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

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

and the book:

The Country House Courtship

Harvest House Publishers (January 1, 2010)

***Special thanks to Linore Rose Burkard and Dave Bartlett (Harvest House Publishers) for sending me a review copy.***

Linore Rose Burkard is the creator of “Inspirational Romance for the Jane Austen Soul.” Her characters take you back in time to experience life and love during the era of Regency England (circa 1811 – 1820). Fans of classic romances such as Pride & Prejudice, Emma, and Sense & Sensibility, will enjoy Linore’s feisty heroines, heart-throb heroes and happy endings.

Enjoy the free resources on Linore’s website: http://www.LinoreBurkard.com/resources.html

Visit the author’s website.

Product Details:

List Price: $13.99
Paperback: 300 pages
Publisher: Harvest House Publishers (January 1, 2010)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 0736927999
ISBN-13: 978-0736927994

ISLAND BREEZES

 Five years later we encounter the characters from The House in Grosvenor Square.  The marriage between “the Paragon” and Ariana have produced children and much happiness.  Now Beatrice, Ariana’s younger sister, has reached the age of seventeen and is intent on coming out into London society so that she might snag a husband.

Will she go for love or for deep pockets?  Another great Regency romance by Ms Burkhart.  I’m not quite finished with this book yet, so please excuse me for not hanging around for a longer chat.  I’m heading for the cozy chair, a cup of tea and a warm afghan.  I don’t plan to emerge until I finish the last page.

Care to join me?

AND NOW…THE FIRST CHAPTER:

Mr. Peter O’Brien felt surely he had a devil plaguing him, and the devil’s name was Mr. Phillip Mornay. The paper in his hand should have made him happy. Indeed, it ought to have elicited nothing but joy after two years of holding a curacy that didn’t pay enough to feed a church-mouse. Yet, instead he was staring ahead after reading a letter of recommendation for him as though he’d seen a ghost.

His previous naval commander, Colonel Sotheby, had recommended Mr. O’Brien to a wealthy landowner whose vicarage had gone vacant. It was the sort of letter that a poor Curate should rejoice over. The man who obtained the vicarage in the parish of Glendover, the Colonel said, in addition to having a decent curate’s salary, would have claim to a large glebe, a generous and well built house, and, in short, would see himself by way of having enough to begin a family. (If he found a wife to marry, first, of course. O’Brien could just hear the Colonel’s good-natured laugh ring out at that remark.)

But still his own mouth was set in an unpromising hard line: The landowner’s name was Mr. Phillip Mornay, none other than the Paragon, himself. And Mornay, Mr. O’Brien knew, would never grant him the living. To do so would go against everything he knew to be true of him. After all, no man who had once overstepped his bounds with Mr. Mornay’s betrothed, as Mr. O’Brien unfortunately had, would now be presented to the vicarage on the man’s lands. Of all the rotten, devilish luck! To have such a letter of commendation was like gold in the fiercely competitive world of the church, where there were more poor curates looking for a rise in their situations than there were church parishes who could supply them.

Therefore, instead of the boon from heaven this letter ought to have been, Mr. O’Brien was struck with a gloomy assurance that Mornay would sooner accept a popinjay in cleric’s clothing than himself. Even worse, his mother agreed with his appraisal.

He had taken the letter into the morning room of their house on Blandford Street, joining his mother while she sat at her breakfast.

“You do not wish to renew old grievances,” she said. “Mr. Mornay is not, to my knowledge, a forgiving man; shall you be put to the expense and trouble of travelling all the way to Middlesex, only to be turned down in the end? What can you possibly gain in it?”

Mr. O’Brien nodded; he saw her point. But he said, “I may have to do just that. The Colonel will never recommend me for another parish if he learns that I failed to apply myself to this opportunity.”

“Write to him,” replied his mama. “See if you can politely decline this honour, with the understanding that any other offer should be most welcome and appreciated!”

He doubted that any letter , no matter how ‘politely’ written, would be able to manage his desire to avoid this meeting with Mornay, as well as secure the hope of a future recommendation. But he thought about it, put quill to paper and sent the Colonel a reply. He asked (in the humblest terms he could manage) if the man might commend him for a living to be presented by some other landowner, indeed, any other landowner, any other gentleman in England than Phillip Mornay.

He could not explain the full extent of his past doings with Mr. Mornay without making himself sound like an utter fool; how he had hoped to marry the present Mrs. Mornay himself, some years ago. How presumptuous his hopes seemed to him now! Miss Ariana Forsythe was magnificent as the wife of the Paragon. He’d seen them in town after the marriage, but without ever presenting himself before her. It appalled even him that he had once thought himself worthy or equal to that beautiful lady.

When the Colonel’s reply came, there was little surprise in it. He assured Mr. O’Brien that his apprehensions were ill-placed; that Mr. Mornay’s past reputation of being a harsh, irascible man was no longer to the purpose. Colonel Sotheby himself held Mornay in the greatest respect, and insisted that the Paragon had as good a heart as any Christian. In short, (and he made this terribly clear) Mr. O’Brien had best get himself off to Middlesex or he would put the Colonel in a deuced uncomfortable spot. He had already written to Aspindon House, which meant that Mr. O’Brien was expected. If he failed to appear for an interview, he could not expect that another recommendation of such merit and generosity would ever come his way again.

Mr. O’Brien realized it was inevitable: he would have to go to Middlesex and present himself to Mornay. He knew it was a vain cause, that nothing but humiliation could come of it, but he bowed to what he must consider the will of God. He knelt in prayer, begging to be excused from this doomed interview, but his heart and conscience told him he must to it. If he was to face humiliation, had he not brought it upon himself? Had he not earned Mornay’s disregard, with his former obsession with Miss Forsythe, who was now Mrs. Mornay?

He no longer had feelings for the lady, but it was sure to be blesséd awkward to face her! No less so than her husband. Nevertheless, when he rose from his knees, Peter O’Brien felt equal to doing what both duty and honour required. He only hoped that Mr. Mornay had not already written his own letter of objections to the Colonel; telling him why he would never present the living to Peter O’Brien. The Colonel was his best hope for a way out of St. Pancras . It was a gritty, desperate parish with poverty, crime, and hopelessness aplenty—not the sort of place he hoped to spend his life in, for he wanted a family. A wife.

Prepared to face the interview come what may, Mr. O’Brien determined not to allow Mornay to make quick work of him. He was no longer the youthful swain, besotted over a Miss Forsythe. A stint in the Army, if nothing else, had hardened him, brought him face to face with deep issues of life, and left him, or so he thought, a better man.

******

Aspindon House, Glendover, Middlesex

Ariana Mornay looked for the hundredth time at her younger sister Beatrice, sitting across from her in the elegantly cozy morning room of her country estate, Aspindon. Here in the daylight, Beatrice’s transformation from child to warm and attractive young woman was fully evident . When Mrs. Forsythe and Beatrice had arrived the prior evening, Ariana had seen the change in her sister, of course, but the daylight revealed it in a clarity that neither last night’s flambeaux (lit in honour of their arrival) or the interior candlelight and fire of the drawing room had been able to offer.

Beatrice’s previously brown hair was now a lovely luminous russet. Ringlets peeked out from a morning cap with ruffled lace, hanging over her brow and hovering about the sides of her face. The reddish brown of her locks emphasized hazel-green eyes, smallish mischievous lips and a healthy glow in her cheeks. Beatrice noticed her elder sister was studying her, and smiled.

“You still look at me as if you know me not,” she said, not hiding how much it pleased her to find herself an object of admiration.

“I cannot comprehend how greatly you are altered, in just one year!”

“I regret that we did not come for so long,” put in Mrs. Forsythe, the girls’ mother. She was still feasting her eyes upon Ariana and the children (though the nurse, Mrs. Perler, had taken four year old Nigel, the Mornay’s firstborn, from the room, after he had spilled a glass of milk all over himself minutes ago). “We wished to come sooner, as you know, but Lucy took ill, and I dared not carry the sickness here to you with your new little baby.” At this, she stopped and cooed to the infant, who was upon her lap at the moment.”No, no, no,” she said, in the exaggerated tone that people use when addressing babies, “we can’t have little Miranda getting sick, now can we?”

Ariana smiled. “It matters not, mama. You are here, now. I only wish Papa and Lucy could have joined you.” Lucy, the youngest Forsythe sister, and Papa, had been obliged to stay home until the spring planting had been seen to. Mr. Forsythe did not wish to be wholly bereft of his family, so Lucy, who was a great comfort to him, had been enjoined to remain in Chesterton for his sake.

“I could not bear to wait upon your father a day longer,” she answered with a little smile. “They will come by post chaise after papa has done his service through Easter. And then we will all be together–except for the Norledges. Perhaps when Papa comes, he may bring your older sister and her husband?”

“I would want Aunt Pellham too, in that case,” murmured the blond-haired young woman.

“Oh, my! With your Aunt and Uncle Pellham, and the Norledges, even this large house would be filled with guests, I daresay!” said her mother.

Beatrice was still happily ingesting the thought that Ariana had evidently noticed her womanhood. At seventeen, hers was not a striking sort of beauty—one did not stop in instant admiration upon spying Beatrice in a room, for instance, as had often been the case for Ariana; but the younger girl had no lack of wits, a lively eye and countenance, and, not to be understated, an easy friendliness. Among a group of reserved and proper English young ladies, Beatrice would be the beacon of refuge for the timid; she was welcoming where others were aloof; inquisitive and protective where others looked away.

Nor was she the sort of young woman to glide across a floor, dignified and elegant. Instead, Beatrice was ever having to keep her energy in check; When rising from a chair (her mama had made her practice doing so countless times) she could appear as elegant as the next young woman. She ate nicely, even daintily. But left unchecked, her natural enthusiasm might propel her through a room with alarming speed. Her shawls were ever hanging from her arms, never staying in place over her shoulder; and her mother forbade her from wearing hair jewellery, as it tended to lose its place upon her head. Bandeaux were her lot; besides bonnets, of course.

“It is fortunate that I am only seventeen,” she had said to her mama only last week, while the woman was draping a wide bandeau artfully around Beatrice’s head. “Or I believe you would exile every manner of female head attire from this house, saving turbans! Although my hair holds a curl twice as long as Lucy’s!”

Mrs. Forsythe had paused from her ministrations and met her daughter’s eyes in the looking glass before them. “I daresay you are suited for turbans; perhaps we should shop for some. I believe they are very popular just now.” Since the last thing in the world Beatrice wished to wear upon her head was a turban—no matter how many ladies in the pages of La Belle Assemblée wore them—she simply gave voice to an exasperated huff, evoking a knowing smile upon her mama’s face.

“I should adore a full house of guests,” she said, now. “Please do invite the Norledges’ Ariana! Only think of the diversions we could have; play-acting with enough people to fill all the roles, for a change! Or charades; or even a dance!”

Ariana looked at her sister fondly. “Which dances do you like best?”

“The waltz!” she quickly responded, with a smile to show that she knew it was mischievous to prefer the waltz—the single dance which entailed more contact with the opposite sex than any other ballroom fare. Mrs. Forsythe clucked her tongue, but Beatrice blithely ignored this, taking a peek at her brother-in-law to gauge his reaction, instead. The host of the gathering was reading his morning paper, however, and not listening to the small talk between his wife and her relations.

And relations were virtually all around him. In addition to Beatrice and Mrs. Forsythe, there was his aunt, Mrs. Royleforst, staying with them at the present, and her companion, skinny, nervous Miss Bluford. These two ladies had not appeared yet for breakfast, which was probably on account of Mrs. Royleforst. She found mornings difficult and either slept in, or took a tray in her room.

“What do you think, sir?” asked Mrs. Forsythe, of her host. “Shall my daughter invite the Norledges to join Mr. Forsythe and Lucy when they set out for your house? Or is your home already filled enough for your liking?”

