“You have heard that it was said, ‘You shall love your neighbor and hate your enemy’
But I say to you, Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you, so that you may be children of your Father in heaven;
for he makes his sun rise on the evil and on the good, and sends rain on the righteous and on the unrighteous.
For if you love those who love you, what reward do you have?
Do not even the tax collectors do the same?
Matthew 5:43-46
Do you have table runners for the different seasons? I don’t, but have been thinking a lot about them lately. I don’t know if I’m going to make table runners or place mats. My dilemma is a round table. Do any of you all have table runners on a round table?
I’ve been checking out Thanksgiving runners and thought I’d share some tutorials I found.
I’m still undecided though. I don’t think it would look as classy on a round table – especially a rattan table with glass top. It looks so good on that dark wood table. It almost makes me want a new table just like the one in the tutorial, except I don’t think it would fit in with everything else here on the island.
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:
Harvest House Publishers (August 1, 2011)
***Special thanks to Karri James of Harvest House Publishers for sending me a review copy.***
Stormie Omartian is the bestselling author (more than 13 million books sold) of The Power of a Praying® series, which includes The Power of Praying® for Your Adult Children, The Power of a Praying® Wife, The Power of a Praying® Husband, and The Power of Prayer™ to Change Your Marriage. Her many other books include Just Enough Light for the Step I’m On, The Prayer That Changes Everything®, The Power of a Praying® Woman, and The Power of Praying® Through the Bible. Stormie and her husband, Michael, have been married more than 37 years and are the parents of two adult children.
Visit the author’s website.
New from bestselling author Stormie Omartian is a book close to her own heart—The Power of a Praying® Wife Devotional. Following up on the insights and prayers of The Power of a Praying® Wife (more than 3.5 million books sold) 100 brand-new devotions, prayers, and supporting Scriptures offer a praying wife fresh ways to pray for her husband, herself, and her marriage.
These easy-to-read devotions will increase any wife’s understanding, strength, and peace, as well as provide her with perspective on the situations and challenges she faces. And each prayer will help both husbands and wives be more attuned to the Holy Spirit so they can do what’s right without allowing negative emotions or unclear thinking to get in the way.
A must-have for anyone wanting God’s best for this most important relationship.
Product Details:
List Price: $14.99
Paperback: 320 pages
Publisher: Harvest House Publishers (August 1, 2011)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 0736926925
ISBN-13: 978-0736926928
ISLAND BREEZES
I began reading this book at a good time. I always pray for my husband, but this book is helping me focus my prayers.
I had never thought much about the interconnection of prayers for myself, my husband and our marriage. This book has helped me tie them all together better.
Because of the job situation in our country, my husband is working on the other side of the state. These prayers have been bringing us closer together in spite of the miles between us. thank you, Stormie.
AND NOW…THE FIRST CHAPTER:
Rejoice always, pray without ceasing,
in everything give thanks;
for this is the will of God in
Christ Jesus for you.
1 Thessalonians 5:16-18
As a wife, you need the kind of prayer habit that doesn’t give up or allow discouragement to get in the way, but instead persists and keeps on praying and asking.
When God told Abraham He intended to determine if Sodom was deserving of destruction, Abraham then interceded, praying on behalf of however many righteous people might be there. He asked God if He would destroy Sodom if fifty righteous people were found there, and the Lord said He would not. Abraham then asked if He would destroy the city if forty-five righteous people were found there, then forty people, then thirty, then twenty. Each time Abraham asked, God said He would not destroy it for that many people. Finally Abraham said, “Suppose ten should be found there?” And God said, “I will not destroy it for the sake of ten” (Genesis 18:32). As it turned out, only four righteous people were there, so God destroyed it. But Abraham had stopped asking at ten.
We need the kind of persistence in prayer that causes us to continue asking as Abraham did. Too often we stop short. Perhaps Abraham stopped asking because he couldn’t imagine that there wouldn’t be at least ten righteous people in Sodom. Or perhaps by then God had proved His point and revealed His intentions. God knew the city was wicked enough to destroy, but He saved the four righteous people—which were Lot, his wife, and their two daughters (Genesis 19:29).
Your prayers are powerful to save too. So keep asking and continue seeking, and don’t ask for crumbs when God wants to give you the banquet. When it comes to praying for you and your husband and your marriage, ask God to help you persist in prayer for even what may seem impossible. Ask for your marriage to not only be saved, but to be good. Ask for it to not only be good, but to be great. God doesn’t say “No” to what is His will. If your husband has a strong will that refuses to submit to God’s will, persist in praying that God’s will wins out.
My Prayer to God
Lord, I pray You would help me to be persistent in prayer—to ask and keep asking for what I believe is Your will. I know anything less than love, selflessness, kindness, peace, and generosity of soul is not Your will in my relationship with my husband. Help me to persist in praying for nothing less than the high standard You have for our marriage. Give me a vision of how You want me to pray. Show me the way You want our marriage to be and help me to pray accordingly so that it becomes all that.
I know I cannot force my husband’s will to be anything other than what it is, but You can touch his heart and turn it toward You. I pray You would do that. May he welcome Your Lordship in his life. Help me to pray consistently and passionately, and to persevere no matter what is happening. I thank You in advance for the great things You are going to do in both of us and in our marriage.
In Jesus’ name I pray.
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:
WhiteFire Publishing (September 1, 2011)
***Special thanks to Christine Lindsay for sending me a review copy.***
Christine Lindsay writes historical Christian inspirational novels with strong love stories. She doesn’t shy away from difficult subjects such as the themes in her debut novel SHADOWED IN SILK which is set in India during a turbulent era. Christine’s long-time fascination with the British Raj was seeded from stories of her ancestors who served in the British Cavalry in India. SHADOWED IN SILK won first place in the 2009 ACFW Genesis for Historical under the title Unveiled.
The Pacific coast of Canada, about 200 miles north of Seattle, is Christine’s home. It’s a special time in her life as she and her husband enjoy the empty nest, but also the noise and fun when the kids and grandkids come home. Like a lot of writers, her cat is her chief editor.
Visit the author’s website.
She was invisible to those who should have loved her.
After the Great War, Abby Fraser returns to India with her small son, where her husband is stationed with the British army. She has longed to go home to the land of glittering palaces and veiled women . . . but Nick has become a cruel stranger. It will take more than her American pluck to survive.
Major Geoff Richards, broken over the loss of so many of his men in the trenches of France, returns to his cavalry post in Amritsar. But his faith does little to help him understand the ruthlessness of his British peers toward the Indian people he loves. Nor does it explain how he is to protect Abby Fraser and her child from the husband who mistreats them.
Amid political unrest, inhospitable deserts, and Russian spies, tensions rise in India as the people cry for the freedom espoused by Gandhi. Caught between their own ideals and duty, Geoff and Abby stumble into sinister secrets . . . secrets that will thrust them out of the shadows and straight into the fire of revolution.
Product Details:
List Price: $14.99
Paperback: 276 pages
Publisher: WhiteFire Publishing (September 1, 2011)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 0976544490
ISBN-13: 978-0976544494
ISLAND BREEZES
Married two weeks and then separated from him for four years. Now she was in India and discovering more about her husband.
It certainly wasn’t an extended honeymoon when she and their small son arrived. What’s Nick hiding?
It took me half the way through this book to discover that the spy is not who I thought.
My, oh, my. How can two people in love be so blind? You are definitely going to need that box of tissues.
I’m not sure why, but I often felt a sense of deja vu while reading this book. I know I’ve not read it before, so this was really a strange feeling.
AND NOW…THE FIRST CHAPTER:
Abby Fraser gripped the railing of the New Delhi and lifted her chin to defy the solitary expanse of sea. She refused to believe a wife needed an invitation to join her husband. The war was over at last. Nick and she were married, and it was about time he remembered that.
One of the Queen Alexandra nurses escorting the Indian troops home stood beside Abby. With a rustle of starched cotton, Laine Harkness leaned over and whispered in her ear. “Why do you look like you’re headed for the Black Hole of Calcutta and not about to have a passionate reunion with the love of your life?”
Abby ran a hand down her linen skirt and watched the blue line of shore draw closer. What could she possibly say? Instead of replying she cuddled her little son, Cam, nearer to her side. In less than an hour he’d meet his father for the first time. Had she been foolish not to wait for an answer from Nick? So few letters from him in four years.
“I know you’re American,” Laine went on, “but I assure you, the only thing to be afraid of in this part of the British Empire is the wife of your husband’s commanding officer.” She shuddered with drama and grinned maliciously. “Once you’re settled in your shady little army cantonment, the old battle-axe will whip you into shape in no time. Then you’ll be quite the proper memsahib. It’s them that run the colony for us Brits. Don’t you think for a minute it’s the Viceroy or our army—it’s the average colonel’s wife.”
Abby crinkled her nose as she smiled. “You win. Is this better?”
“Much better. You were altogether too peaked for meeting your handsome lieutenant.”
The New Delhi sliced her way through the narrows of Kolaba Point, and the familiar scent of Bombay reached out to Abby. Laine was right. No sense worrying. Tucking a strand of hair into her chignon, she savored a tantalizing whiff of overripe fruit, roses, marigolds and cloves, mingled with the acrid smell of dust. She lifted Cam up and snuggled her face into his neck, but he wiggled in her arms. At three years old he was heavy, much too big to be carried.
