Guilty as charged - and now repentant.

Flossie's Christmas

2009-12-26T06:00:00.000-07:00

Little Flossie gripped her own paper bag filled with precious bits of hard candy and an orange. Fruit was rare in December.

Songs from the Christmas program at church still danced in her head. She'd nearly forgotten her own short piece of the program but managed to recite in a quiet monotone. Standing in a line with the other children her age, she'd tried to still her pounding heart as the children after her mumbled their own lines.

"And she brought forth her firstborn son, and wrapped him in swaddling clothes, and laid him in a manger; because there was no room for them in the inn." That had been her part to say.

She wondered about a baby who had to sleep in a manger. Why hadn't there been room in the inn? He came to a poor family, she thought, and they didn't have much.

But now her family huddled in the tiny living room. Her sister was peeling an orange and the sweet citrus smell blended with the pine scent from the Christmas tree. Flossie touched a string of popcorn, remembering how she'd poked herself with a needle as she strung thread through the puffy popcorn.

They'd already read the nativity account from Luke at church so her father now led the family in singing "Silent Night." Her father was German but he couldn't manage the original German lyrics.

There would be gifts this Christmas, Flossie knew, but things were tight. Their farm was small and their family large. At least they still had the farm. Some of the neighbors had lost theirs due to the low crop prices.

"Merry Christmas!" Her mother handed her a parcel wrapped in brown paper and tied with a string.

Flossie didn't open it right away. Savoring the moment, she watched her older brother handing out small packages to the other children.

Then, her heart skittering in excitement, she slowly slipped the string off the paper and unwrapped the package. Inside was Bessie, her doll. Bessie had been washed and her hair combed, a ribbon threaded through the dark curls.

And a new dress, dotted with the pink blossoms imprinted on the flour bag that had yielded the fabric, clothed her sturdy body.

Flossie drew the doll to herself, sniffing the freshness of the dress mingling with the orange and pine. She could smell Jesse's shampoo and the soap that had scrubbed Esther. The closeness of her family, all peering at their own gifts, warmed the room.

What kind of Christmas had baby Jesus had? Flossie popped a red piece of candy into her mouth. Jesus was loved, Flossie thought. And she knew that was enough.

What Really Matters

2009-12-25T06:00:00.000-07:00

What Really Matters
by Dawn Meehan

In the hustle and bustle and commercialism of Christmas, take time to remember the real reason why we celebrate - the birth of Christ, our Lord and Saviour. May you all have a blessed Christmas!

I had a VERY long day with the kids doing little but fighting. By the time we left for church, we were all short tempered, snapping at each other, and not at all in the Christmas spirit. Thankfully, once at church, we calmed down. Things were put in perspective for us. We sang Christmas songs and began to smile at one another again. The kids didn't fight once while we were there. Well, they did use their battery operated candles as light sabers for a minute, but we'll forget about that part.

I never sent out cards (sorry to all my family and friends). It just didn't happen this year. I don't think I ever completely finished my shopping, but it's a little late now. Several items I ordered online have been back ordered. I just realized that the kids have eaten all the cookies I've made and there are none to put out for Santa now. I encouraged them to leave him a glass of wine instead. And I failed to read the Christmas story to the kids before they went to bed.

But you know what? None of that matters. It really doesn't. Christmas is here! Christ is born! And He doesn't care if we sent out Christmas cards. He doesn't care if we ate all the cookies we baked. He doesn't even care if we never got around to baking a single cookie at all! He loves us no matter how much we screw up.

Now that's worth celebrating!

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Dawn Meehan (aka mom2my6pack) grew up in Chicagoland where she began her writing career at the age of 5 with her widely praised, The Lucky Leprechaun, an epic tale of a leprechaun who is- yes, you guessed it, lucky.

Dawn has six children, basically because she didn't want seven. She is the author of Because I Said So and spends her days blogging at BecauseISaidSo.com, changing diapers, cleaning pudding off her ceiling, tackling insurmountable piles of laundry, and explaining to her kids why they can't have a pet squirrel or an indoor slip-n-slide.

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