Mr. Mornay looked over his paper enough to acknowledge that he had heard her question. “As it is your and my wife’s family, I think the two of you must decide upon it. As long as there are bed-chambers enough,” he added, looking at Ariana, “you may fill them with guests as you please.”

“Thank you, darling,” she said, making Beatrice stifle a titter. Her sister and her husband were still inordinately romantic, to her mind. Good thing no one else was present save her mother! She would have been embarrassed for them in company.

“Shall I take the baby, mama?” said Ariana, for Miranda was beginning to fuss.

“I suppose she wants to be fed,” agreed her mother. Ariana nodded to a maid who was seated against the wall, who went and received the child from her grandmother and brought her gingerly to her mama. Ariana’s eyes sparkled with happiness as she took her little girl. She murmured to the baby, by turns picking her up and kissing her face, and then just holding her in her arms and gazing at her in loving adoration. “I shan’t feed her yet,” she said. “She isn’t insisting upon it.”

Beatrice’s thoughts were still upon the diversions that would be possible with a large group staying at the house. “If they all come, can you and Mr. Mornay hold a ball, Ariana? Or, will you take me to London this year for the Season? Then I may go to as many balls as I like, and you will not have the expense of holding them!”

“If she takes you to London for the Season,” put in her mama, “she will have a great deal more expense than just that of a ball! Besides which, you are too young for such.”

Beatrice looked at her mama, her enthusiasm temporarily dampened. “But my sister sees I am older, now,” she said, looking at Ariana with a silent plea in her gaze. “And I am not too young for a Season, according to the magazines. Many girls my age do have their coming out, mama!”

“Many gels,” she returned, instantly, “have little sense, and their parents, no better; your papa and I did not allow either of your sisters to go about in society at your age. You have been already too pampered, if you ask me. London society is out of the question!”

Beatrice was now thoroughly dampened in her spirits, but she looked about and settled her eyes upon her brother-in-law. “I daresay Mr. Mornay has seen many a girl of my age–and younger—make their debut during the Season. And to no ill effect! Why, I am sure some of them have made the most brilliant matches! Many a man of good standing prefers a younger lady for his wife. You had ought to let me go while I am young enough to enjoy this advantage.”

Mr. Mornay was frowning behind his newspaper. He knew that his young relation wanted his support in the matter, but Mr. Mornay was assuredly not in the habit of coming to the aid of young women, particularly regarding a London Season. So he said nothing, though an ensuing silence in the room told him the ladies waited for his opinion.

Ariana, who knew better, offered, “Let us discuss it another time. There are months, yet, before the Season. And with Miranda so young, I cannot decide at this point, in any case.”

Beatrice, who had no idea she was treading on dangerous ground, said, “Only let Mr. Mornay tell us his thoughts! I know my mother will listen if you tell her, sir,” she said, directly to him.

He put his paper down reluctantly, and then looked at Beatrice. “I think Ariana was young to face society at nineteen. At your age, you need to be sheltered, not put forth among the wolves.”

Her face fell so entirely, that he almost chuckled at it. “Why are you so eager for a Season?”

She smiled a little. This was better; he was inviting her to explain so that her mother could see the good advantage in it. “I have long lived with the memory of my sister’s tales of her experiences in London;” she said. “She met you there! Her coming out is what brought her to marriage, to Aspindon, to a better life! I have had my fill of Chesterton, I assure you! The prospects for marrying well in that region are as dismal as ever, if not worse;” she said. (Ariana closed her eyes at this; she could hardly bear to hear her sister telling all the reasons Phillip would most despise.) “Why does it seem that all the eligible young men in the county are either in a regiment somewhere, or at sea, or in need of a fortune? I must go to London or Bath, where there are more men one can meet!”

She paused, looking at him earnestly. “I have no fortune, sir, as you are well aware. And with your connexions, I am certain to make very advantageous acquaintances! What could be more certain? I shall end up, no doubt, just as my sister has, with a man like you, sir!” Beatrice evidently thought she was giving him a great compliment. She waited, expecting a gracious answer.

“Oh, Beatrice!” moaned Mrs. Forsythe. “You foolish gel!”

Mr. Mornay stood up, after folding his paper to a neat size. He said, “It takes more than wearing a corset to say a young lady is grown up, would you not agree?” He directed his remark to the whole room, and then settled his eyes upon Beatrice for one second too long, before giving a small bow to the women in general, and turning to leave the room. Beatrice considered his words for a moment. He had rested his eyes on her long enough so that she knew exactly what he meant.

Mr. Frederick met his master at the door, holding out a salver with a letter for Mr. Mornay, who took it but then looked curiously at the butler.

“It arrived in that condition, sir! I daresay it was lost in the mail or some such thing.”

“Hmm, very good, Freddie.” He held up a battered and ink-soiled missive for his wife to see, while eyeing it dubiously.

She looked amused. “Who is it from?”

He unfolded the paper, as the sealing wax was almost entirely worn off already, and scanned the signature at the bottom. “Colonel Sotheby. I’ll read it in my office.” She nodded, and Mr. Mornay left the room.

Beatrice was still smarting from his earlier remark, and said, as soon as he’d gone, “How ‘grown up’ can I be, when I am forced to exist in a small country village, with no prospects, and genteel company only upon a Sunday?”

“You overstate your case! That is not true,” answered her mama, disapprovingly.

“And as for wearing a corset,” Beatrice continued, after taking a sip of tea, “I do not pretend that wearing one is what makes me of age for a Season. I have formed my principles upon sound reason. I have sat beneath the tutelage of my father and of Mr. Timmons, and of his curate, and I should say my principles are well-founded.”

“We are glad to hear it,” Ariana said, with great forbearance, “but really, you should not be setting your mind upon seeking a man like my husband; you should be intent upon finding the man that God has chosen for you.”

“And so I am!” she protested, her eyes wide and laughing. “But look at the advantage He gives me in having you for my sister! Am I to ignore that? When it could be the very means of bringing me and my future husband together?”

Ariana played absently with little Miranda’s blanket, tucking it in about her chin more snugly. She met her sister’s eyes. “London is not the only place a young woman may meet a husband. And if you want my husband’s approval of your plan, the last thing in the world you should tell him is that you want to meet a man like him! Or that you wish to marry above you in any way!”
“But is it above me? To marry well? When my sister is Mrs. Mornay of Aspindon House?”

“It is above you,” said her mother, “because you are Miss Forsythe of Chesterton.”

“I am a gentleman’s daughter,” she replied.

“With no dowry to speak of,” said her mama.

Beatrice’s cheeks began to burn. “With a rich and famous brother-in-law!” she said, petulantly.

“That does not signify!” said her mother.

“It does, to me!”

“It should not!” Mrs. Forsythe was quickly growing ashamed of her daughter, and she was relieved that Mr. Mornay had left the room, and was not hearing Beatrice right now. Ariana’s eyebrows were raised and she was doing her best to act as though she had no part in the dialogue.

“But it does, mama!”

“Beatrice! You have already said far too much on this topic, which proves to me your great ignorance of the world.” She held up her hand for silence as Beatrice was about to protest; “Not another word! I shan’t have it, not another word.” Mrs. Forsythe turned her attention to her elder daughter.

“I think I will visit the Nursery to see how Nigel is faring. Do you mind?”

“Of course not! He will enjoy showing you his toys.” She smiled, while her mother rose to leave the room. “I’ll be up myself, shortly, to feed the baby.”

“Very good.” She nodded to her daughter, and then her eye fell upon Beatrice. “I think it would be wise if you said nothing more regarding a Season. In fact, I forbid you to mention it to Mr. Mornay again! Do you understand me?”

“I do, mama.” Beatrice was not happy but she recognized the tone of voice her mother was using. She considered, moreover, that it would be a simple matter to keep from mentioning her hopes to the man, for he evidently would not encourage her in them. But as for herself, she would continue to think of the Season in London. She would continue to hope; and some other day, when Ariana was in a good disposition, she would prevail upon her to sponsor her in London.

Beatrice did not want to seem disrespectful, but she knew that Mr. Mornay was quite in error regarding her. He did not know, for instance, that she was determined to make a good match, and recognized it as her lot in life. Every inch she saw of Aspindon just confirmed her sense that a rich life awaited her. She was born for it. And now all that was necessary was to meet her future husband—the man who could make it all happen. She had long prayed for just such a meeting, and knew that it was bound to occur. All she had to do was be properly outfitted, and in the proper company, for it to do so.

All she had to do was change her sister and brother-in-law’s mind on the matter. How difficult could that be?

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!

and the book:

The Twilight Gospel: The Spiritual Roots of the Stephenie Meyer Vampire Saga

Monarch Books (December 23, 2009)

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

Dave Roberts is the author of the best-selling The Toronto Blessing and Red Moon Rising with joint sales in excess of 100,000. He is a former editor of Christianity and won awards for his work on Renewal magazine. He is a local church pastor and conference director for three major annual conferences on worship, children’s ministry, and women’s ministry.

Visit The Twilight Gospel book page on Kregal’s website to download a free discussion guide for youth leaders.

Product Details:

List Price: $12.99
Paperback: 160 pages
Publisher: Monarch Books (December 23, 2009)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 1854249762
ISBN-13: 978-1854249760

AND NOW…THE FIRST CHAPTER:

The appetite of readers old and young for romance, drama and the thrill of the long-running saga remains undimmed, however. The success of the Harry Potter series was just one indicator. The advent of the Internet has also made it possible to build strong fan cultures around niche television series such as Buffy the Vampire Slayer or The West Wing. At the heart of this fan culture activity is an identification with the characters in a storyline, and a desire to explore both the story and the point of view that lies behind it.

A young boy, Harry Potter, captured the imagination of many as he grew up with his audience. It seems fitting that the next mass-market mystical morality tale capturing the imaginations of children and young adults should feature a slightly awkward, self-conscious girl, teetering on the brink of womanhood.

While some may be tempted to dismiss these stories as Mills & Boon style romances for the young teen reader, at their heart they explore issues of identity, sexuality and spirituality. They reflect on material aspiration, prejudice and stereotyping, family breakdown, self-control and human dignity. They invoke the Bible and one of the characters speaks of the perspective of the Creator. They explore ancient myths and mystical practices that are entering the mainstream culture of the West.

Regardless of literary merit, the saga’s cold, hard sales facts are staggering. The series is made up of five books. Four have been published, but an unpublished fragment – Midnight Sun – tells the story found in the original Twilight series from the perspective of Edward, the main male character in the books. The fragment is over 260 pages long and further fills in both the romantic and the spiritual roots of the story.

The series, which launched in 2005, has become a publishing phenomenon. With sales in excess of 70 million by 2009 and translations into 38 languages, the Twilight Saga has emerged as a strong competitor for hearts and minds alongside the Harry Potter series and the controversial Da Vinci Code. While originally published for ‘young readers’, the saga has attracted a much wider audience, including women looking for a different take on romantic fiction.

…

Many will perhaps read these books and barely remember them. They will be the books of the month, literally and emotionally. But some will look upon them as a window on the world. Bella’s emotions regarding her awkwardness will ring true for them. The astonishing intensity of first sexual experiences and the tentative discovery of trust at a profound level will seep out of the pages and into the thought patterns of many readers.

Learning from stories is an ancient aspect of our culture. Two thousand years ago Jesus held large crowds spellbound as he painted rich word-pictures with his parables and proverbs. As we encounter the stories that make up the Twilight Saga we will want to be aware, as Jesus was, that some will hear the story and hardly understand it, but others will deeply internalize the things that they hear.