On the deck below, Indian soldiers stood with their British officers waiting to disembark. Yanking on her arm, Cam laughed and pointed to the tugboat pushing the ship into her berth, and Abby laughed with him. She felt six years old again. Like the troops, she was home. So close. In a few minutes she could touch her birthplace, so much brighter and warmer than Aunt Doreen’s dismal mansion in upstate New York or her father’s retirement manor in the Yorkshire Dales.
As soon as the liner stopped, it was as though an oven door dropped open, and hot air rushed in. On the quay, a kaleidoscope of color and humanity dazzled Abby’s eyes—Hindu women in saris of every hue, hot pinks, ochre yellows, lime greens. Parsee women wore their skirts of equally brilliant shades, their black hair ornamented with lace and gold. People balanced immense bundles on their heads. Bengali clerks rushed here and there, wearing yards of white muslin and Hindu caps, while other men wore turbans or solar topis. On the dock, uniformed soldiers joined the throng. So many people. She’d forgotten that claustrophobic feeling, the teeming press of millions. But she loved it all.
She hugged Cam and scanned the crowds of people on the quayside for Nick’s lean face and startling blue eyes. He’d be down there waiting for her, wouldn’t he? Her gaze stopped.
There he was. Her pulse pounded.
A tall soldier wearing his tan uniform, epaulets at his shoulder, his cap on his head, peered upwards at the passengers lining the ship’s railing. She could barely catch her breath as she waved. Cam, not seeing who she waved at, threw out his small hand, pumped it up and down, and laughed.
Nick looked up and waved. Her wide smile dimmed, and her hand went still. It wasn’t Nick. Someone farther along the ship’s railing sent an answering wave to the stranger on the quay.
Abby steadied her breath and swung her gaze over the crowd. Where was he? In addition to her letter announcing she was coming, she’d telegrammed Nick with her itinerary before she left Southampton. She’d sent another telegram and checked twice with the purser when they stopped at the Port of Aden days ago, and still there’d been no message from him.
“See you soon . . . goodbye . . . Christmas . . . take care of yourself,” the nurses said between hugs as they crowded toward the gangway. But Laine remained at Abby’s side.
“Please, Laine, go with the others. You’ve been wonderful, but Nick will be here.”
“You don’t know that for sure.” Laine’s practiced look was that of a nurse hating to give bad news. “You can’t fool me with that Yankee stoicism of yours. The whole voyage out, you’ve tried to hide your concerns.”
“Laine, please.”
“Oh, all right.” Laine grew gruff as she relented, tucking a dark strand of hair under her nursing veil. “I’m always sticking my nose in where I shouldn’t. Occupational hazard.”
Abby took Laine’s arm and shook it. “Don’t be silly. I don’t know what I’d have done those first days of the voyage if you hadn’t taken pity on me till I got my sea legs. We’ll see each other on the train later anyway.” She gave the nursing matron a firm hug.
Laine joined the nurses, but Abby didn’t watch them leave the ship. She arched her neck to look into the sea of faces below. Sunlight glinted off the tin roofs at the quay and bounced off the ground. She squinted like a cat soaking up its rays and, taking a deep breath, moved toward the gangway.
A half hour later she carried Cam on her hip and walked out of the blistering customs shed. A hired bearer followed with their baggage.
The warm breeze loosened tendrils of hair at the base of her neck, and she blew from the side of her mouth to free a strand clinging to her cheek. Too bad she couldn’t tie it back in a plait like she used to. But as the wife of a British officer the time had come for chignons, silk stockings, and serving tea with cucumber sandwiches in flower-laden gardens. Time at last to be a proper memsahib. Her insides skittered. Time at last to be a wife.
Please, Nick, where are you?
The crowd thinned, and her fixed smile began to slip. She kissed Cam on his grime-streaked cheek. Her little boy made up for everything. He had Nick’s deep blue eyes, the right one slightly more narrow than the left so it always seemed one side of his face grinned in mischief. Without the help of the single photograph she had of her husband she doubted she’d have remembered his features. The echo of his voice faded long ago. Had that happened during the first year of the war? Or the second? But they’d only known each other those few weeks in England before he’d shipped out to India.
Coldness seeped into her veins. Was it possible she’d disappeared from Nick’s thoughts? She roused herself. If that indeed had happened, she’d fight it. She’d win back their brief flash of love and turn it into something to last a lifetime.
“Won’t be long, honey,” she said to Cam, more to bolster herself. Nick would be here. Of course he would.
“I’m thirsty, Mama.” Cam fussed, but she didn’t have the heart to scold him.
Over his complaints came the reed-like notes of a lute, the backdrop to thousands of voices, calling out, bartering, chattering. Overlaying the odor of burning cow dung patties hung the pungency of blossoms. Dust and spices clouded the air. Horns beeped and trolley cars rattled past. Wooden axles on bullock carts squeaked, counterbalanced by the tinkling of bells. It all smelled and sounded like home, except there was no sign of her husband.
“Mrs. Abigail Fraser,” boomed a voice with a Cockney accent. “Paging Mrs. Abigail Fraser.”
Abby whirled around to wave to a burly English sergeant. The soldier presented her with a telegram. “Here you are, madam. May I hold the boy for you?”
Entranced by the soldier’s uniform, Cam went to him willingly while she held the envelope for a long moment before tearing it open to read:
Sorry STOP Away on Business STOP Meet your train in Amritsar STOP Nick STOP
All noise ceased and a buzzing filled her head, leaving her only marginally aware of the sergeant returning Cam to her arms and leaving. She blinked and raised her hand to shield her eyes from the sharp colors and white sunshine.
The last of the passengers moved away, and a swarm of children with extended bellies called out to her, “Maa maa, maa maa,” all stretching out small hands to grab her skirt.
“I’m sorry.” She gave them a few annas from her bag. “I’m sorry I don’t have any more.” She wasn’t sure if the moisture blurring her eyes was for Nick not meeting them or for these poor children as young as Cam begging for their food. Most of the children wandered off when the coins were gone, but a few stayed at her knee gazing up at her. A lump grew in Abby’s throat as she caressed one little girl’s head, but even this tiny one fled when a stench came close, gagging Abby.
A wild-eyed sadhu with three bars of sandalwood paste scoring his forehead strolled toward her. With Cam in her arms and her back to the luggage cart, she had nowhere to turn. Ash covered the sadhu’s emaciated body and long, matted hair. She tried to catch his eye, but his gaze—dead-looking—bore through her as though she weren’t there.
She offered him a few coins, but he swerved and glided past her. She shook her head. For a moment she was back in Albany, unseen by those who were supposed to love her.
#
Geoff Richards’ throat thickened as he and his risaldar-major Muhammad Khan, mingled with the troops on the quayside. His men stood with their usual spit and polish as the ranks were dismissed. Like him, their joy to be back on Indian soil shone from their eyes, but their smiles couldn’t quite cover the shadows there. Only a fraction of them were coming home. He could still envision every one of his men who used to ride out with him on parade. That was before they left India for European shores. And paid a terrible price for the British Empire. If the Indian people didn’t hate them . . . perhaps they should.
The familiar shaking began in his right hand.
Geoff clenched it into a fish behind his back and stopped to talk to a few soldiers lingering outside the customs shed. “Will any of you chaps from Rawalpindi have a chance this year at the Christmas polo tournament?”
A Sikh jemadar squared his shoulders, his eyes glinting black with his grin. “Yes, sahib, your regiment will not be able to keep up with us in a polo chukka. I can guarantee it.”
“Right. I’ll take that as a warning, Kanvar. We’ll see you at the tournament in Lahore.”
Geoff clapped the young Sikh on the arm.
Dhyan Singh stood on the outskirts of the group. Both he and his brother had served in Geoff’s regiment while in France. Geoff moved toward the soldier, but the memory of Dhyan’s brother, dying in his arms, pulled Geoff back to the nightmare of the trenches. He locked his hands behind his back, clenching his fist in an attempt to still the tremor. Dear God, I failed them . . . brought only one son home to his mother and father.
He managed a smile. “Ah, Jemadar Singh, how many chukkas will you play when you get home? You must be terribly rusty, old man.”
Dhyan grinned. He, too, acted like a man recently come back to life. “Sahib, I am sure I will have no trouble playing at least ten. If my brother, Manjit, were here today, he would say you would be having many, many troubles playing even two or three.”
The men’s laughter roared, and Geoff leaned toward his risaldar-major. “Khan, did you hear that? I think I’ve been advised to stick to cricket. Seems rumors are about, my polo days are on the wane.”
His grin matched that of the men. It was good to talk about something that didn’t mean the choice between life and death. But his laughter stopped.
Cam Fraser and his mother stood not far from him. He’d know the child anywhere, having played marbles and shuffleboard with him a number of times on the voyage. Other than a nod and exchanging the time of day, he’d hardly spoken to Cam’s mother. Why were they still here? According to ship’s gossip, Lieutenant Fraser was to meet them. But here she was, balancing the boy on her hip, and with her free hand brushed her chestnut hair from her face. And no husband in sight. The trace of fear in her eyes was belied by her clamped mouth that silently said I can look after myself. Of course she could.