Think for a moment of Jesus’ story of the Prodigal Son, which Edward ruefully mentions upon his return from exile. (He had sought to protect Bella from vampire attack by being away from her.) Jesus draws the crowd into the emotional drama of the story as he recounts the ungrateful demands of the errant son. The extent of his downfall is made clear when we discover that he is feeding pigs. The depth of the father’s mercy is planted as an idea in the imagination of the hearer as he or she pictures the father running to extend mercy, and to signal to the local population his protection of the son they had every reason to despise. The willingness of the father to forgive is clear, but the idea arises from the story rather than any explicit mention of the word. It is an example of skilful storytelling.

The skilful storyteller evokes emotion and encourages empathy with the characters. Many readers will feel as if they are spectators, hovering in the background of the dialogue that they read or the story they hear. They will picture the scenes as they play out on a backdrop in their imagination. This powerful connection with the emotions of a story will often connect people with a religion, a philosophy or a point of view.

Fiction, obviously, has power. But how much? Those who say that stories such as the Twilight Saga ‘make’ people undertake explorations of sexuality or the occult are overstating the case. Stories do not ‘make’ anybody do anything. They introduce the possibility and excite the imagination: that is all. By the same token, those who would say that these are merely stories and that people will not internalize the value systems they find in the saga may also be suffering from a form of cultural myopia. Some people will take up the possibilities that they find in the story and act them out in their own lives. Stories bring ideas to life.

As we journey into the Twilight lands around Seattle, where our story is set, let us bear in mind that there will be many other explorers. Some will be walking in Bella’s shoes, deeply identified with her emotional vulnerability and her questions over her own character and motivations. Others will be fascinated by the vampire mythology, with its rebellion against the moral norms of society. They will be drawn into the struggles of those vampires who are reluctant to embrace their killing machine destiny and hang on to shreds of humanity in the hope of redemption or as an antidote to guilt.

Some will simply be quietly thrilled with the erotic subtext that runs through all four books. Many are not the least bit interested in direct depictions of the sexual act but are happy to get lost in the erotic world of discovery that the young virgin and the 104-year-oldman (who doesn’t seem to have had a girlfriend since he was 18, if at all) embark upon.

Just as there is no typical Twilight reader, so there is no one message. The story has many layers, some of which we are going to explore. It weaves together ideas about material consumption, sexuality, spirituality, personal psychic power, self-image, friendship and social networks, the glamour of rebellion, folklore and even tribal conflict. No wonder it is potent stuff.

But in what sense, if any, is it true? I live my life according to a magnificent narrative handed down through the millennia by the apostles and prophets of the religion that honors God, his Son Jesus and his emissary to us today, the Holy Spirit. The Twilight Saga does not purport to be ‘truth’ but many will feel that it contains truth about their life. To determine what is true and praiseworthy, I will be examining the ideas at the heart of the Twilight Saga in the light of the ideas at the heart of the Christian faith.

Examining popular culture through the eyes of Christian thought can sometimes be a painful process, which is why many Christians choose to turn their backs on that culture. It’s painful when the foundation we stand on is fear. Fear of what that culture might do to us. Fear of those who create that culture. Fear of what stain it might leave on our hearts or our minds. But I am not writing from a place of fear. I have no desire to plant seeds of fear in the lives of anyone who reads this book.

I want to write from a place of wisdom – not my own, but rather the wisdom I find throughout the pages of the Hebrew/Christian scriptures. In critiquing other worldviews, I desire to help people understand and respond and make good choices. I don’t want to tell them what to believe about contemporary vampire culture! I do want to hold up the ideas in the Twilight Saga to scrutiny, and help the reader to ask good, penetrating questions about those ideas.

In the book of Revelation, Jesus addresses the seven churches of Asia Minor, calling them to account for their behavior. He speaks very well of two of them and affirms something positive about every one of the other five. But he also says, ‘this I have against you’. As you read on you’ll discover that I affirm some of the story threads in the Twilight Saga. You’ll also discover very searching questions. They are offered in the spirit of the approach that Jesus took with the errant churches.

You and I are not Jesus and the Twilight Saga is not a church (although the www.twilightsaga.com website does have 183,000 members at the time of writing). The Twilight Saga does not affirm mainstream orthodox Christianity in its storylines or dialogue. But it does contain elements of what is good and wholesome. For instance, in Carlisle Cullen we find a man of peace. Bella is almost painfully humble, as well as being willing to sacrifice her life for others. Charlie Swan loves his daughter. Angela Weber personifies a quiet goodness. Esme Carlisle has the instinctive protective love of a mother, but towards children who are not her own. As you wander the Twilight lands, you’ll find grace, beauty and truth in the midst of moral complexity and spiritual promiscuity.

I want to acknowledge wisdom where we find it in the story, and to respect the fine storyteller who brings us the tale. We should be willing to stand in the shoes of other readers who come to this story with different expectations, backgrounds and experiences. But as we seek to understand why the story touches them, I hope we will also be willing to question and refute, and perhaps, when necessary, say ‘this I have against you’.

But first we need to go to Transylvania.

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!

and the book:

Genoa Bay

Monarch (December 15, 2009)

***Special thanks to Cat Hoort of Kregel Publications for sending me a review copy.***

A professional author, Bette Nordberg has published many books, plays, and articles. Her previous novels have been published by Bethany and Harvest House; this is her sixth. Her best known, Serenity Bay, has sold over 22,000 copies. She lives in Washington and she and her husband, Kim, have four children.

Visit the author’s website.

Product Details:

List Price: $14.99
Paperback: 320 pages
Publisher: Monarch (December 15, 2009)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 0825462967
ISBN-13: 978-0825462962

AND NOW…THE FIRST CHAPTER:

February 8th 2004

God talks to me.

Now, hear me out. Before you put me in the same category as the loony folks who hear voices just before they go on a shooting rampage at the local shopping mall, remember: In general, I don’t have visions. I don’t hear voices, either—at least not audible ones.

Still, sometimes, even in the most mundane of moments, I hear the voice of God.

Most recently, it happened down at Waterfront Park at Navy Point, right here in Pensacola. I’d taken Gabby, my seven-year-old and Liz our golden-doodle for a walk. Gabby rode her new bike, a fluorescent pink Speed Demon complete with training wheels, and Liz trotted along on a leash. By the time we began the final loop toward the car, my daughter had begun a serious meltdown.

“I don’t want to ride anymore,” she said, climbing off the silver seat. “It’s too hard. The wheels get stuck.”

She had me there. It seemed her bike’s only demon resided in the five inch balancing wheels that wobbled and froze in every quarter-sized pothole along the trail. Her short legs had powered their way through nearly two miles of these freeze-ups; she’d had enough. Who could blame her?

If Timothy were still alive, he’d have figured out a way to fix the wheels. Me? I’m no tool man. Instead of fixing the bike, I hoped that Mags would out grow the need for wheels.

“We’re almost to the van,” I said. “You can make it that far, can’t you?”
Gabby shook her head as tears began to roll down her cheeks. Crossing stubby arms across her chest, she said, “Go get the car!”

Wanting to avoid yet another battle, I resigned myself to pushing the bike back to the parking area. I wrapped the dog’s leash around my wrist, threw my purse strap across my back, and bent over to push the bike down the pavement. Glancing over my shoulder, I discovered that Gabby and the dog had chosen not to follow. Instead, Gabby—with both arms around the dog’s neck—was enjoying a face washing of sloppy dog kisses.

“Come on you two,” I called. “We don’t have all day.”

By the time we reached the van, my back ached, and sweat rolled down the space between my shoulder blades. I unlocked the car, started the engine and turned up the air conditioning. After settling Gabby in her safety seat, I loaded the little bike inside the passenger compartment. At last, holding the dog’s leash, I opened the back hatch and called for Liz. “Come on Liz,” I called. “Jump!”

The dog circled around behind me, as if to gain speed for the leap into the cargo space. But, just as her front paws touched the bumper, she balked, as if to change her mind. Liz jumped back to the ground, and sat down, whining. “Come on,” I pleaded. “Just get in the dumb car. We’re already late!”

Once again the dog circled. This time, instead of leaping for the cargo area, she stopped dead and circled back the other way. Apparently changing your mind is not a prerogative saved only for women. “Please, just get inside,” I begged, losing what little patience I had. After two more false starts, I began to exert my position as leader of the pack. This time, as Liz approached the car, I dragged her forward by the leash. Why wouldn’t the stupid dog just get into the car? How hard could it be?

That’s when I heard God speak. “Don’t be so critical,” his voice clearly said. “You’re not all that different from the dog.”

The problem with hearing from God, I’ve discovered, is that sometimes, he gives you an answer before you are even aware of the question. Such was the case that day at waterfront park. From the day Liz refused to enter the van, until I clearly understand his meaning, nearly four months passed. And until I put the pieces together, I felt as clueless as a blind man at the bottom of a deep well.

Deliver me, O Lord, from evildoers; protect me from those who are violent, who plan evil things in their minds and stir up wars continually. They make their tongue sharp as a snake’s, and under their lips is the venom of vipers.

Guard me, O Lord, from the hands of the wicked; protect me from the violent who have planned my downfall. The arrogant have hidden a trap for me, and with cords they have spread a net, along the road they have set snares for me.

I say to the Lord, “You are my God; give ear, O Lord, to the voice of my supplications.” O Lord, my Lord, my strong deliverer, you have covered my head in the day of battle. Do not grant, O Lord, the desires of the wicked; do not further their evil plot.

Those who surround me lift up their heads; let the mischief of their lips overwhelm them! Let burning coals fall on them!  Let them be flung into pits, no more to rise!  Do not let the slanderer be established in the land; let evil speedily hunt down the violent!

I know that the Lord maintains the cause of the needy, and executes justice for the poor.  Surely the righteous shall give thanks to your name; the upright shall live in your presence.

Psalm 140

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!

and the book:

Prevailing Love: 3-in-1 Collection: Sealed With a Kiss, the Wedding Wish, Montana Sky

Whitaker House (January 2010)

***Special thanks to Cathy Hickling of Whitaker House for sending me a review copy.***

A prolific writer, Loree Lough has more than seventy-three books, sixty-three short stories, and 2,500 articles in print. Her stories have earned dozens of industry and Reader’s Choice awards. A frequent guest speaker for writers’ organizations, book clubs, private and government institutions, corporations, college and high school writing programs, and more, Loree has encouraged thousands with her comedic approach to “learned-the-hard-way” lessons about the craft and industry. Loree and her husband split their time between Baltimore suburbs and a cabin in the Allegheny Mountains.

Visit the author’s website.

Product Details:

List Price: $9.99
Paperback: 496 pages
Publisher: Whitaker House (January 2010)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 1603741666
ISBN-13: 978-1603741668

AND NOW…THE FIRST CHAPTER:

May 31, London

Sam Sylvester was dying, and he knew it.

When he closed his eyes, he could picture the huge red truck careening around the corner on two wheels, its chrome bumper aiming straight for the convertible’s windshield.

Right before the impact, he’d glanced at Shari. As usual when they were driving, she’d had her nose buried in the pages of a romance novel. “It helps keep my mind off all the dangerous drivers,” she’d once said. It doesn’t get any more ironic than that, Sam thought.

He wondered where Shari was now. He’d seen the paramedics load her, bloodied and unconscious, into one of the ambulances at the scene. Had the Lord, in His infinite mercy, decided to take her home then and there, to spare her any suffering?

It was a struggle just to open his eyes, but Sam forced himself. Nothing in the bustling emergency room could possibly be as horrible as the pictures in his mind.

“Look ’ere, doctor,” came the mask-muffled Cockney accent of a nurse. “’e seems to be coming round.”

The broad, beefy face of a doctor peered at Sam from behind a surgical mask. “You know where you are, sir?” he asked, bushy brows drawn together in a frown.

Under other circumstances, Sam might have chuckled, because the doctor’s breath was causing the pleats of his white mask to puff in and out like the bellows of a tiny accordion. Instead, Sam tried to muster the strength to nod. Yes, he knew exactly where he was—on his way to heaven.

But you can’t go, he told himself. At least not yet. There was so much to do, so much to say, so many questions to ask before—

“M-my wife….” The words scraped from his parched throat like sandpaper across roughened wood. “W-where’s my wi—?”

“Down the hall,” said the nurse, patting his hand.

“Is she…is she—?”

The expression on her face told him everything he needed to know. Shari had already joined their Maker in Paradise. But maybe, just maybe, he’d read the blue eyes above the mask wrong….

He ignored the pain—pain that seemed to have no particular source, throbbing in every joint and every muscle. He screwed up his courage. He had to know for sure before he let go of this earthly life.

“Did she make it?”

In the moment of hesitation and silence that followed his question, Sam felt his own lifeblood seeping slowly onto the gurney beneath him. The doctors and nurses surrounding him were all perspiring, so why, he wondered, did he feel so cold?

Drowsiness threatened to take him far, far from the ER, but he fought it. “Did she make it?” he repeated with force.

“No, Mr. Sylvester,” said the whisper-soft voice of the nurse, “I’m afraid she didn’t.” Another gentle pat. “But I can promise y’ this—she didn’t suffer.”

Sam closed his eyes as a curious mix of gratitude and regret propelled a slow, groaning breath past his lips. Gratitude that his precious wife wouldn’t be “up there” alone for long. Regret because their sweet little girl would have to live the rest of her days without them.

At least Molly will have Ethan, thank God.

Ethan…every bit as alone in the world as Molly would soon be.

For the first time since he’d regained consciousness, Sam felt a profound fear pulse through him. Ethan…. They need to contact him right now because Molly’s going to need him!

With a strength that belied his condition, he gripped the nurse’s wrist. “What…what did they do with…where are my things?” he choked out.

“In a locker, just down the hall.” She fished in the pocket of her surgical gown as the corners of her eyes crinkled with a sympathetic smile. “I ’aven’t ’ad a chance yet to file it,” she said, withdrawing a key.

The way it caught and reflected the light made it look like a silvery cross, if only for an instant. In that instant, Sam pictured Jesus welcoming Shari home. “In my wallet,” he said, struggling for air now, “there’s a business card, and—”

Her blonde brows knitted with concern. “Please calm yourself, Mr. Sylvester.”

“Why?”

He watched as she blinked and tried to come up with a rational reason for him to calm down. His mind started to wander, and he recalled how he’d been a volunteer EMT in Maryland before moving to London. He’d witnessed enough accident scenes to know what impending death looked like. He knew that the remainder of his life could be numbered in minutes, and that he had just one reason to conserve his remaining strength: Molly.

He thought about the joy she’d brought into his life, into Shari’s. From the moment they’d picked up their round-faced infant at that crowded Korean orphanage eleven years ago, she’d enchanted them with her dancing brown eyes and elfin smile. And the first thing every morning since, Sam and Shari had thanked the Almighty for blessing them with their beautiful, raven-haired angel.

Life from now on would be hard for her. Very hard, especially at first. But Molly knew the Lord, and He would help her through those first sorrow-filled days. And she’d have her uncle Ethan to look out for her.

Molly adored Ethan, and Ethan had always loved Molly as much as if she were his own. Sam and Shari had discussed it dozens of times. The way he looked at Molly, the tenderness in his voice when he spoke to her—that was the reason they’d decided to make him godfather and guardian to their only child.

This would be hard for Ethan, too, Sam knew. But he’d be a good father to Molly. Sam was as certain of that as he was of God’s boundless love.

From out of nowhere, a line Sam had read somewhere reverberated in his head: In knowledge, there is power. Knowing Molly would be in good hands gave him enough physical power to persist with the nurse. “The card,” he said again, “will you…get it…for me?”

The doctor nodded his approval, and the nurse left to collect Sam’s belongings. He closed his eyes. Father, he prayed, let me hold on a little longer, for Molly’s sake….

“Is this it?”

Squinting, Sam smiled crookedly at the card held between the nurse’s thumb and forefinger. “After all that fuss,” he croaked out, “I’m ashamed to admit I…to admit that…that I can’t focus enough….to read it.”

“It says ‘Burke Enterprises,’ and under that, ‘Ethan Burke, President and CEO.’”

A relieved sigh rattled from his lungs. “Praise God,” he whispered. “Praise Jesus!”

For a moment, an odd stillness settled over the cramped, brightly lit cubicle, despite the blips and hums of the equipment monitoring his heart rate and pulse, despite the nonstop efforts of the medical team to repair his broken, battered body.

“What’s your name?” he asked the nurse.

She raised her eyebrows high on her forehead, her stethoscope bobbing, as she pointed to her chest.

“Yes, you.”

“Tricia Turner.”

Reaching for her hand, he said, “Will you call him for me, Tricia?” Sam squeezed her hand.

“I’ll see it gets done, soon as—”

Another squeeze, tighter this time, interrupted her. “I’d like you to do it.” Sam spoke slowly, knowing he had to conserve his waning strength until he could be sure Molly would be with Ethan as soon as was humanly possible. “You know as well as I that I’m not walking out of here, Tricia, so say you’ll grant me this last wish.”

She blinked once, twice, and then said, “I—I’ll try.”

“No,” Sam all but barked. “Promise me, before I die. Because my wife and I chose Ethan, there,” Sam said, nodding toward the card, “to be our daughter’s guardian, should anything happen to us. She’s only eleven, you see, and I—”

“I understand. And you have my word. I’ll phone him for you.”

“I have your word?”

She nodded just once, but it was enough. A feeling of great peace settled over Sam, and, smiling, he let go of her hand. “Thank you. And bless you, Tricia, for your kindness…for giving me peace.”

When she began to fade from view, Sam thought, Not a good sign. Not good at all. Good thing he’d given Molly an extra-big hug and an especially big kiss that morning. Good thing you told her how much you love her. And how you taught her to turn to God in times of trouble. The girl would need it—soon.

Soon, soon, soon, he chanted in his mind as a drowsy, dizzy sensation wrapped around him. The pain was gone now, and he felt nothing but the feathery weight of the stick-on patches that held the heart monitor wires in place on his chest. Sam closed his eyes and listened to the high-pitched one-note whine of the monitor.

“Code blue!” someone hollered.

“Crash cart, stat!” yelled someone else.

Their shouts didn’t startle him. Sam was beyond fear now. Somewhere in the deepest recesses of his conscious mind, he remembered his days as a paramedic, when he’d seen the flat line on the monitor signal the end of a life.

This is the last time you’ll have that memory…last memory you’ll have, period!

Did the saints in heaven remember their days on earth? And if they did, were they granted permission to visit their former world? Sam hoped so, because he wanted desperately to know that he could look in on Molly from time to time.

The lead surgeon on the team applied electric paddles to Sam’s chest, then bellowed “Clear!” as Tricia prepared a syringe for one last-ditch effort to save him. But Sam knew it was pointless. Soon, they’d realize the futility of their efforts, and by the time the doctor called time of death, he’d be with his Father, and with Shari, in Paradise.

Sam said one last prayer:

Lord Jesus, be with Ethan now. Guide his steps and his words, for Molly’s sake, as well as for his….

Chapter One

Same day, Potomac Hills, Maryland

There’d been a time when Ethan had enjoyed hosting parties—the bigger, the better—especially right here on his own riverfront estate. But his heart wasn’t in this one. Hadn’t been “in” much of anything lately.

Not so long ago, his parties had been described in the society pages as “colorful affairs.” But there hadn’t been much color in his life lately, either. Even the sun setting over the Potomac seemed drab and washed out.

Ethan stood on the pier, hands in his pockets, and looked back toward the great expanse of lawn, where no fewer than a hundred well-dressed guests meandered from tennis court to swimming pool to dual-level deck.

You’ve got it all, he thought, frowning. And from all outward appearances, he did have it all—a successful, self-made business; a big, beautiful house on three acres of prime Maryland real estate; seven automobiles—a sleek, high-priced sports car (for impressing the ladies), a classy, imported sedan (for impressing clients), and five roadsters of various vintages to impress himself…and neighbors who were rich and famous, to boot.

So why did he feel like something was missing? Something meaningful, something vital?

There were two bright spots in Ethan’s life: Burke Enterprises and his Korean-born goddaughter, Molly. The mere thought of the pretty preteen raised his spirits a bit. In another couple of weeks, Molly and her parents would arrive for a long, leisurely vacation, and already, he was counting down the days until the family would leave London for their annual trek to Maryland.

A woman’s shrill voice broke into his thoughts. “Peewee-than!” she hollered. “There you are!”

It was Kate, the six-foot, blonde marketing manager his vice president had appointed a couple months back. She waved a hand of red-taloned fingers above her head, and he sent a halfhearted salute in return, then faced the slow-surging river and ran both hands through his hair. He’d been neatly dodging her blatant flirtations all afternoon, pretending the ice bucket needed to be refilled or feigning a must-have conversation with someone across the way. But now he felt trapped, like a captive standing at the end of the gangplank on a buccaneer ship.

Her high-heeled sandals clickity-clacked as she pranced across the wide, weathered boards of the pier. “Ethan, what are you doing over here all by yourself? People are looking for you.”

Of course they were. And why wouldn’t they be? Somebody, somewhere, was always seeking him out for any one of a hundred reasons—a favor, a raise, a piece of advice, an introduction to another mover and shaker. With shoulders slumped, he shook his head. Quit feeling sorry for yourself, pal, he chided. As his mother would have pointed out, God had blessed him with a lot—materially and otherwise. But He’s taken away a lot, too….

“Ethan?”

You’ve got two choices, m’friend, he told himself, grinning slightly as he looked at the water swirling darkly around the pilings. Jump, or pretend you’re pleased to see her.

Turning, Ethan took a deep breath and fixed a practiced smile on his face. “Kate, darling,” he said smoothly, taking the goblet of iced tea from her hand, “looks like you need a refill. Let me get—”

Laughing lightly, she patted her flat stomach. “Please,” she gasped, “one more ounce of anything and I’ll positively pop!”

There was an awkward pause, and Ethan knew she was waiting for him to fill the void with some form of flattery about her figure. Unable to think of a single truthful thing to say, he let the moment pass.

A quick glance at his Rolex told him it was nearly four in the afternoon. Another hour or so and the party would be over. The crowd had already thinned considerably; once the last of them had gone, he’d call Sam and Shari to see if they’d made their airline reservations yet. Last time they’d talked, he’d promised to have a car pick them up at Baltimore-Washington International Airport. They were the closest thing to a family he’d likely ever have, so nothing but the best for them!

Kate linked her arm through his and led him back toward the house. “It sure was nice of you to throw a Memorial Day barbecue for Burke employees and their families,” she purred. “I want you to know…I’m especially happy to be here.”

Yeah, I’ll just bet you are, he thought.

His vice president, Pete Maxon, had told Ethan what he’d overheard Kate say two days prior: “If I play my cards right,” she told the gaggle of gals gathered near the water cooler, “I’ll be Mrs. Ethan Burke by this time next year!”

Mrs. Burke, my foot! “Couldn’t very well invite everyone else and leave your name off the guest list, now, could I?” was his bland reply.

By the time Sam and Shari had made him guardian of their only daughter six years earlier, Ethan had pretty much accepted the idea that Molly was the closest he’d come to having a child. He would have loved kids—a house full of them—but a man needed a wife for that. And every female he’d met so far had been like Kate, keeping her tummy flat and her sights firmly fixed on his checkbook. Hardly mother material!

“You look very handsome today,” she said, then threw back her back and laughed. “Which isn’t to say you don’t always look handsome. I just meant that in those jeans and that white shirt—”

A gale of robust laughter interrupted her. “Ethan, m’boy! There you are! Seems I’ve walked every inch of this plantation you call a home looking for you.” The silver-haired gentleman fixed his gaze on Kate. “Well, now, no wonder I couldn’t find him,” he told her, wiggling his eyebrows. Leaning in close, he lowered his voice to add, “I’d make myself scarce, too, if my date was as lovely as you.”