He’d leave her to it. His own plans were set, and he began to follow his men, but it was too late.
The boy saw him and squirmed free of his mother’s arms, shooting off like a missile to him. Geoff swept the child up, feeling the warm little body and wiry arms and legs wrap around him. Cam rested his head against Geoff’s chest. The sensation of the child’s curls under Geoff’s chin brought a shiver of feeling he’d thought long dead and buried.
Geoff’s voice quavered as he took steps in the direction of the boy’s mother. “Chin up, old man. There’s a good soldier.”
#
Sunlight blinded Abby. Against its rays the silhouette of a soldier with the lean lines of a cavalry man scooped Cam up. Her little boy wound his arms around the man’s neck, and she put her hand to her mouth. So many nights these past few years she’d urged sleep to come, imagining this scene at the pier.
As the man walked toward her she made out his clean-shaven features under the peaked military cap. Major Richards, who’d befriended Cam on the ship, carried her son back to her. It wasn’t Nick enfolding his son close.
“Mrs. Fraser,” Geoff said when he reached her.
She turned to the major a smile she didn’t feel. “With the two of you such good pals I think it’s about time you called me Abby.” She forced a lighter tone. “I was thinking those suffragettes back home might have something, marching about quite pleased with their self-reliance.”
The major’s stony look melted into puzzlement, then his gray eyes began to dance. “I can imagine you marching about with a placard in your hands. For a good cause, of course.”
“But of course.” In spite of Nick’s absence, her smile deepened. “My husband’s not able to meet us, so I was about to hire a—”
She couldn’t finish her sentence. As the major turned toward the street, the sun set afire the twisted, burgundy scar that traveled from his temple to his cheekbone. She fumbled for the word that escaped her.
“Rickshaw,” he finished for her. “If you’ll allow me, I’ll see you to the train station. Going that way myself. And you’re right, the little CO and I are great friends.”
“Little CO?”
He sent a pointed glance at Cam.
She laughed. “Oh, I see. I hadn’t realized he’d been given a recent promotion.”
“I’m meeting a friend, Miriam, at Victoria Station. We arranged to meet and travel at least some of the time together. She runs a medical clinic in Amritsar, where you’re going.” His mouth grew tender.
She darted a look up at him. What sort of woman made the ever-so-proper major’s heart flutter? Her own insides did a somersault. Did the same kind of love wait for her from Nick?
Within minutes a driver loaded their luggage onto a tonga. They climbed into a separate rickshaw and joined the hundreds of other tongas, bicycles, carts, trams, and cars. With the pier behind them they headed for the station.
“Unfortunate your husband was unable to meet you,” Geoff said, never taking his eyes from the passing streets. “India’s not safe for a woman and child traveling alone.”
“I’m aware of that, Major. I was born here.”
“But not raised here.”
Abby lifted her chin. “I may be a bit of a mixture—American mother, British father—but India is my home.”
His eyes twinkled as he dipped his head, conceding defeat. “Everyone onboard wondered how you as a civilian got passage with demobilizing troops, until we realized who your father was. I imagine the general’s name pulled strings for you.”
“Maybe,” Abby drew the word out. Her adrenalin surged, remembering the stuffy war department offices in London. “Let’s just say I made a few social calls to friends of my late father.”
“Many would call General Mackenzie Hughes a pillar of the British Raj. You must take after him. Most young woman would have collapsed into tears being stranded at the pier.”
“You forget, Major, I am coming home.”
His chuckle reverberated from deep within him. “I do keep forgetting. You’re an old India hand. How old were you when you left?”
“I was a wise old memsahib of six when I first left these shores.” She tucked a strand of hair under her straw boater hat and, catching his eye, laughed out loud.
“Ah, yes . . . a memsahib. “He sat back, and all amusement left his face. His tone bordered on dryness. “I daresay you’ve forgotten all that entails. No fear, the wife of your husband’s colonel—your burra-memsahib—will be only too pleased to instruct you on the protocols of being a proper memsahib.”
Their shared laughter had disappeared as if snatched by the flock of green parrots swooping over their heads. But as though he remembered his manners, the major lifted Cam onto his knee, his well-oiled Sam Browne belt creaking as he did. The man and the boy immersed themselves in conversation. Interspersed with Cam’s piping voice she caught the hint of a Northumberland burr in Geoff Richards’ speech. His crisp, English school accent must be a learned one, like Nick’s.
She had enough of an ear to recognize her husband had worked hard to gain that polished manner of speaking, but she knew next to nothing of Nick’s youth. Six weeks wasn’t long enough to know a man.
Bombay’s traffic bustled past. Her fingers itched to pull out the telegram she’d folded into her bag at the pier. But there was no need. The words were stamped on her mind. Nick hadn’t said much, but at least he’d acknowledged they were coming. She had to cling to that, to keep believing they’d become a real family, given time. Perhaps have more children. Cam would have brothers and sisters, a houseful of them . . . and love. Not the existence she’d had growing up in Albany under the disinterested eye of her mother’s only sister.
She’d waited four years. The train trip would take three days. Only three more days, and all she longed for would be waiting for her in Amritsar.
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:
Abingdon Press (October 2011)
***Special thanks to Julie Dowd (Abingdon Press) for sending me a review copy.***
Richard L. Mabry, MD, is a retired physician and medical school professor who achieved worldwide recognition as a clinician, writer, and teacher before turning his talents to non-medical writing after his retirement. He is the author of The Prescription for Trouble Series, one non-fiction book, and his inspirational piesces have appeared in numerous periodicals. He and his wife, Kay, live in North Texas.
Visit the author’s website.
An epidemic of a highly resistant bacteria, Staphylococcus luciferus, has ignited, and Dr. Sara Miles’ patient is on the threshold of death. Only an experimental antibiotic developed and administered by Sara’s ex-husband, Dr. Jack Ingersoll can save the girl’s life.
Dr. John Ramsey is seeking to put his life together after the death of his wife by joining the medical school faculty. But his decision could prove to be costly, even fatal.
Potentially lethal late effects from the experimental drug send Sara and her colleague, Dr. Rip Pearson, on a hunt for hidden critical data that will let them reverse the changes before it’s too late. What is the missing puzzle piece? And who is hiding it?
Product Details:
List Price: $13.99
Paperback: 288 pages
Publisher: Abingdon Press (October 2011)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 1426735448
ISBN-13: 978-1426735448
ISLAND BREEZES
A killer remedy for a killer infection. What could possibly go wrong?
And that’s not the only killer on the loose. This nurse finds this story both believable and scary.
Medicine, mystery, mayhem and maybe romance. This book is jam packed with it all.
I certainly hope Dr. Mabry is going to keep adding to the Prescription for Trouble series. I’m sure these books speak to more people than nurses and those in the medical field.
AND NOW…THE FIRST CHAPTER:
“Pneumonia, late stages,” the intern said. He yawned. “Happens all the time. Drank himself into a stupor, vomited, aspirated. Probably been lying in that alley for more than a day. Doesn’t look like he’ll make it.”
“Labs cooking? Got a sputum culture going?”
“Yeah, but it’ll take a day or two to get the results of the culture. The smear looks like Staph. Guess I’ll give him—”
“Wait. I’ve got access to an experimental drug that might help. Let me start him on that.”
The intern shrugged. It was two in the morning. He’d been on duty for more than twenty-four hours straight—why’d Johnson’s wife have to go into labor today?—and he was bushed. The bum probably didn’t have a snowball’s chance of surviving anyway. Why not? “You’ll be responsible?”
“I’ll take it from here. Even do the paperwork.”
“Deal,” the intern said, and ambled off to see the next patient.
Three hours later, John Doe lay on a gurney in a corner of the ER. An IV ran into one arm, a blood pressure cuff encircled the other. Spittle dripped from his open mouth and dotted his unshaven chin. His eyes were open and staring.
“Acute anaphylaxis, death within minutes. Interesting.” He scratched his chin. “Guess I need to make some adjustments in the compound.” He picked up the almost-blank chart. “I’ll say I gave him ampicillin and sulbactam. That should cover it.”
* * *
The woman’s look pierced Dr. Sara Miles’ heart. “Do you know what’s wrong with Chelsea?”
Chelsea Ferguson lay still and pale as a mannequin in the hospital bed. An IV carried precious fluids and medications into a vein in her arm. A plastic tube delivered a constant supply of oxygen to her nostrils. Above the girl’s head, monitors beeped and flashed. And over it all wafted the faint antiseptic smell of the ICU.
Chelsea’s mother sat quietly at the bedside, but her hands were never still: arranging and rearranging her daughter’s cover, twisting the hem of her plain brown skirt, shredding a tissue. Sara decided that the gray strands in Mrs. Ferguson’s long brunette hair were a recent addition, along with the lines etched in her face.
Sara put her hand on the teenager’s head and smoothed the matted brown curls. The girl’s hot flesh underscored the urgency of the situation. Since Chelsea’s admission to University Hospital three days ago, her fever hadn’t responded to any of the treatments Sara ordered. If anything, the girl was worse.
“Let’s slip out into the hall,” Sara said. She tiptoed from the bedside and waited outside the room while Mrs. Ferguson kissed her sleeping daughter and shuffled through the door.
Sara pointed. “Let’s go into the family room for a minute.”
“Will she be—?”
“The nurses will check on her, and they’ll call me if anything changes.” Sara led the way into the room and eased the door closed. This family room resembled so many others Sara had been in over the years: small, dim, and quiet. Six wooden chairs with lightly upholstered seats and backs were arranged along three of the walls. Illumination came from a lamp in the corner. A Bible, several devotional magazines, and a box of tissues stood within reach on a coffee table.
This was a room where families received bad news: the biopsy was positive, the treatment hadn’t worked, the doctors weren’t able to save their loved one. The cloying scent of flowers in a vase on an end table reminded Sara of a funeral home, and she shivered as memories came unbidden. She shoved her emotions aside and gestured Mrs. Ferguson to a seat. “Would you like something? Water? Coffee? A soft drink?”
The woman shook her head. “No. Just tell me what’s going on with my daughter. Do you know what’s wrong with her? Can you save her?” Her sob turned into a soft hiccup. “Is she going to die?”
Sara swallowed hard. “Chelsea has what we call sepsis. You might have heard it referred to as blood poisoning. It happens when bacteria get into the body and enter the bloodstream. In Chelsea’s case, this probably began when she had her wisdom teeth extracted.”
I can’t believe the dentist didn’t put her on a prophylactic antibiotic before the procedure. Sara brushed those thoughts aside. That wasn’t important now. The important thing was saving the girl’s life. Sara marshaled her thoughts. “We took samples of Chelsea’s blood at the time of her admission, and while we waited for the results of the blood cultures I started treatment with a potent mixture of antibiotics. As you can see, that hasn’t helped.”
“Why?”
Sara wished the woman wouldn’t be so reasonable, so placid. She wished Mrs. Ferguson would scream and cry. If the roles were reversed, she’d do just that. “While we wait for the results of blood cultures, we make a guess at the best antibiotics to use. Most of the time, our initial guess is right. This time, it was wrong—badly wrong.”
“But now you know what’s causing the infection?” It was a question, not a statement.
“Yes, we know.” And it’s not good news.
Hope tinged Mrs. Ferguson’s voice. “You can fix this, can’t you?”
I wish I could. “The bacteria causing Chelsea’s sepsis is one that . . .” Sara paused and started again. “Have you heard of Mersa?”
“Mersa? No. What’s that?”
“It’s actually MRSA, but doctors usually pronounce it that way. That’s sort of a medical shorthand for methicillin-resistant Staphylococcus aureus, a bacteria that’s resistant to most of our common antibiotics.”
Mrs. Ferguson frowned. “You said most. Do you have something that will work?”
“Yes, we do. Matter of fact, when Chelsea was admitted I started her on two strong antibiotics, a combination that’s generally effective against MRSA. But she hasn’t responded, because this isn’t MRSA. It’s worse than MRSA.” She started to add “Much worse,” but the words died in her throat.
Sara paused and waited for Mrs. Ferguson to ask the next question. Instead, the woman crumpled the tissue she held and dabbed at the corner of her eyes, eyes in which hope seemed to die as Sara watched.
“This is what we call a ‘super-bug,’” Sara continued. “It used to be rare, but we’re seeing more and more infections with it. Right now, none of the commercially available antibiotics are effective. These bacteria are resistant to everything we can throw at them.”
Mrs. Ferguson’s voice was so quiet Sara almost missed the words. “What do you call it?”
“It’s a long name, and it’s not important that you know it.” Matter of fact, we don’t use the proper name most of the time. We just call it “The Killer.”
“So that’s it?”
“No, there’s a doctor at our medical center doing trials on an experimental drug that might work for Chelsea.” No need to mention that Jack is . . . No, let it go.
“Can you get some of this? Give it to Chelsea?”
“I can’t, but the man who can is an infectious disease specialist on the faculty here at the medical center. Actually, he helped develop it. Notice I said ‘experimental,’ which means there may be side effects. But if you want me—”
“Do it!” For the first time in days, Sara saw a spark of life in Mrs. Ferguson’s eyes, heard hope in her voice. “Call him! Now! Please!”
“You realize that this drug isn’t fully tested yet. It may not work. Or the drug may cause problems.” There, she’d said it twice in different words. She’d done her duty.
“I don’t care. My little girl is dying. I’ll sign the releases. Anything you need. If this is our only chance, please, let’s take it.”
Lord, I hope I haven’t made a mistake. “I’ll make the call.”
“I’m going back to be with my baby,” Mrs. Ferguson said. She stood and squared her shoulders. “While you call, I’ll pray.”
* * *
“Mr. Wolfe, you can come in now.” The secretary opened the doors to Dr. Patel’s office as though she were St. Peter ushering a supplicant through the Pearly Gates.
Bob Wolfe bit back the retort he wanted to utter. It’s Doctor Wolfe. Doctor of Pharmacology. I worked six years to earn that Pharm D, not to mention two years of research fellowship. How about some respect? But this wasn’t the time to fight that battle.
He straightened his tie, checked that there were no stains on his fresh white lab coat, and walked into the office of the head of Jandra Pharmaceuticals as though he had been summoned to receive a medal. Never let them see you sweat.
Dr. David Patel rose from behind his desk and beamed, gesturing toward the visitor’s chair opposite. “Bob, come in. Sit down. I appreciate your coming.”
Not much choice, was there? Wolfe studied his boss across the expanse of uncluttered mahogany that separated them. Pharmaceutical companies seemed to be made up of two groups: the geeks and the glad-handers. Patel typified the former group. PhD from Cal Tech, brilliant research mind, but the social skills of a tortoise. Patel had been snatched from the relative obscurity of a research lab at Berkeley by the Board of Directors of Jandra Pharmaceuticals, given the title of President and CEO, and charged with breathing life into the struggling company. How Patel planned to do that remained a mystery to Wolfe and his co-workers.
Patel leaned forward and punched a button on a console that looked like it could launch a space probe. “Cindy, please ask Mr. Lindberg to join us.”
Steve Lindberg ran the sales team from an office across the hall. Lindberg could memorize salient scientific material and regurgitate it with the best of them, but Wolfe would bet the man’s understanding of most of Jandra’s products and those of its major competitors was a mile wide and an inch deep. On the other hand, Lindberg had his own area of expertise: remembering names, paying for food and drinks, arranging golf games at exclusive clubs. No doubt about it, Lindberg was a classic glad-hander, which was why he had ascended to his current position, heading the marketing team at Jandra.
Wolfe hid a smile. Interesting. The President of the company and the Director of Marketing. This could be big. The door behind Wolfe opened. He deliberately kept his eyes front. Be cool. Let this play out.
“Hey, Bob. It’s good to see you.” Wolfe turned just in time to avoid the full force of a hand landing on his shoulder. Even the glancing blow made him wince. Lindberg dragged a chair to the side of Patel’s desk, positioning himself halfway between the two men. Clever. Not taking sides, but clearly separating himself from the underling.
Wolfe studied the two men and, not for the first time, marveled at the contrast in their appearance. Patel was swarthy, slim, and sleek, with jet-black hair and coal-black eyes. His blue shirt had a white collar on which was centered the unfashionably large knot of an unfashionably wide gold-and-black tie. Wolfe wondered whether the man was five years behind or one ahead of fashion trends. He spoke with a trace of a British accent, and Wolfe seemed to recall that Patel had received part of his education at Oxford. Maybe he wore an “old school” tie, without regard to current fashion. If so, it would be typical of Patel.
Lindberg was middle-aged but already running to fat—or, more accurately, flab. His florid complexion gave testimony to too many helpings of rare roast beef accompanied by glasses of single malt Scotch, undoubtedly shared with top-drawer doctors and paid for on the Janus expense account. Lindberg’s eyes were the color of burnished steel, and showed a glimmer of naked ambition that the smile pasted on his face couldn’t disguise. His thinning blond hair was combed carefully to cover early male pattern baldness. The sleeves of his white dress shirt were rolled halfway to his elbows. His tie was at half-mast and slightly askew.
Patel, the geek. Lindberg, the glad-hander. Different in so many ways. But both men shared one characteristic. Wolfe knew from experience that each man would sell his mother if it might benefit the company, or more specifically, their position in it. The two of them together could mean something very good or very bad for Bob Wolfe. He eased forward in his chair and kicked his senses into high gear.
Patel leaned back and tented his fingers. “Bob, I’m sure you’re wondering what this is about. Well, I wanted to congratulate you on the success of EpAm848. I’ve been looking over the preliminary information, especially the reports from Dr. Ingersoll at Southwestern Medical Center. Very impressive.”
“Well, it’s sort of Ingersoll’s baby. He stumbled onto it when he was doing some research here during his infectious disease fellowship at UC Berkeley. I think he wants it to succeed as much as we do.”
“I doubt that.” Patel leaned forward with both hands on the desk. “Jandra is on the verge of bankruptcy. I want that drug on the market ASAP!”
“But we’re not ready. We need more data,” Wolfe said.
“Here’s the good news,” Patel said. “The FDA is worried about The Killer bacteria outbreak. I’ve pulled a few strings, called in a bunch of favors, and I can assure you we can get this application fast-tracked.”
“How?” Wolfe said. “We’re still doing Phase II trials. What about Phase III? Assuming everything goes well, it’s going to be another year, maybe two, before we can do a rollout of EpAm848.”