Ethan heard the phone ringing in the distance. Without knowing why, he tensed. Everyone who might have a reason to call him at home had been invited to the cookout. “Kate isn’t my date, Dad,” he said distractedly. “She’s—”

“Dad?” Kate interrupted. “This attractive young fellow is your father?” She flung an arm over his shoulders. “Why, you don’t look nearly old enough to have a son Ethan’s age,” she cooed.

The older man attempted a W. C. Fields imitation. “My dear, you’re an outrageous flirt!”

Kate kept her eyes on Ethan’s father. “Now I see where you get your good looks and your charm, Ethan.” She turned slightly, aiming a haughty expression at her boss. “We-e-e-ell?”

His stiff-backed stance and tight-lipped expression spoke volumes. At least they should have. Kate didn’t seem to notice at all how much her presence irked him.

“Aren’t you going to introduce us?”

Poor Kate, he thought. She somehow got the idea that Dad has more money than Donald Trump. Shoving both hands into his pockets, he stared at the close-cropped lawn in an attempt to hide his grin. If this is going where I think it’s going, you two deserve each other. “Dad, this is Kate Winslow,” came his bored monotone. “Kate, meet Sawyer Burke.”

During the introductions, he noticed that the phone had stopped ringing, and he wondered if Maria had answered it or if the machine had taken the call. Wondered, too, why a sense of foreboding still churned in his gut.

“It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, my dear,” Sawyer said, bowing.

Her hands clasped beneath her chin, Kate giggled like a silly schoolgirl. “Oh, but the pleasure is all—”

“Meester Burke! Meester Burke!”

All heads turned toward the deck, where Ethan’s housekeeper was leaning over the railing with a portable phone pressed to her aproned bosom. “Hurry,” she yelled, waving him closer. “Muy importante!”

Maria had worked for Ethan for years. The only other time he’d heard her carry on that way had been last Christmas, when the warmth of the fire had brought hundreds of praying mantis nymphs to life in the branches of the twenty-foot Douglas fir that dominated the living room. His heart pounding with fear and dread, Ethan took the steps two at a time.

There were tears in the eyes of the plump, gray-haired woman when she said, “Oh, Meester Burke…poor leetle Molly….”

Not Molly, Lord, he prayed silently. Please don’t let anything have happened to my sweet Molly….

With a trembling hand, he accepted the phone and slowly brought it to his ear. “Ethan Burke here….”

“Mr. Burke? Um, my name is, ah, Tricia Turner, and I’m a nurse at ’ampton ’ospital in London? I, uh, well….”

He had a yard full of guests, so why was the little Brit hemming and hawing? But the instant she finished her sentence, Ethan wished he’d never rushed her, even in his mind. Because not even her crisp Cockney accent made it easy to listen to the rapid-fire dispensation of information that followed. Sam and Shari had been killed in a car crash at Trafalgar Square, and their daughter was home alone with her nanny.

“She hasn’t been told yet?”

The long pause made him wonder if they’d been disconnected. But then she said, “No. Before Mr. Sylvester passed on, he told us you’re the child’s guardian. He said you’d take care of everything, including breaking the news about her mum and dad.” Another unbearable pause ensued before she added, “’e was one brave chap, that pal of yours, ’oldin’ on till ’e knew ’is li’le one would be in good ’ands….”

Ethan slumped into the nearest deck chair, one hand in his hair, the other gripping the phone so tightly his fingers ached. The nurse’s tone of voice rather than her words themselves told Ethan that Sam had suffered in the end. But how like him to bite the bullet until all the loose ends were tied up.

Suddenly, the full impact of the news hit him. Sam and Shari, gone? Ethan struggled to come to grips with the stunning reality—the finality—of it.

“Mr. Burke? Are y’there?”

The oh-so-British voice snapped him back to attention. “Yes. Yes, sorry.”

“’ow long d’you suppose it’ll take you to get ’ere? I don’t mean to be crass, but there’s the matter of…of….”

“Identifying the bodies?”

“Yes. Rules, y’know.”

The bodies. The funeral arrangements. Ethan was at a loss for words.

“So you’ll be ’ere soon, then…?”

Ethan hung his head, shading his eyes with his free hand. Sam and Shari had trusted him to do what needed to be done should anything like this ever happen. Of course, he hadn’t expected there would ever be a need for him to follow through; they’d always been so full of vim and vigor, always so alive.

The word reverberated painfully in his brain. If he’d known, when he’d signed the documents making him executor of their estate, that the prospect of making those hard, under-pressure decisions would turn his blood to ice, he might have suggested they hire a lawyer instead. An outsider. Someone who didn’t love them.

“How soon d’you think you can be ’ere, sir?”

A mental image of Molly, alone in the Sylvesters’ London flat with some barely-out-of-her-teens nanny, flashed through his head. She needed him, and if he had to pull every favor owed him, if he had to charter a private jet, he’d get there by morning. “I’ll be on the next London-bound plane leaving Baltimore,” he said. And, thanking her, Ethan hung up.

Propping the phone on the arm of the deck chair, he stared out at the Potomac. It wouldn’t be easy filling Sam’s shoes. The guy had made fatherhood look as natural as breathing. No matter how tired or overworked he had been, Sam had always dug deep and found the energy to spend time with his little girl.

Molly had told Ethan no fewer than a dozen times that he was her favorite grown-up. It was one thing playing part-time uncle. Being a full-time dad was something else entirely.

For that precious child’s sake, he hoped he was up to the task.

***

Three months later

Through the two-way mirror in the waiting room, Ethan watched the therapist working with Molly. Miss Majors had been recommended by Pastor Cummings. Ethan had prayed before making the decision, and he prayed now that it had been the right one.

He’d been at his wit’s end wondering how to cope with Molly’s sad, stoic silence. Then Maria had suggested he turn to his church for help. He might have thought of it himself, except that church hadn’t exactly been at the center of his life for the past few years. If not for Molly’s refusal to speak, he might not have started attending again. But he’d had no choice. Her condition was his fault—no ifs, ands, or buts.

His head in his hands, Ethan closed his eyes, unable to watch the child’s sorrowful expression a moment longer. He loved her as if she were his own flesh and blood; loved her the way he’d loved his sister Bess, his mother….

Why did it seem that whomever he loved deeply suffered?

With his eyes still squinted shut, he couldn’t see into the next room, but he could hear every word thanks to the speaker overhead. The pretty, young counselor was pulling out all the stops. She’d tried everything short of a song and dance act to this point, yet Molly hadn’t uttered a syllable.

Ethan slouched on the sofa. He kept his eyes closed and let his mind wander back to that terrible morning in London when he’d broken the tragic news to Molly. Despite the speech he’d practiced over and over during the red-eye flight into Heathrow Airport, he’d messed up big time when the moment finally came.

When he’d arrived at Sam and Shari’s, it had been easy to smile as Molly skipped around him in a slowly shrinking circle, clapping her hands and squealing with glee that her uncle Ethan had come to visit. They’d played this welcome game since she had been old enough to stand on her own, and he cherished every giggly moment.

That morning, she’d wrapped her arms around him, just as she’d done a hundred times before…and then stopped. “Mommy and Daddy haven’t called….”

Worry and fear were etched on her little face, and even as Ethan had prayed for the right words to erase them, he’d known no such power would be granted him that day.

“They always call,” she’d said, looking up into his face. “There must be something wrong….”

He’d perched on the edge of the sofa, invited her to sit down beside him, and then, with one arm resting on her slender shoulders, looked into those dark, trusting eyes…and lost it.

What kind of a man are you? Ethan had demanded of himself as tears coursed down his face. You’re blubbering like a baby…. It’s your job to comfort Molly, not the other way around! He’d never felt more like a heel than during those long, harrowing moments when she’d patted his shoulder, saying, “It’ll be okay, Uncle Ethan. Don’t cry. Won’t you tell me why you’re so sad?”

A minute or so later, after his carefully chosen words had been uttered, Ethan realized that in the space of a minute, maybe two, he’d completely destroyed her safe little world.

He hated the old adage that said, “Hindsight is always twenty-twenty.” However, looking into her shocked, pained eyes made him understand the truth of it as never before. He’d prayed for a kinder, gentler way to break the news. So, why hadn’t God delivered on His “ask, and ye shall receive” promise?

He should have been gentler. Should have eked out the information more slowly. Should have brought in a professional to help deliver the awful, life-changing news….

The ugly memory made him groan aloud and drive his fingers through his hair. The all-business attitude that had kept his nose to the grindstone while building Burke Enterprises had given him the drive and motivation to work until he thought he might drop, watch the market with a shrewd eye, and study his competitors even more closely. “Tell it like it is” had become watchwords—no exceptions. Straight talk had never let him down before, but it had backfired miserably that morning with Molly. He wondered what Miss Majors would say about his pathetic performance as a parent.

Well, at least he’d done one thing right—he hadn’t gone into detail about the accident. He’d been to the morgue and seen his friends’ battered, lifeless bodies. The poor kid sure didn’t need the image of that in her head for a lifetime!

Ethan didn’t think he’d ever forget the way her dark lashes had fluttered as her deep-brown eyes filled with tears. She’d begun to quake, as if each tremor was counting the beats of her breaking heart. “B-but…but they promised,” she’d whimpered.

“Promised what, sweetheart?”

“That…that they’d never leave me. Th-that they’d be here for me, forever.” She’d punched the sofa cushion. “They can’t be dead. It isn’t true! It isn’t!”

Not knowing what to say, he’d simply held out his arms, his own eyes filling with tears again as he sent a silent message with one nod of his head: Yes, it’s true.

For a moment, she’d simply sat, staring. Then she’d thrown herself into his arms, and they’d cried together. Ethan had no idea how much time had passed—minutes? half an hour?—before her rib-racking sobs and shirt-soaking tears subsided. Then, Molly had sat back, dried her eyes with the hem of her plaid skirt, and sucked in a huge gulp of air. “It’s my fault,” she’d whispered, staring blankly ahead.

She hadn’t said a word since.

And now, despite Miss Majors’ valiant efforts, Molly sat stiff and straight in the bright-red armchair, ankles crossed and hands folded primly in her lap, staring at some indistinct spot on the floor.

It would feel good, actually, to confess his faults and frailties to this stranger; it would feel equally good when she gave him the tongue-lashing he deserved, not that taking his lumps would change anything.

The counselor stood up and walked over to the two-way mirror, flipped a switch on the wall, and tapped on the glass. Up to this point, Ethan had been able to see and hear everything that was going on in the exam room without being visible to its occupants. But now, Miss Majors and Molly could see and hear him, too. The counselor’s beautiful green eyes zeroed in on his, and she smiled softly. “Mr. Burke, I realize Molly’s session has ended, but I’m hoping you’ll stay a few minutes to talk with me.”

Ethan blinked, unnerved by her intense scrutiny. Here it comes, he thought, the dressing-down of your lifetime. “I—uh, well, sure,” he stammered, running a hand through his hair. He had the sudden feeling that this nervous habit betrayed a deep psychological disorder, and she must have read his mind, because Miss Majors tilted her head and raised an eyebrow.

She opened the door in the exam room that led to the waiting room, then walked past him purposefully to her office, tossing Molly’s file on the blotter on her desk. He followed and stood in the doorway. “She’ll be fine in there,” the counselor assured him. “As you can see, Molly is all wrapped up in a book she found on the shelf.”

He glanced back into the exam room, where, sure enough, Molly was sitting in that same red chair with an open book in her lap. How long was I lost in thought? he wondered. “She hasn’t been that interested in anything since I brought her home,” he admitted, meeting the therapist’s eyes. “How’d you get her to do that?”