“Not to worry,” Patel said. “Our inside man at the FDA assures me he can help us massage the data. We can get by with the Phase II trials we’ve already completed. And he’ll arrange things so we can use those plus some of our European studies to fulfill the Phase III requirements.”
Lindberg winked at Wolfe. “We may have to be creative in the way we handle our data. You and I need to get our heads together and see how many corners we can cut before the application is ready.”
Wolfe shook his head. “You say this drug will save us from bankruptcy. I don’t see that. I mean, yes, it looks like we may be in for a full-blown epidemic of Staph luciferus, but we won’t sell enough—“
Lindberg silenced him with an upraised hand. “Exposure, Bob. Exposure. If we get this drug on the market, if we’re the first with a cure, our name recognition will skyrocket. Doctors and patients will pay attention to our other drugs: blood pressure, cholesterol, diabetes. Our market share will go through the roof in all of them.”
Wolfe could see the salesman in Lindberg take over as he leaned closer, as though to drive home his point by proximity. “We’re preparing a direct-to-consumer push on all those drugs, ready to launch at the same time we release Jandramycin.”
The name didn’t click with Wolfe for a moment. “I . . . Well, I’ll certainly do what I can.”
“Do more than that,” Lindberg said. “Jandra Pharmaceuticals is hurting. We’re staking everything on Jandramycin.”
That was the second time Wolfe had heard the term. “What—“
“Stop referring to the drug by its generic name,” Patel added. “From now on, the compound is Jandramycin. When people hear the name Jandra Pharmaceuticals, we want them to think of us as the people who developed the antibiotic that saved the world from the worst epidemic since the black plague.”
Lindberg eased from his chair and gave Wolfe another slap on the shoulder. “This is your project now. It’s on your shoulders. The company’s got a lot riding on this.”
And so do I. “But what if a problem turns up?”
Patel rose and drew himself up to his full five feet eight inches. His obsidian eyes seemed to burn right through Wolfe. “We’re depending on you to make sure that doesn’t happen. Are we clear on that?”
* * *
Sara leaned over the sink and splashed water on her face. The paper towels in the women’s rest room of the clinic were rough, but maybe that would put some color in the face that stared back at her from the mirror. Her brown eyes were red-rimmed from another sleepless night. Raven hair was pulled into a ponytail because she could never find time or energy for a haircut or a perm. Get it together, Sara. She took a deep breath and headed for the doctor’s dictation room, where she slumped into a chair.
“Something wrong, Dr. Miles?”
Sara turned to see Gloria, the clinic’s head nurse. “No, just taking a few deep breaths before I have to make a call I’m dreading.”
Gloria slid into the chair next to Sara. The controlled chaos of the internal medicine clinic hummed around them. The buzz of conversations and ringing of phones served as effectively as white noise to mask her next words. “Is it one of your hospital patients? Got some bad news to deliver?”
“Sort of. It’s Chelsea Ferguson.”
“The teenage girl? Is she worse?”
“Yes. The cultures grew Staph luciferus.”
Gloria whistled silently. “The Killer. That’s bad.”
“The only thing that seems to be working in these cases is that new drug of Jack Ingersoll’s.”
“Oh, I get it. That’s the call you don’t want to make.” Gloria touched Sara lightly on the shoulder. “When will you stop letting what Ingersoll did ruin the rest of your life? I can introduce you to a couple of nice men who go to our church. They’ve both gone through tough divorces—neither was their fault—and they want to move on. It would be good for you—”
Sara shook her head. “Thanks, but I’m not ready to date. I’m not sure if I can ever trust a man again.”
Gloria opened her mouth, but Sara silenced her with an upraised hand. No sense putting this off. She pulled the phone toward her and stabbed in a number.
* * *
Dr. John Ramsey found a spot in the Visitor’s Parking Lot. He exited his car and looked across the driveway at the main campus of Southwestern Medical Center. When he’d graduated, there were two buildings on the campus. Now those two had been swallowed up, incorporated into a complex that totaled about forty buildings on three separate campuses. Right now he only needed to find one: the tall white building directly across the driveway at the end of a flagstone plaza. The imposing glass façade of the medical library reflected sunlight into his eyes as he wove past benches where students sat chatting on cell phones or burrowing into book bags. He paused at the glass front doors of the complex, took a deep breath, and pushed forward.
There was a directory inside for anyone trying to negotiate the warren of inter-connected buildings, but John didn’t need it. He found the elevator he wanted, entered, and punched five. In a moment, he was in the office of the Chairman of Internal Medicine.
“Dr. Schaeffer will be with you in a moment.” The receptionist motioned him toward a seat opposite the magnificent rosewood desk that was the centerpiece of the spacious office, then glided out, closing the door softly behind her.
John eased into the visitor’s chair and looked around him. He’d spent forty years on the volunteer clinical faculty of Southwestern Medical Center’s Department of Internal Medicine. For forty years he’d instructed and mentored medical students and residents, for forty years he’d covered the teaching clinic once a month, and today was the first time he’d been in the department chairman’s office. He swallowed the resentment he felt bubbling up. No, John. You never wanted to be here. You were happy in your own world.
John couldn’t help comparing this room with the cubbyhole he’d called his private office. Now he didn’t even have that. The practice was closed, the equipment and furnishings sold to a young doctor just getting started. John’s files and patient records were in a locked storage facility, rent paid for a year.
He wondered how many of his patients had contacted his nurse to have their records transferred. No matter, she’d handle it. He’d paid her six months’ salary to take care of such things. What would happen after that? He didn’t have the energy to care. Things were different now.
For almost half a century he’d awakened to the aroma of coffee and a kiss from the most wonderful woman in the world. Now getting out of bed in the morning was an effort, shaving and getting dressed were more than he could manage some days. Since Beth died . . . He shook his head, trying to clear the cobwebs that clogged his brain. The knowledge that he’d never again know the happiness of having a woman he loved by his side made him wish he’d died with her. What was the use of going on?
But something happened this morning. He’d awakened with a small spark of determination to do something, anything, to move on. He tried to fight it, to roll over and seek the sleep that eluded him. Instead, he heard the echo of Beth’s words: “You’re too good a physician to retire. People need you.” He remembered that conversation as though it were yesterday. She’d urged, he’d insisted. Let’s retire. I want to get out of the rat race and enjoy time with you. Retirement meant the travel they’d put off, the time to do things together. Only, now there was no more together.
This morning, he’d rolled out of bed determined that today would be different. It would be the start of his rebirth. As he shrugged into a robe, as he’d done each day since her death he looked at the picture on their dresser of him and Beth. She’d been radiant that spring day so many years ago, and he wondered yet again how he’d managed to snag her.
He’d shaved—for the first time in days—with special care, and his image in the mirror made him wonder. When did that slim young man in the picture develop a paunch and acquire an AARP card? When had the thick brown hair been replaced by gray strands that required careful combing to hide a retreating hairline? The eyes were still bright, although they hid behind wire-rimmed trifocals. “You’re too old for this, John,” he muttered. And as though she were in the room, he heard Beth’s words once more. “You’re too good a physician to retire. People need you.”
Fortified with coffee, the sole component of his breakfast nowadays, he’d forced himself to make the call. He asked his question and was gratified and a bit frightened by the positive response. John dressed carefully, choosing his best suit, spending a great deal of time selecting a tie. He’d noticed a gradual shift in doctors’ attire over the past few years. Now many wore jeans and golf shirts under their white coats. But for John Ramsey, putting on a tie before going to the office was tantamount to donning a uniform, one he’d worn proudly for years. And he—
“John, I was surprised when I got your call. To what do I owe the pleasure?” Dr. Donald Schaeffer breezed into the office, the starched tails of his white coat billowing behind him. He offered his hand, then settled in behind his desk.
“Donald, I appreciate your taking the time to see me. I was wondering—”
“Before we start, I want you to know how sorry we all are for your loss. Is there anything I can do?”
Perfect lead-in. See if you can get the words out. “As you know, I closed my office four months ago. Beth and I were going to enjoy retirement. Then . . .”
Schaeffer nodded and tented his fingers under his chin. At least he had the grace not to offer more platitudes. Ramsey had had enough of those.
“I was wondering if you could use me in the department.” There. Not the words he’d rehearsed, but at least he’d tossed the ball into Schaeffer’s court.
“John, are you talking about coming onto the faculty?”
“Maybe something half-time. I could staff resident clinics, teach medical students.”
Schaeffer was shaking his head before John finished. “That’s what the volunteer clinical faculty does. It’s what you did for . . . how many years? Thirty? Thirty-five?”
“Forty, actually. Well, I’m still a clinical professor in the department, so I guess I have privileges at Parkland Hospital. Can you use me there?”
Schaeffer pulled a yellow legal pad toward him and wrote a couple of words before he pushed it aside. “I’m not sure what I can do for you, if anything. It’s not that easy. You have no idea of the administrative hoops I have to jump through to run this department. Even if I could offer you a job today—and I can’t— I’d have to juggle the budget to support it, post the position for open applications, get half a dozen approvals before finalizing the appointment.” He spread his hands in a gesture of futility.
“So, is that a ‘no’?”