“It’s my job,” she said in the same no-nonsense tone he remembered from the telephone conversations that had led up to this appointment. “Please, make yourself comfortable.”

She gestured to an upholstered armchair facing her desk.

As comfortable as a body can get in a contraption like this, he thought, sliding onto its seat. Ethan immediately leaned forward, balanced elbows on knees, and said, “So, can you help her or not?”

Miss Majors was standing behind her chair, her pale pink-painted fingernails drumming on the wood-trimmed headrest. When she smiled, the room brightened. He was taken aback until he realized why her smile looked so different, so special. It wasn’t a flirty grin intended to knock him for a loop or a seductive smirk meant to advertise her availability, which were the types he’d grown accustomed to receiving from women of all ages. Her smile was honest, unpretentious. She was offering herself, all right…but on a caring, professional level.

Ethan found his respect for her growing, and he’d opened his mouth to compliment her when she said, “Yes, we can help her. But it’ll take time, perhaps a lot of it, to find out why she stopped talking.”

Pausing, she plopped into her chair. “And it’ll take a major time commitment from you, Mr. Burke.”

Her voice was soothing, rhythmic, like the calming sound of the Potomac lapping at the piling that supported his pier. Ethan sat back and crossed his legs, resting an ankle on his knee. “I intend to cooperate in any way I can. Tell me what to do, and it’s as good as done.”

Miss Majors wrote something in Molly’s file, then stood up and walked around to the front of her desk. Perching on one corner, she said, “I’m glad to hear that.”

His mind began to wander as she matter-of-factly outlined a course of treatment. She’s not much bigger than most of her clients, he mused. His gaze shifted from her big, green eyes to the mass of long, carrot-colored curls framing her face, making her look like a cross between Julia Roberts and Pippi Longstocking. And really, what kid wouldn’t be attracted to a woman like that?

Earlier, as she’d walked ahead of him into her office, he’d felt like a cartoon character floating along on the delectable scent of flowers and sunshine. The aroma reminded him of the hedgerow behind his childhood home…lilacs? Honeysuckle?

Ethan shifted in his chair, suddenly angry with himself. What sort of person was he, anyway, having thoughts like that about the woman who would help his little Molly escape her self-imposed prison of silence?

“If you’re agreeable, I’d like to hold all future sessions at your house,” she was saying. “At least, until we make some headway.”

It appeared she hadn’t noticed how far his mind had wandered from Molly, and after a quick prayer of thanks, he nodded.

“I think she’ll benefit from being in familiar surroundings.”

“I agree.”

Miss Majors lifted her chin a notch and tilted her head slightly as those bright eyes zeroed in on his face. “I think it’s important for you to be available for the first few sessions, if at all possible.”

“Of course, it’s possible,” he blurted out. “Nothing is more important than Molly.”

“Not even Burke Enterprises?”

He clenched his teeth. Hadn’t he just said that Molly came first? What did she mean by that crack, anyway? “Not even Burke Enterprises,” he affirmed.

She’d said it to put him to the test. He could see it in her eyes, in the way one eyebrow lifted at his response. He’d used the tactic himself plenty of times during hard business negotiations. And from the looks of her approving smile, he’d passed.

“Good,” she said matter-of-factly. She returned to the other side of her desk, sat down, and opened her daily planner. “Three times a week, an hour at a time, for starters,” she said, clicking a ballpoint pen into action. And without looking up, Miss Majors added, “Mornings are usually best for the kids.”

Most of Ethan’s business meetings were scheduled first thing in the morning. But he’d just underscored that nothing was more important than Molly, and he aimed to prove it. Reaching into his suit coat pocket, Ethan slid out his electronic calendar. “Nine o’clock?” he asked, hitting the On button.

The upward curve of her full, pink lips told Ethan she hadn’t expected him to agree so quickly.

“I owe you an apology, Mr. Burke.”

Confused, he blinked. “What? But…why?”

“For appearing inflexible.” She shrugged. “I’ve been at this long enough to know that people rarely say what they mean. Especially people like you—with plenty of money—who can hire others to do what….”

It seemed to Ethan that she hadn’t intended to be quite that open and honest. Maybe that would teach her not to judge all her wealthy clients by the abysmal behavior of a few.

“Most parents say they want to help,” she continued, “and that they understand therapy will take time, and patience, and cooperation. But what they really want is…for me to perform a miracle. Like I’m equipped with a magic wand that’ll fix everything with one quick stroke.” She gave another shrug. “It’s not an altogether fair tactic, but I’ll do anything, say anything, go to any lengths, to help my kids.”

Her kids? Was that something all the self-professed child experts said to worried parents? Half a dozen other specialists had said the same thing…and had failed to draw Molly out of her shell.

Still, there was something about Miss Majors that made Ethan believe she could no more look him in the eye and lie than leap from the roof of this three-story building and fly to the parking lot! It made him want to give her a shot, if for no other reason than that time was running out. The longer Molly remained in her wordless world, the harder it would be to coax her out of it.

“You’re the expert,” he conceded. “So even when it’s inconvenient, or difficult, I’ll make whatever changes are necessary to help Molly.”

With pen poised above her book, she smiled. “Just so we can get things started sooner rather than later, what do you think of my coming to your house at seven tomorrow evening? And when we wrap things up, we can schedule dates and times that work for all of us.”

“Sounds like a plan to me.” Without knowing it, she’d spared him having to cancel and reschedule tomorrow’s early-morning meetings. Ethan got to his feet and extended a hand. She stood up, too, and reached across her desk to shake it. The power of her grip surprised him, especially considering her slight frame. If her ideas about helping Molly were as solid as her handshake, things would right themselves in no time.

Ethan pulled a business card out of his pocket and plucked a pencil from a mug on her desk overflowing with writing implements. “It’s tough to find my driveway if you don’t know what to look for,” he said, sketching a small, crude map on the back of the card, “so this should make it a little easier. Just watch for a gray mailbox.”

Accepting the map, she thanked him and, nodding, watched him as he left her office and entered the exam room. He felt her eyes on him as he took the girl by the hand and led her down the hall. If he hadn’t glanced over his shoulder as he and Molly were waiting for the elevator, he’d never have seen her wiping tears from her gorgeous green eyes. The sight of it touched something in him, though he couldn’t say what, couldn’t understand why. Her reaction should have roused deep concern. After all, weren’t therapists supposed to remain aloof and unemotional if they hoped to obtain successful results?

It wasn’t like him to let go of a suspicion that quickly, that easily. He’d sealed many deals with nothing more than gut instinct to go on. So no one was more surprised than Ethan when he said a silent prayer asking God to help him figure out if he’d made the right choice for Molly—or if he simply wanted to believe he had—because something about the pretty counselor called to something desperately lonely deep within himself….

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!

and the book:

Eats With Sinners

Standard Publishing (November 20, 2009)

***Special thanks to Blythe Daniel of The Blythe Daniel Agency, Inc. for sending me a review copy.***

Arron Chambers, author of Running on Empty: Life Lessons to Refuel Your Life (Life Journey, 2005), Scripture to Live By (Adams Media, 2007), and Remember Who You Are! (Standard Publishing, July 2007), Yendo Con El Tanque Vacío (Spanish Translation of Running on Empty–Zondervan, November 2007), Go! (Standard Publishing, July 2009), and Eats With Sinners (Standard, November 2009) is the Lead Minister of Journey Christian Church in Greeley, Colorado.

He is also an Adjunct Professor at Florida Christian College, Contributing Editor and Blogger for The Christian Standard, President & Founder of Tri Life, Inc., an inspirational speaker, husband and the father of 4 kids.

Arron is also the Executive Producer and on-air host of the prime-time TV program, Enjoy the Journey with Arron Chambers. Arron holds the following degrees: Master of Arts (Church History/Theology): Abilene Christian University, May 2000; Bachelor of Theology: Florida Christian College, May 1993; Bachelor of Arts (Major-Preaching; Minor-Counseling): Florida Christian College, May 1992.

Visit the author’s website.
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Product Details:

List Price: $12.99
Paperback: 224 pages
Publisher: Standard Publishing (November 20, 2009)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 0784723184
ISBN-13: 978-0784723180 

ISLAND BREEZES

I really like the subtitle on this book.  Just how did Jesus reach hungry people?  He hung out with sinners.  He ate with them.  If we’re going to do the same we must have integrity so that we don’t get pulled off course.

There are many other ingredients needed in the life of one who wants to eat with sinners, and Arron Chambers expands on them in this book.

He takes you through each chapter with meal prep, a meal plan and some scrumptious sounding recipes.  Right now I’m thinking I’d like to have some Everyday Fruit Salad for my dinner.

AND NOW…THE FIRST CHAPTER:

People, on the other hand, aren’t always trustworthy. We’re all over the place, so we have to sign contracts, put our right hand on the Bible, pay deposits, and back up our word by saying, “Cross my heart, hope to die, stick a needle in my eye.” (Stick a needle in my eye? Who comes up with this stuff . . . the CIA?)

My friend Gary Mello from Orlando told me a story from his high school days. He worked on a 125-foot scallop boat, the Rodman Swift IV, that sailed out of New Bedford, Massachusetts. Hard and dangerous work, scalloping paid well, and many young men jumped at the chance to fish for scallops in the North Atlantic. The crew worked long hours, rotating shifts and manning every station during all hours of the day and night.

One evening they put out from New Bedford on an eight-hour trip that would take them past Nantucket to the scalloping grounds in the Atlantic. Early in the trip Gary was assigned to the wheelhouse and told not to touch anything but to watch the steering compass and make sure the boat stayed on course. The gyro repeater (a steering compass) had been set to a heading of 280 degrees N, so the ship was set to autopilot to its destination. A gyro repeater steers the ship to the coordinates determined and set by the captain. It’s a complicated system that works extremely well because of the dependability of the magnetic pull of true north. Gary was simply to make sure that the ship didn’t deviate off course.

“No problem,” Gary replied, as he took his seat next to the compass and prepared for a long—and boring—night.

At some point early in the evening, Gary became thirsty, so—knowing he couldn’t leave his post—he hollered to his friend Stoney to bring him a canned soft drink. Gary finished his Coke, set it next to the compass, and returned to intermittent glances at the compass and the nautical maps he had secured to figure out where the boat was heading.

Hours passed, and Gary started to grow concerned because he was sure that he was starting to see land out of the window on the starboard side.

The compass still pointed at 280 degrees N, which would be taking them away from land and far out to sea for an early-morning rendezvous with the fishing ground, so he figured he was mistaken and tried to relax. But something didn’t feel right.

Eventually his concern grew to the point that he felt compelled to leave his post and tell the captain. Into the damp darkness of the captain’s quarters, connected to the wheelhouse, Gary softly whispered, “Cap, I’m not sure we’re heading in the right direction.”

Half asleep, the captain asked if the compass still pointed to 280 degrees N.

“Yes,” Gary replied.

“Then I’m sure we’re fine. You’re probably just seeing ground fog. Don’t worry about it.”

With the captain’s reassurance, Gary made his way back to his post, convinced that if the captain wasn’t worried, then he shouldn’t be either. Several hours passed as the ship steamed toward its early-morning appointment with a multitude of mid-Atlantic scallops. And everything seemed OK until the first light of morning confirmed Gary’s worst nightmare.

Land!

In a panic he interrupted the captain’s slumber one more time. “Captain,”

Gary whispered, “I think I’m seeing land.”

“It’s just ground fog,” the captain muttered.

Convinced that something was amiss, Gary shouted, “No, I’m seeing land!”

“Impossible!” the captain grumbled as he quickly dressed and headed to the wheelhouse, where he verified Gary’s fears. The ship was not heading 280 degrees N, but south down the coast to Long Island, New York!

“Gary, what did you do?”

“Nothing. I just sat here and stared at that compass all night long like you told me to.”

“Did this compass stay on 280 degrees N all night?”

“Yes, sir. And I haven’t left the wheelhouse except to get you.”

The captain reset the compass while he searched for some reason for the deviation. It didn’t take too long to identify the source of the problem. “Gary, is this your can of soda?”

It was.

“The metal in your #@%$#@#$ soda can messed with the magnet in the compass, and it’s caused the whole #@%$#@#$ ship to deviate off course! Do you see what you did?!” the captain shouted.

The can had disrupted the magnetic field around the compass, and the Rodman Swift IV and her crew went eight hours off course. Gary learned an important lesson about compasses, magnets, navigation, and the ability of a scallop-boat captain to invent new curse words when he is extremely angry. He also learned how easily a ship can be pulled off course by something as simple as a soft drink can.

Jesus had integrity. Like true north, his life was a fixed point of reference that others could follow and find their way to God.

The apostle Mark described an encounter between Jesus and some Pharisees and Herodians (Jews who were supporters of Rome), who tried to trap Jesus in his words and find some way to accuse him of being a fraud, a false prophet, or a threat to Judaism. They began by confirming Jesus’ reputation, saying, “Teacher, we know you are a man of integrity. You aren’t swayed by men, because you pay no attention to who they are; but you teach the way of God in accordance

with the truth” (Mark 12:14).

Understanding the importance of pointing people to God—and his role as the way—Jesus, with hair still damp with the waters of baptism and with the loving words of an approving Father ringing in his ears, followed the Holy Spirit into the desert. For forty days he was tempted by the devil. His mission to find wayward people began with allowing himself to be led away—into the desert—and having his integrity confirmed through testing, testing that was essential to the success of his ministry and the key to his understanding our struggles.

If Jesus had fallen in the desert, there would have been no hope for this fallen world, so it’s a good thing that he did the good thing when tempted. In the desert and throughout his life, Jesus was “tempted in every way, just as we are” (Hebrews 4:15), but he did not sin—an example of both the reality and power of integrity.

I believe that before we can truly help lost people find their way through the desert of temptation and back to the Father, we must, like Jesus, survive our own deserts of temptation—defining moments when we grow into more or shrink into less. Jesus’ ministry to reach lost people began with a defining moment in the wilderness when he had to choose (three times, actually) between right and wrong. Would he give in to temptation, become just another sinner, and hinder his ministry; or would he do the right thing? He chose to do the right thing.

Unlike Jesus, we are not perfect. We all sin, but that doesn’t mean we can’t be people of integrity. In the end, for people who aren’t going to die on a cross for the sins of the world, a life of integrity is not defined by a moment of weakness. We are going to make mistakes, but that doesn’t mean that we can’t be used by God to make a difference, if we’ll only learn from our mistakes and refuse to let them pull our lives off course and away from integrity.

Living a life of integrity is essential if we want to have a truly effective ministry. You can have integrity without a ministry, but you can’t have a ministry without integrity.

This is why God required the high priest, under the old covenant, on the Day of Atonement, to clean himself before entering God’s presence. The high priest was to bathe before putting on the sacred garments (Leviticus 16:4) and to deal with his own sins before dealing with the sins of the people. Before he shed one drop of animal blood to atone for someone else’s sin, the high priest had to shed the blood of a bull for his own sin and the sin of his household (vv. 6, 11).

God required that the high priest make his first ministry to himself and his household, because if that ministry failed, no one would care to hear what he had to say about God. The priest was God’s representative to the people, so it was essential for him to be godly and to have integrity.

This is why God led Jesus, our high priest (Hebrews 4:14), from the waters of baptism into the wilderness to prove his integrity.

This is why God wants us, his priests (1 Peter 2:5, 9; Revelation 1:6; 5:10), to be people of integrity before we begin our ministry to lost people.

It’s the purpose behind the whole log-in-the-eye story that Jesus told on that mountain near Capernaum. Trying to teach us the importance of dealing with our own integrity issues before attempting to help others with theirs, Jesus said, “Why do you look at the speck of sawdust in your brother’s eye and pay no attention to the plank in your own eye? . . . You hypocrite, first take the plank out of your eye, and then you will see clearly to remove the speck from your brother’s eye” (Luke 6:41, 42).

What a hilarious picture!

What important truths for each of us to remember before we eat the first morsel of food with a lost person!

First, Jesus does want us to get specks out of other people’s eyes. Don’t miss that point.

Second—which really comes first—before we attempt to get specks out of other people’s eyes, we must first take the planks out of our own eyes. Pretty humbling. But Jesus wants our ministries to be characterized by integrity, not hypocrisy. Hypocrisy is cancerous to evangelism, rendering Jesus a joke and his message a punch line in the hearts and minds of lost people.

Integrity Produces Authenticity, Not Hypocrisy

One of my favorite Hans Christian Andersen fables describes the life of an emperor who was arguably the most famous hypocrite of all time.

The emperor loved new clothes. One day two swindlers came to his city. They made people believe they were weavers who could manufacture the finest cloth to be imagined—but that the quality of the clothes was so high, the clothes would be invisible to anyone who was not very discerning or was unpardonably stupid. These charlatans worked hard but made nothing. Nonetheless, when the emperor was shown his “new outfit,” he acted impressed even though he saw nothing, and he agreed to wear the outfit in a parade through his kingdom.

As the emperor marched through the streets, everyone who saw him cried out, “Indeed, the emperor’s new suit is incomparable! What a wonderful suit!” The people didn’t want others to know they saw nothing. The universal praise continued until the emperor passed by a little child who cried out, “The emperor’s not wearing any clothes!” At this, everyone in the kingdom acknowledged the same fact and joined the child in proclaiming, “The emperor’s not wearing any clothes!” The charade was over.

Our charade must end too.

Just as sure as that delusional emperor was buck naked and needed to admit it, you and I are sinners who need to get authentic and admit both our tendency to sin and our need of salvation. We’re all sinners who fall short of the glory of God (Romans 3:23). Let’s be authentic and admit it.

Integrity Produces Courage, Not Fear

Integrity doesn’t just manifest itself in authenticity; it also manifests itself in courage.

Telemachus, a fifth-century monk, was a man of integrity who faced his fears and in so doing saved lives and pointed lost people to God. The story is told of how Telemachus followed the crowds to the Coliseum in Rome and watched sadly as two gladiators fought to the death. Telemachus tried to get between them, shouting, “In the name of Christ, stop!” Enraged that this man was interrupting their entertainment, the crowd stoned Telemachus. When the people came to their senses and saw the monk lying dead in a pool of blood, they fell silent and left the stadium. According to tradition, because of Telemachus’s death, three days later the emperor ended the practice of gladiators fighting to the death.3

“The wicked man flees though no one pursues, but the righteous are as bold as a lion” (Proverbs 28:1). Telemachus was as bold as a lion, and we should be too.

To reach this world with the saving message of Jesus Christ, we’re going to have to be courageous, and we will be . . . if we are also righteous.

Sin makes cowards of us all.

A father who smoked pot in college may be afraid to tell his son to say no to drugs.

A mother who slept with other men before marriage may feel intimidated about trying to persuade her eighteen-year-old daughter to save herself for marriage.

The pastor who struggles with an addiction to pornography may find it impossible to preach against the very monster that privately stalks him late at night while his family sleeps upstairs.

Private sin is an evil warden that Satan employs to keep us locked up, silent, and hopeless in a dungeon that reeks with fear. But private sin is also an illusion. We can’t fool God.

God searches our hearts (1 Chronicles 28:9; Psalm 7:9; Romans 8:27; Revelation 2:23) and knows the sins we struggle with. He stands ready to “forgive us our sins and purify us from all unrighteousness” (1 John 1:9). His forgiveness, and his forgiveness alone, makes us righteous—people with integrity who should be courageous in the face of sin…and sinners.

Integrity Produces Faithfulness, Not Perfection

Men and women with integrity are unstoppable.

You can be unstoppable.

When Nehemiah needed someone to make sure the gates in the newly rebuilt walls around Jerusalem were not opened until the right time, he called on a man named Hananiah, “because he was a man of integrity and feared God more than most men do” (Nehemiah 7:2).

When Satan wanted a man to prove human frailty, God offered him a man of integrity who would be faithful to the end, saying, “Have you considered my servant Job? There is no one on earth like him; he is blameless and upright, a man who fears God and shuns evil” (Job 2:3).

These men were faithful—not perfect.

Think about King David, the man who slept with a woman who was not his wife (Bathsheba) and then had her husband killed in battle. The apostle Paul reminds us of what God thought about David: “I have found David son of Jesse a man after my own heart” (Acts 13:22). God said this not because David was perfect, but because David was faithful (Hebrews 11:32, 33). Yes, David was a sinner, but he didn’t allow himself to be defined by sin but by faithfulness. He was a man who—when confronted about his sin by the prophet Nathan—admitted he was a sinner (2 Samuel 12:13) and took significant steps to mend his character.

David’s life was not defined by a moment of weakness.

God told Solomon, David’s son, to follow his dad’s example: “If you walk before me in integrity of heart and uprightness, as David your father did, . . . I will establish your royal throne over Israel forever” (1 Kings 9:4, 5). God wanted Solomon to look at his father’s life as a point of reference. Not because David was perfect, but because he was faithful. And David was faithful because he had integrity. God wants us to be people of integrity.

Meal Prep • Walking with Integrity

1. Personal Devotions: Get your Bible, find a quiet place, and start reading the book of Luke. After reading for a while, stop and spend some time in prayer. Ask God to help you identify the areas in your life that are not as pure as they should be.

2. Find an Accountability Partner: I meet with other Christians every week for the sole purpose of ensuring that I’m growing in my faith and living the kind of life I should be living. Find a Christian—of the same gender—with whom you can meet on a regular basis and by whom you can be held accountable for living a life of integrity.

3. Church Attendance: Are you regularly meeting with a local church? If not, it’s time to get involved with one. This will put you in fellowship with other Christians and in a place where you will be exposed to biblical teaching—both of which will help you to live a life of integrity.

Why does God call us to be people of integrity? First, for our own good. And second, he doesn’t want our lives to pull off course the lives of the lost people who are following us.

Delmar, one of the elders at the church where I serve, is a man of integrity.

Delmar leads a Saturday morning Bible study at a local bar called The Fort. This gives him the opportunity to reach people with the gospel in a place where they feel comfortable. He reaches people for Jesus because his life is a fixed point that the people at The Fort can follow straight to Jesus.

Those people at The Fort don’t realize it, but they need Delmar to be a man of integrity. They need us to be people of integrity . . . fixed points of reference they can follow to find themselves . . . not lost, not heading south to Long Island . . . not even heading 280 degrees N, but heading back to where they were supposed to be all the time.

For Personal Study and Reflection: In the space below write the name of a Christian you think is a person of integrity. List three adjectives that describe this person and prove he or she is a person of integrity.

For Group Study and Discussion: Ask your group members to each bring a photo of someone they believe to be a person of integrity. As the group time begins, have people show their photos and tell why they believe the person in the photo has integrity.

1. Who first introduced you to Jesus Christ? Describe what happened.

2. As you reflect on your conversion and how God used this person to introduce you to Jesus, which of the following had the biggest impact: what the person said to you, how the person lived, or some other factor?

3. Describe a time when God gave you a chance to share your faith. What were your three biggest concerns during this evangelistic experience? Read Luke 4:1-13. In this passage Jesus was led by the Holy Spirit into the wilderness for forty days to be tempted by the devil. Satan wanted Jesus to lose his way in the wilderness, but Jesus withstood the test and became “the way” (John 14:6) for us.

4. Jesus was hungry, and then Satan tempted him to turn some stones into bread (Luke 4:3). What does this teach us about Satan? What can we do to prepare ourselves for attacks like this?