“”That’s an ‘I’ll see what I can do.’ Afraid that’s the best I have to offer.” Schaeffer looked at his watch, shoved his chair back and eased to his feet. “Coming to Grand Rounds?”
Why not? John’s house was an empty museum of bitter memories. His office belonged to someone else. Why not sit in the company of colleagues? “Sure. I’ll walk over with you.”
As the two men moved through the halls of the medical center, John prayed silently that Schaeffer would find a job for him. With all his prayers for Beth during her final illness, prayers that had gone unanswered, he figured that surely God owed him this one.
Then Jesus came from Galilee to John at the Jordan, to be baptized by him.
John would have prevented him, saying, “I need to be baptized by you, and do you come to me?”
But Jesus answered him, “Let it be so now; for it is proper for us in this way to fulfill all righteousness.” Then he consented.
And when Jesus had been baptized, just as he came up from the water, suddenly the heavens were opened to him and he saw the Spirit of God descending like a dove and alighting on him.
And a voice from heaven said, “This is my Son, the Beloved, with whom I am well pleased.”
Matthew 3:13-17
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:
Harvest House Publishers; Reprint edition (October 1, 2011)
***Special thanks to Karri James | Marketing Assistant, Harvest House Publishers for sending me a review copy.***
Mindy Starns Clark is the author of many books (more than 450,000 copies sold), which include A Pocket Guide to Amish Life, Shadows of Lancaster County, Whispers of the Bayou, and The Amish Midwife. In addition, Mindy is a popular inspirational speaker and playwright.
Visit the author’s website.
With a touch of romance and a strong heroine, A Quarter for a Kiss offers more of the fast-paced and suspenseful inspirational writing found in A Penny for Your Thoughts, Don’t Take Any Wooden Nickels, and A Dime a Dozen. In this fourth book of the Million Dollar Mysteries, Mindy Starns Clark weaves another tale of mystery and God’s touch on the lives of those who seek Him.
As a young widow, Callie Webber finds strength in her faith in God and joy in her growing romance with her employer, Tom Bennett. When their friend and mentor, Eli Gold, is shot, the search for answers as to who and why leads Tom and Callie to the beautiful Virgin Islands. There they face a sinister enemy among the ruins of an old sugar plantation—an enemy who’s willing to do anything to keep his identity secret and the past deeply buried.
Product Details:
List Price: $13.99
Paperback: 336 pages
Publisher: Harvest House Publishers; Reprint edition (October 1, 2011)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 0736929592
ISBN-13: 978-0736929592
ISLAND BREEZES
Callie and Tom make a good team. While I’m enjoying watching them work, I’m also enjoying the locales.
Much of it is my turf – both from my sea days and the present.
Some of this starts getting a little scary. Callie and Tom are investigating, but it’s not corporate investigation this time. They enter some dangerous waters in this book.
The danger continues to escalate and even at the end of the book, we find another mystery. What is the secret that Eli and Tom share?
I certainly hope Ms Mindy keeps this series going until she reaches a million dollars. I don’t want it to end.
AND NOW…THE FIRST CHAPTER:
Ignoring the burning in my calves, I kept my gaze on Tom, who had reached the top of the wall almost effortlessly and now waited there for me to join him.
“There’s a grip at two o’clock, up from your right hand about six inches,” he guided, speaking in the low, soothing tones I teasingly called his “rock climbing” voice. Glad for that voice now, I released my handhold and reached upward, my fingers easily finding and grasping the tiny ledge. “Now your foot,” he said. “Slow and easy. You’re almost there.”
As I went I concentrated on all I had learned about rock climbing in the last few weeks. It was Tom’s passion, and we had spent a number of hours practicing on a real rock face while he taught me the basic tricks and techniques. Now we were in an indoor gym, on a simulated rock wall, climbing much higher than we had ever gone in our practice runs. And though I was wearing a safety harness that was roped to the ceiling, that didn’t make it any easier or any less scary—particularly where the wall actually bent outward, pitching me at a difficult angle.
“You are one step away, Cal,” he said, excitement evident in his voice. “Most of the people won’t make it half this far.”
With a final burst of daring, I slid my toes against the next hold and straightened my knees, rising high enough to touch the ceiling at the top of the wall.
“You did it!” Tom cried, and only then did I allow myself to smile and then to laugh.
“I did do it!” I echoed, slapping a high five with Tom and feeling the rush of pleasure and relief he said he experienced every time he finished a challenging climb. Of course, to him “challenging” meant the Red Rocks of Nevada or Half Dome in Yosemite. For me, a big wall in a rock-climbing gym was a pretty good start.
We repelled down together, my legs still feeling shaky once I was on solid ground.
“That was great,” the teenage staffer said as he helped unhook me from the harness. “And to think you were worried. Are you sure you haven’t done this before?”
“Not that high and not indoors,” I said.
“Well, you’re a natural.”
“I had a good teacher,” I replied, glancing at Tom, who was busy removing his own harness. He and I had spent the last three weeks together vacationing in the North Carolina mountains. During that time, we had enjoyed teaching each other our favorite sports—climbing and canoeing—though I liked to tease him that my hobby was the superior one, because one false move with a canoe paddle wouldn’t exactly plunge a person hundreds of feet to their death. Tom had replied that if one were canoeing above Niagara Falls, that wouldn’t exactly be true, now would it?
As the teenager moved on to help the next set of climbers, Tom gave me an encouraging smile.
“Hey, what did you say this is called?” I asked him, pointing at my visibly wobbling knees. “Sewing legs?”
“Sewing-machine legs,” Tom replied. “A common climbing malady. Come on. You need to rest for a bit.”
He bought us two bottles of water from the snack bar, and then we found a quiet corner and sat on a bench there, leaning back against the wall. I felt thoroughly spent, as if I had pushed every single muscle in my body to its very limit.
I sipped on my water, feeling my pulse slowly return to normal, looking around at the activity that surrounded us. Across the giant room, a new group of climbers was being instructed by a guide while about ten more people waited in line for their turn. In the front window was a giant banner that said “Climb for KFK,” and beside the cash register was a table where pledges and donations were being accepted for “Kamps for Kids,” a charity that provided summer camp scholarships to impoverished children. Instead of a walkathon, they were calling this event a “climbathon.” I liked the idea as well as the whole atmosphere of the place, from the easy joviality of the people waiting in line to the upbeat encouragement of the instructors who were manning the ropes and providing assistance as needed.
“So what’s up, Callie?” Tom asked. “You haven’t been yourself all morning.”
I shrugged.
“Sorry,” I said. “This is my work mode, I guess. You have to remember, we’re not just here to have fun. We’re on the job, so to speak.”
Tom nodded knowingly and then leaned closer and lowered his voice.
“So how does this happen, exactly?” he asked. “Do you just walk up to the people and say, ‘Hi, here’s a big whopping check’?”
I smiled.
“Oh, sure, that’s usually how it goes. I call that my Big Whopping Check speech.”
“Don’t be hard on me,” he said, grinning. “I’ve never done this before.”
I leaned toward him, speaking softly.
“Well, first of all, you have to wait for the proper moment,” I said. “Like just before you’re about to leave.”
“Okay.”
“Second,” I continued, “you have to have the full attention of the correct person. You don’t want to give that whopping check to just anybody.”
“Get the big wig. Got it.”
“Finally, the act of presentation takes a little bit of flair. It’s a huge moment for them. You want to help them enjoy it.”
“I think I understand.”
“You also want to bring them back down to earth a little. I actually do have a short speech I give every time I hand over a grant. I remind the recipient where the money’s coming from and what it’s for. That seems to go over well.”
I felt funny explaining how I did my job to Tom, because he wasn’t just my boyfriend, he was also technically my boss. Though he lived and worked on the other side of the country, far from our actual office, Tom was the kind and generous philanthropist behind the J.O.S.H.U.A. Foundation. I worked for the foundation as the director of research, and basically my job was to investigate nonprofits Tom was interested in and analyze their suitability for grants. If they checked out okay, I then had the pleasure of awarding them grant money. That’s what we were doing here today. For the first time ever, Tom was joining me as I gave a little bit of his money away.
“Hey, Tom! Tom Bennett!” a man cried, interrupting my thoughts.
The fellow bounded toward us, grinning widely. He was tall and wiry, with deep laugh lines in a tanned face, and when he reached us, we stood and the two men shook hands warmly. “You said you might come, but I didn’t believe you.”
“I’m glad I was able to work it out,” Tom replied, smiling.
He introduced his friend as Mitch Heckman, owner of the gym and co-organizer of the event. I told Mitch how impressed I was with the gym and with the climbathon concept.
“Most of the credit goes to my wife,” Mitch said, shaking my hand. “I’m just glad we could use the gym to help out a good cause.”
“Have you raised much?” Tom asked.
“Our goal for today was twenty-five thousand dollars,” Mitch said. “You can see how we’re doing on that poster over there.”
He pointed to a drawing of a mountain with a zero at the bottom, amounts written up the side, and $25,000 at the top. Sadly, it had only been colored in about half of the way up—and the event would be over in another hour or two.
“Of course, we had a pretty big learning curve in putting the whole thing together,” Mitch said. “I’m sure we can make up the difference with some bake sales or car washes or something. We’ll get there eventually. Mai pen rai, huh?”