5. Satan showed Jesus all the kingdoms of the world and then offered them all to Jesus (v. 6). Understanding that Satan doesn’t own anything, what does this temptation teach us about him?

6. The devil quoted Scripture to Jesus. What does this reveal about Satan? What is one thing you can do this week to learn more Scripture?

7. Jesus rebutted Satan’s attacks by quoting Scripture (vv. 4, 8, 12). What can we learn from this example about the power of God’s Word to help when we are being attacked by the devil?

8. What would have happened to Jesus’ ministry if he had given in to any of these three temptations?

9. We are all sinners (Romans 3:23) who will, at one time or another, experience a moral failure of some type. How does a moral failure that has not been dealt with impact our efforts to share our faith with lost friends? On the other hand, how does a moral failure that has been dealt with help us as we share our faith?

10. What did this time of testing reveal about Jesus’ character? How did this time of testing prepare him for his ministry to lost people? How have your times of spiritual testing prepared you to be a better evangelist?

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!

and the book:

Beaded Hope

Tyndale House Publishers, Inc. (February 15, 2010)

***Special thanks to Maggie Rowe of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc. for sending me a review copy.***

Cathy Liggett is the author of several contemporary romances and one nonfiction book. She worked in advertising copywriting and gift product development before turning to her passion for writing fiction. She was inspired to write Beaded Hope after traveling to South Africa on a mission trip like the one described in the story. Cathy and her husband, Mark, have two grown children and live in Loveland, Ohio.

Visit the author’s website.

Product Details:

List Price: $12.99
Paperback: 400 pages
Publisher: Tyndale House Publishers, Inc. (February 15, 2010)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 1414332122
ISBN-13: 978-1414332123

ISLAND BREEZES

Four women went to South Africa on a mission trip.  Two weeks later four totally different women emerged from the continent.  This was such a touching book, that I want to go there and meet Mama Penny.  I want to be part of Beaded Hope and help spread Jaleela’s dream. 

My heart is so full right now that I can’t really say much more than you have to read this one.  It’s a keeper.  Oh, yes.  You’ll need that box of tissue again unless you have on a long shirt tail or nice billowy sleeves to sop up the tears.

You know, there really is a Beaded Hope.  Check it out.  Part of the proceeds from the sale of this novel go to support this organization.

AND NOW…THE FIRST CHAPTER:

“Hey, Gabby, what are you doing?”

Even after all their years together, the sound of her husband’s voice could still make Gabrielle Phillips’s heart skip a beat. She pressed the cell phone closer to her ear. It had been such a long week without Tom at home. “I’m running into Hirscham’s to pick up a shirt for Dad’s birthday.”

“Running? You’re running?”

His overly cautious tone brought a smile to her face. “Not running, silly, although I could run, you know. I’m walking briskly. Hurrying. I have to be back at church by 1:30 for a meeting with the other directors.”

“Is everything . . . ?” His hesitancy to finish the sentence told her everything he feared. How many times had he asked the same question only to hear the worst? No wonder Tom could barely ask anymore. Only fools got too close to a fire after getting burned time and again.

But at least today she had good news.

“Everything is fine. Absolutely fine. Wonderful. Really.” Closing her eyes, Gabby whispered her thanks to God. Tom’s audible sigh and then silence made her think he might be doing the same. “Except for . . . I miss you terribly.”

“Yeah?”

“When does your flight get in? Soon, I hope. It’s supposed to storm today.”

Dressing for work this morning, she’d seen the weather report on the small television sitting on top of the dresser in their bedroom. The meteorologist hadn’t just predicted rain; he’d more like ranted about it, threatening a downpour, pointing to patches of colors ranging from alarming yellow to raging red on his Doppler 10 radar screen.

“My plane gets in around five. But I looked online. I don’t think the rain’s supposed to start till later tonight.”

“Oh? Well, good.” That concern dismissed, she thought ahead. “Pizza for dinner?”

“Should you eat pizza?”

Smiling, she rolled her eyes though no one was nearby to notice. “How about half-veggie, half-pepperoni?”

“Perfect. Just like you. Love you, Gabby.”

“I know.”

Somehow through all the pain and drama and disappointments over the years of their marriage, they had survived, shakily at times, but together just the same. And now they’d been rewarded.

So rewarded! She let out a contented sigh.

As her boots scuffed against the dry parking lot pavement, Gabby had to admit she must’ve heard the weatherman wrong. At the moment, nearly white clouds with only hints of gray streaked a blue-brushed sky, looking far too benevolent for any monstrous storm to crackle through the heavens anytime soon.

But Gabby still felt glad she’d decided not to take any chances before she’d left home this morning. No way she wanted to risk slipping and falling on a rain-slicked floor. Not with their baby growing inside her—the baby she and Tom had waited for for so long. So painfully long.

Instead, she’d tossed her black ballet flats back into the closet she shared with her husband, opting for ragged but sure-footed snow boots from the garage. Not so attractive, but luckily she worked at a historic stone church and not in some glossy corporate tower. Everyone at work dressed neatly but casually. No one at Graceview cared as much about her fashion statements as they did about her dedication as head of the church’s children’s ministries.

When Gabby reached Hirscham’s entrance, she held open the door for a young mom struggling to push a baby stroller while tugging on the hand of a squirming toddler.

Not exactly an idyllic Norman Rockwell scene, but still Gabby could feel the jealousy. Rearing. Scratching. Trying to catch hold. Wanting to seep in and creep through her like a heart-strangling vine.

But it couldn’t control her anymore. These days she refused to let it. Now hope wasn’t just some fuzzy mirage in the distance. It had become more of a reality. On days when the green monster reared, she could more easily shoo it away with a genuine smile, not a false one. With positive thoughts, not negative ones. And by counting blessings, not subtracting them.

Heading for the men’s department, Gabby already knew exactly what to get her father. Her mother had been explicit about the size, brand, and color of shirt Gabby’s dad would like from her and Tom. Even though Gabby thought a shirt sounded less than exciting, she and Tom couldn’t afford much more than a shirt anyway. Tom’s new job with a national nonprofit organization had been a step up, but they still didn’t have a lot of disposable income, especially not with all the medical bills from the past—or the present.

Besides, next year would be different. By the time her father’s birthday rolled around again, she’d already have given him a special gift. A precious one.

Something money just can’t buy!

The salesperson couldn’t have been more efficient, and package in hand, Gabby glanced at her watch. She could slow down a bit. She still had ten minutes to kill before she had to head back to Graceview.

Strolling through the store, she took in the new spring fashions. It looked as if pink might be a big color again this season. But the women’s clothes held little interest for her, so she meandered over to the baby department and stood at the edge, looking in. Did she really want to venture into that sea of heart-tugging adorability?

Then a sleeper caught her eye. A pale yellow sleeper, almost the color of the underside of a lemon peel, with the cutest fuzzy lamb embroidered on the chest. Even from a distance it tempted her, seeming to promise a high cuddle factor.

Could the sleeper really be as soft as it looked?

Inching her way over, Gabby tried not to notice the endless racks and shelves of pastels, the cotton candy pinks and hushed baby blues of the infant clothes, the girlie lavenders and boy-bold navies of the toddler outfits. Instead, keeping her eyes focused on the sleeper, she made a straight path. She just wanted to touch it and feel its softness. That was all.

She took the foot of the sleeper in her hand and rubbed it between her fingers. Exquisite. Addicting. As soft as a downy feather but not feathery at all, of course. Holding it up to her cheek, she could almost imagine she smelled the unmistakable scent of baby powder. Could almost swear she felt the weight of a tiny foot wrapped in the velvety fabric.

“Soft, isn’t it?” A salesperson appeared out of nowhere and smiled at her knowingly.

Gabby attempted to let the fabric drop from her fingers, but she couldn’t let go. “Unbelievable.”

“And they’re on sale.”

Glancing at the price tag without really seeing it, Gabby tilted her head, pretending to do a mental calculation. But really her decision—or rather indecision—had nothing to do with money. Not this time.

As she clasped the material tighter and tighter in her fingers, she already knew there’d be an aching sadness that would spread to her limbs and then, without a doubt, find her heart if she let the fabric slip from her hand. Oh, how she didn’t want to let go.

But should she? Should she really buy it?

But then . . .

It had been ten weeks. She’d almost made it through the entire first trimester. She had never, ever, carried a baby that long before. Not in all the eight years since she and Tom had tried to conceive.

Even though everything indicated the in vitro fertilization had worked, even though her belly had the slightest protrusion and her breasts felt more tender than usual, still, after so many years, so many tests, failures, and tears, it seemed too hard to believe, too good to be true.

But Gabby couldn’t go on thinking that way. This baby—their baby—was real.

The thought made her tremble with a thrilling excitement that lifted her heart sky-high.

Until the other tremors came too, clutching at her throat, bringing fear and trepidation. Sadness of remembered losses. Feelings so easy to give in to, such a familiar place to be.

Her baby couldn’t thrive in shadows and fear. A protective feeling, stronger than anything she’d ever felt before, surged through her. She needed to shove those feelings away. Her baby needed light and love. Positive thoughts and prayers. Nourishment. Gentleness. And softness.

“I-I want it,” Gabby stammered. “I want it,” she repeated, taking the sleeper, handing it to the salesperson. “I’m going to get it.”

But as she watched the salesperson wrap her precious purchase in white tissue paper, horrible thoughts struck again. What was she doing? Something wrong? Something that might possibly jinx their baby?

No, she wouldn’t let herself believe it. After all, she’d bought baby clothes ahead of time for friends before. And had anything awful ever happened to their babies?

Besides, if she’d learned anything through the trials she and Tom had endured together, it had been that there were no signs. No spells. No talismans. No right words to chant. No fairy godmother’s wand. Nothing that could create a baby.

Nothing beyond the ability of her body . . . and God’s gracious will. Every minute of every day, Gabby prayed they were one and the same.

  I’m definitely spoiled.  Here on the island I always have my lovely beach where I can kick back and enjoy the sun, sand and surf. 

We’re supposed to be getting another cold front passing through this week, so it’ll be too cold to sit out under the palms.

I’ve discovered a FlyLady video which will transport you to the beach even if your weather is dreary, cold, rainy or snowy.  Sit back and relax with me.  We’ll both pretend we’re out in the warm with a tall glass of iced tea or lemonade while we enjoy the beauty of the ocean.

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!

and the book:

Never Blame the Umpire

Zonderkidz (March 1, 2010)

***Special thanks to Bridgette Brooks and Pam Mettler of Zondervan Publishing for sending me a review copy.***

Gene Fehler, an award-winning and widely published poet, is the author of ten published books and over eighteen hundred published poems, stories, and articles. He and his wife, Polly, live in Seneca, South Carolina, where he writes, teaches, and participates in sports.

Visit the author’s website.

Product Details:

List Price: $12.99
Reading level: Ages 9-12
Hardcover: 192 pages
Publisher: Zonderkidz (March 1, 2010)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 0310719410
ISBN-13: 978-0310719410
Product Dimensions: 8.5 x 5

ISLAND BREEZES

WOW!  This story is told by an eleven year old and is a hard hitting story that delivers a home run. 

I don’t want to say too much and give away any of the plot.  It is enough to say that a difficult subject was handled very well.  This book leaves a person of any age with more understanding and hope.

Oh, yes.  You’re going to need that tissue box in a couple places. 

AND NOW…THE FIRST CHAPTER: Just Press the Button:

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  For it was you who formed my inward parts; you knit me together in my mother’s womb.

I praise you, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made.  Wonderful are your works; that I know very well.

My frame was not hidden from you, when I was being made in secret, intricately woven in the depths of the earth.

Your eyes beheld my unformed substance.  In your book were written all the days that were formed for me, when none of them as yet existed.

How weighty to me are your thoughts, O God!  How vast is the sum of them!

I try to count them – they are more than the sand; I come to the end – I am still with you.

Psalm 139:13-18