“Yeah, mai pen rai.”
They chatted for a few minutes more, and then Mitch was called up to the front. After he was gone, Tom explained to me their acquaintance, that they had met a few months ago while mountain climbing—specifically, while scaling the limestone cliffs off of Rai Ley Beach in the Krabi Province of Thailand. Tom had been working hard in Singapore and had taken a weekend off to visit the nearby mountain-climbers’ mecca, where he met Mitch atop one of the peaks after a particularly challenging climb. As the two men rested, they talked, and it turned out that they were both avid climbers and eager to explore an unfrequented jungle crag nearby. Together they had hired a guide and ended up having an incredible day of climbing. Though the two men hadn’t seen each other since, they had been in touch off and on ever since via e-mail.
“What were you saying to each other just now? My pen…”
“Mai pen rai,” Tom replied. “That’s Thai for ‘no problem’ or ‘never mind.’ The guides say it to encourage you while you’re climbing, kind of like ‘you can do it.’ ‘Don’t worry.’ Mai pen rai.”
“Does Mitch know about the foundation?”
“Nope. He thinks I’m just another rock jock.”
“He’s in for a nice surprise, then,” I said. “This is fun, giving a grant to someone who never even applied for one.”
This wasn’t our usual mode for doing business, that was for sure. But this particular charity was so new—and the amount we were donating so relatively small—that the investigation hadn’t been all that complicated. Since KFK had never applied for a grant from us, I hadn’t really had the authority to go in and do an extensive investigation. But they did belong to several good nonprofit watchdog groups, so I had felt confident doing the research from our vacation home in North Carolina, mostly over the internet and on the phone with the foundation’s accounting whiz, Harriet, the day before.
“Anyway, now you’ll finally have the pleasure of making a donation live and in person,” I added. “Something I’ve only been bugging you to do for two years.”
“Almost three years now,” he corrected. “And, yes, I’m hoping this might shut you up for good.”
“Oh, you want me to shut up, do you?” I asked. “What about—”
He silenced me with a finger against my lips, which he allowed to linger there.
“No,” he whispered, gazing a moment at my mouth. “Don’t ever stop talking to me. I want to listen to you forever.”
We looked into each other’s eyes as everything else in the room blurred into the background. My legs shivered again, but not from climbing this time.
“We need to get going,” Tom said gruffly, standing and then helping me to my feet. I squeezed his hand, and then we separated into the men’s and women’s locker areas to get cleaned up.
After a shower I dressed quickly in a pair of black slacks and a soft blue knit shirt. I towel-dried my short hair, combed it out, and took a moment to put on some lipstick and a touch of mascara.
As I looked in the mirror, ready to leave, I was suddenly overwhelmed with sadness. In a few short hours Tom and I would go our separate ways, boarding two different flights to head toward our homes on opposite coasts—him to California and me to Maryland. For three glorious weeks we had done nothing more than shut out the rest of the world and spend time together, but we couldn’t hide out and play forever. Our work and other responsibilities awaited us, and as one week had turned into two and then to three, we had already stretched the length of our available time to the very max. Soon our idyllic vacation together would officially be over, and Tom and I would be back to our long-distance romance as usual.
Slinging my bag onto my shoulder, I decided to take this day moment-by-moment. Despite the difficulty of parting, we still had a job to do. We still had a grant to give out.
I emerged from the locker room to find Tom also showered and dressed, standing nearby and squinting toward the front of the room. He had in his hand a check from the J.O.S.H.U.A. Foundation, dated today and made out to the charity, though the amount had been left blank.
“Callie, can you read that figure?” he asked. “I need the exact amount they’ve raised so far.”
I walked a little closer and then came back to report that they were up to $11,043. Quick with numbers, Tom didn’t even hesitate before he filled out the check for $23,957.
“That’s ten thousand more than they need to bring them to their goal,” I said after doing the math in my head, not surprised one bit by his generosity.
“Yeah, but it’s the least we can do, don’t you think?”
He tried to put the check in my hand, but I pushed it back.
“No, you don’t,” I said. “Enjoy the moment.”
Carrying our bags, Tom and I walked to the front of the gym, where his friend Mitch was chatting with a woman that I assumed was his wife. We were introduced, and I liked her firm handshake and the way she looked me directly in the eye. She thanked us for coming and then moved on to speak with someone else.
“We’re going to head out,” Tom said to Mitch, “but I wanted to give you a check first. I talked my company into making a small grant.”
Of course, the way Tom had said it, you’d never know that it was his company, nor his money—nor that he was using “small” as a relative term. Mitch took the folded check without looking at it.
“Listen, buddy, every bit helps. Thank you so much, and thanks for coming.”
The two men shook hands, and then Mitch shook my hand as well. We said goodbye, and Tom and I departed, walking silently through the packed parking lot toward our rental car.
“You were right, Callie,” he said nonchalantly, pressing a button on his key chain to unlock the car. “Giving away the money in person really is kind of fun.”
I was about to reply when we heard Mitch calling Tom’s name. We turned to see the man running toward us, breathless, his eyes filled with disbelief.
“I don’t understand,” he gasped, holding up the check. “This is so much. Is it some kind of joke?”
“No joke, Mitch,” Tom said. “We’re affiliated with the J.O.S.H.U.A. Foundation. That’s a grant.”
“A grant?”
“Yeah, we give them out all the time. Callie, what is it you like to say when you give grants to people?”
I smiled.
“Basically,” I said, going into my spiel, “we want you to know that the best way you can say thanks is to take that money and use it to further your mission. The foundation believes strongly in what you’re trying to accomplish, and we just wanted to have some small part in furthering your efforts.”
To my surprise, Mitch’s eyes filled with tears.
“Your generosity leaves me speechless,” he said finally. “Won’t you come back inside? Let me tell my wife. She’ll be so excited. Maybe we can get a picture for the newsletter or the website or something.”
I looked at Tom, but he seemed decidedly uncomfortable.
“Mitch,” I said, “we really prefer to do this in a discreet manner. Just tell Jill that the J.O.S.H.U.A. Foundation gives the money with love and with God’s blessings. We’d rather not receive any individual recognition.”
Bewildered, he looked back down at the check.
“And you promise this isn’t a joke?” he tried one more time.
“No joke,” Tom laughed. “I give you my word, buddy. It’s for real.”
With a final sincere thanks, Mitch turned and headed back to the building. We stood there and watched until he went inside and the door closed behind him.
On impulse, I turned and threw my arms around Tom’s neck. Startled, after a moment he hugged me back.
“You are such a good man,” I whispered, feeling absolutely, utterly, and completely in love.
He laughed, pulling me in tightly for an embrace.
“Wow,” he replied. “This giving-away-money thing gets better all the time.”
Knowing the clock was ticking closer toward our flight times, we managed to pull apart and get into the car. He started it up and pulled out of the parking lot, driving toward the airport.
We were quiet as we went, both lost in our own thoughts. As we wove our way through traffic, I considered our relationship and the long and winding path my life had taken since my husband’s death. This coming summer would mark four years since Bryan was killed, and in one way it seemed like yesterday, and in another it seemed like decades ago. My husband had been my first true love, the sweetheart I had met at 16 and married at 25. We’d had four wonderful years together as husband and wife, but that had all come crashing to an end that fateful day when we went water-skiing and Bryan was hit by a speedboat. The boat’s driver went to prison for manslaughter, but I also went into a sort of prison myself—a self-imposed prison of mourning, of loneliness.
Only in the last six months had I allowed myself to consider the possibility that there might be life for me beyond my husband’s death. Tom and I had developed a good, strong friendship through our many work-related conversations over the phone, and then, slowly, that friendship had started taking on other dimensions. We finally met in person last fall, when Tom received word that I had been hurt in an investigation and raced halfway around the world to be by my side and make certain I was all right. We had spent a mere 12 hours together—just long enough to begin falling in love—and then we were forced to endure a four-month separation while he went back to Singapore on important business and I healed from my injuries and continued my work with his foundation in the U.S.
Then three weeks ago, in the very heart of spring, we had been joyously reunited. Showing up in a hot air balloon, Tom had swept me away to a gorgeous vacation spot in the North Carolina mountains, where we planned to stay a week or so and give ourselves the opportunity to see if our relationship really could work face-to-face. What we had found was that we were so compatible, so comfortable, and so suddenly and deeply in love that it was nearly impossible to end our vacation and return to our regular lives.
Now, however, our time together had come to an end.
“There’s the car rental return,” Tom said suddenly, pulling me from my thoughts. He followed the signs and turned into the lot, but instead of heading straight to the busy rental return area, he veered over to an empty parking spot nestled behind a big truck. He put the car in park but left the motor running.
“Maybe we should say our goodbyes here,” he told me, “instead of out in the middle of the busy airport.”
I nodded, surprised when my eyes suddenly ?lled with tears. I didn’t want to say goodbye at all. Tom’s cell phone began ringing from his gym bag, but we ignored it.
“Callie, have I told you that the past three weeks have been the happiest weeks of my life?”
The ringing stopped. In the quiet of the car, I held on to his hand, looking deeply into his eyes.
“They have been incredible,” I replied. There were many, many moments we had shared that I would relive in my mind in the coming days. “I don’t know if I have the strength to say goodbye to you or not.”
Tom reached up and smoothed a loose lock of hair behind my ear. Such tenderness was in his gaze that I thought it might break my heart.
“Callie, I have something for you,” he whispered. He started to reach into his pocket, and I swallowed hard, wondering what it could be. Then his phone began to ring again.
“You better see who it is,” I said, sighing. “It might be important.”
By the time he got the phone out from his gym bag, the call had been disconnected. Tom was pressing buttons, trying to see who had called, when my phone started ringing from my purse. I dug it out, surprised to see that the number on my screen matched the number that had just called his.
“Hello?” I asked somewhat hesitantly.
“Callie?” a woman’s voice cried from very far away. “Is that you?”
“This is Callie,” I answered. “Who is this?”
“This is Stella,” the voice said. “Stella Gold.”
I put my hand over the phone and mouthed to Tom, It’s Eli’s wife.
Eli Gold was my mentor, a friend of Tom’s, and the person responsible for bringing the two of us together.
“Stella?” I asked, trying to picture a woman I didn’t know very well at the other end of the line. I had met her the day she married my dear friend Eli, but she and I had not really spoken since, except for those times when I called their house and she had been the one to answer the phone. “What’s up?”
“Oh, Callie, I’m so glad I finally reached you. I need you. I need your help. I need Tom Bennett, also, if you know how to reach him.”
“What is it?” I asked, my heart surging.
“It’s Eli,” she sobbed. “He’s in the hospital.”
“In the hospital?”
“Callie, he’s been shot.”
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:
At the Throne of Grace: A Book of Prayers
Harvest House Publishers; Abridged edition (October 1, 2011)
***Special thanks to Karri James | Marketing Assistant, Harvest House Publishers for sending me a review copy.***
John MacArthur is the pastor–teacher of Grace Community Church in Sun Valley, California; president of The Master’s College & Seminary; and featured teacher for the Grace to You media ministry. Weekly telecasts and daily radio broadcasts of “Grace to You” are seen and heard by millions worldwide. John has also written several bestselling books, including The MacArthur Study Bible, The Gospel According to Jesus, The New Testament Commentary series, Twelve Ordinary Men, and The Truth War. He and his wife, Patricia, have four married children and fifteen grandchildren.
Visit the author’s website.
Announcing a special new release from Bible teacher John MacArthur…a select collection of powerful Scripture readings and prayers that inspire heartfelt communion with God and gratitude for all that He is and has done for us.
For more than 40 years, John MacArthur has steadfastly committed himself to the careful and faithful teaching of God’s Word. A key outgrowth of his study of Scripture is the profoundly God-centered prayers that precede his sermons.
John’s prayers are the offerings of a heart that is fully committed to honoring God, proclaiming and obeying His Word, and calling others to do the same. In this book, prayers and Scripture readings from across his years of ministry have been brought together to stir Christians toward more meaningful and edifying communion with God.
This book will guide readers, in the most intimate way possible, before God’s throne of grace…giving them a renewed passion and appreciation for their Lord.
Product Details:
List Price: $22.99
Hardcover: 256 pages
Publisher: Harvest House Publishers; Abridged edition (October 1, 2011)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 0736938400
ISBN-13: 978-0736938402
ISLAND BREEZES
This is a book that you should not just sit down and read. This is a book to take slowly so that you allow it to become part of your hear.
This book can help you focus your Bible study and prayer time. There are prayers here for the different seasons of your life.
Open your heart and let John MacArthur guide you through these prayers as you kneel at the throne of God’s grace.
AND NOW…THE FIRST CHAPTER:
1 John 2:1-19
My little children, I am writing these things to you so that you may not sin. And if anyone sins, we have an Advocate with the Father, Jesus Christ the righteous; and He Himself is the propitiation for our sins; and not for ours only, but also for those of the whole world.
By this we know that we have come to know Him, if we keep His commandments. The one who says, “I have come to know Him,” and does not keep His commandments, is a liar, and the truth is not in him; but whoever keeps His word, in him the love of God has truly been perfected. By this we know that we are in Him: the one who says he abides in Him ought himself to walk in the same manner as He walked.
Beloved, I am not writing a new commandment to you, but an old commandment which you have had from the beginning; the old commandment is the word which you have heard. On the other hand, I am writing a new commandment to you, which is true in Him and in you, because the darkness is passing away and the true Light is already shining.
The one who says he is in the Light and yet hates his brother is in the darkness until now. The one who loves his brother abides in the Light and there is no cause for stumbling in him. But the one who hates his brother is in the darkness and walks in the darkness, and does not know where he is going because the darkness has blinded his eyes.
I am writing to you, little children, because your sins have been forgiven you for His name’s sake. I am writing to you, fathers, because you know Him who has been from the beginning I am writing to you, young men, because you have overcome the evil one I have written to you, children, because you know the Father. I have written to you, fathers, because you know Him who has been from the beginning I have written to you, young men, because you are strong, and the word of God abides in you, and you have overcome the evil one.
Do not love the world nor the things in the world. If anyone loves the world, the love of the Father is not in him. For all that is in the world, the lust of the flesh and the lust of the eyes and the boastful pride of life, is not from the Father, but is from the world. The world is passing away, and also its lusts; but the one who does the will of God lives forever.
Children, it is the last hour; and just as you heard that antichrist is coming, even now many antichrists have appeared; from this we know that it is the last hour. They went out from us, but they were not really of us; for if they had been of us, they would have remained with us; but they went out, so that it would be shown that they all are not of us.
Our Gracious God, we thank You for our heavenly Advocate,
Jesus Christ the righteous, whose death on the cross
made propitiation for all our sins—
perfectly satisfying every demand of Your holy justice.
It is He who brought us
out of guilt and into forgiveness,
out of darkness into light,
out of our rebellion and into Your love,
out of death and into life.
He delivered us from this evil world, into Your glorious kingdom.
How we praise You for the wonder of Your love in Jesus Christ!
We thank You for sending Your Son, the Incarnate One,
who was despised, rejected, beaten, mocked, and crucified—
all in order to atone for our sin.
In Him Your love has outloved all other loves.
Your mercy extends beyond comprehension to sinners
with complete and permanent forgiveness of our sins
through faith in Jesus Christ.
We therefore long to love You with a love like Yours.
We know that is not possible, so with the apostle Peter
we plead that You would know our hearts, knowing we truly love You
in spite of what it often looks like.
Our hearts are too much like stone; we ask that
You melt them with Your grace.
Our private lives are too often gated and locked as if we could shut You out
and thereby do what we want.
Help us throw open the door and lose the key! May Your will rule our lives.
We worship You, Father, for Your great love and the gift of Jesus Christ,
Your only-begotten Son, which is to say God the Son.
We praise You, Lord Jesus, for the wondrous gift of salvation
You provided for us.
We adore You, blessed Spirit, for revealing to us the truth of the gospel
and for making our hearts Your dwelling place.
Heavenly Father, in us may Your Son see the fruit of His soul’s anguish and be glad.
Bring us away from all that we falsely trust,
and teach us to rest only in Him.
Never let us be calloused to the astonishing greatness of the gift of salvation.
May we pursue sanctification—ever-increasing holiness—with all our might!
Lord Jesus, Master, Redeemer, Savior, take possession of every part of our lives—
Yours by right through purchase.
Sanctify every faculty.
Fill our hearts with hope.
May we flee the many temptations that relentlessly hound us
and mortify the sins that continually plague us.
May there be no hypocrisy in us.
Help us trust You in the hour of distress.
Protect us when evildoers pursue us.
And deliver us from the evil of this present world.
Dear Father of lights, with whom there is no variation or shifting shadow,
we confess that You alone are the giver of every good and perfect gift,
and You have given us so many things,
richly supplying us with things to enjoy.
And we are reminded by the passage we have just read that
the greatest gift of all is Your Son, Jesus Christ,
who sacrificed His very life in order that
we might be freed from sin’s bondage.
Fill our hearts with gratitude, and may our lives
reflect overflowing thankfulness
so that all who see may honor You.
In the name of Jesus Christ we pray. Amen.
“I baptize you with water for repentance, but one who is more powerful than I is coming after me; I am not worthy to carry his sandals.
He will baptize you with the Holy Spirit and fire.
His winnowing fork is in his hand, and he will clear his threshing floor and will gather his wheat into the granary; but the chaff he will burn with unquenchable fire.”
Matthew 3:11,12
Now that it’s getting cooler, my mind is turning to baking. Even here on the island it got down into the sixties during the night, and the day is pleasant at 73F. The first recipe is for apple bread and was given to me by Jerry Kackley, one of the ER unit secretaries. Thank you, Jerry.
APPLE BREAD
Pour into ungreased angel food pan. Bake in 350F oven for about 90 minutes (or more). I found that 1 hour, 10 minutes worked best for me.
The next recipe is from one of those church cookbooks we seemed to all be buying back in the day. I don’t even have the cookbook any more. I just have a few recipes that I cut out and this is one. It was contributed by Juanita Domeyer.
APPLESAUCE NUT BREAD
Sift dry ingredients in bowl. Combine remaining ingredients and mix with dry ingredients. Place in greased loaf pan. Bake 1 hour at 350F.
This is a yummy way to use up some of the apples that are in season right now.
