Do not be deceived; God is not mocked, for you reap whatever you sow.
If you sow to your own flesh, you will reap corruption from the flesh; but if you sow to the Spirit, you will reap eternal life from the Spirit.
So let us not grow weary in doing what is right, for we will reap at harvest-time, if we do not give up. So then, whenever we have an opportunity, let us work for the good of all, and especially for those of the family of faith.
Galatians 6:7-10
Applying Amish Values Can Simplify Your Life, Health, and Career
Learning principles from a gentle people will help safeguard your time together as a family as you learn to slow down, prioritize, and value what’s truly important.
Award-winning author Suzanne Woods Fisher inspires readers to slow down and understand the values that help build a strong family in Amish Values for Your Family (ISBN: 978-0-8007-1996-8, $12.99, 192 pages August 2011). Studies are finding some alarming trends in the daily life of modern families -family time is a vanishing commodity. Compared to thirty years ago, today’s parents spend 40% less time with their children. This decline coincides with the rise in internet use, the popularity with social networks, and the swell of children’s organized sports and activities. What is competing for your family time? Who is winning?
The Amish have maintained one of the strongest and most stable family systems in America. Harvard School of Medicine recently found that Amish people have a lower rate of heart disease than do average Americans as well as lower rates of cancer. Could their simple way of life, hard work, and value of family contribute to a healthier way of life? And, if so, how is it possible to incorporate some principles of the Amish into a modern family without “goin’ Amish?”
In Amish Values for Your Family, Fisher shows how you can adopt the wisdom of the Amish when it comes to family matters. In this inspiring and practical book, readers will find true stories interlaced with solid, biblical advice about parenting, marriage, and all aspects of family life – without selling your car, changing your wardrobe, or moving to the Amish countryside. Readers will learn to prioritize what’s truly important, simplify decision-making, slow down as a family, safeguard time together, and letting go when the time comes
ISLAND BREEZES
I’ve been drawn to the simple life of the Amish for a long time now. Even though I’m not going to become Amish, I still feel a deep connection.
We can learn so much from Amish values. I’m grateful for this book which both rounds up the values and teaches us how to apply them to our non-Amish lives.
The “Read, Read, Read” chapter stood out for me as I (as well as the rest of my family) love to read.
I think that we as a family need to direct our children away from the overpowering distraction of technology. We need to focus more on the wonders of our world, as well as it’s Creator.
The first section reminds us that Amish children are loved but not adored. Now doesn’t that bring things into proper perspective?
Two more things about this book that I appreciate are the sections that tell us how to “get there from here” and the Amish proverbs. There are so many that spoke to me, but I will only leave you with one. You’ll have to get your own book to read the rest.
Keeping a neat house is like threading beads on a string with no knot on it.
***Thank you to Donna Hausler for providing a review copy***
Suzanne Woods Fisher is the bestselling author of The Choice, The Waiting, and The Search, as well as nonfiction books about the Amish, including Amish Peace. Her interest in the Anabaptist cultures can be directly traced to her grandfather, W. D. Benedict, who was raised in the Old Order German Baptist Brethren Church in Franklin County, Pennsylvania. Benedict eventually became publisher of Christianity Today magazine. Suzanne is the host of a radio show called Amish Wisdom. She lives in California. To learn more about Suzanne visit her at suzannewoodsfisher.com
Revell, a division of Baker Publishing Group, offers practical books that bring the Christian faith to everyday life.? They publish resources from a variety of well-known brands and authors, including their partnership with MOPS (Mothers of Preschoolers) and Hungry Planet.
Available August 2011 at your favorite bookseller from Revell, a division of Baker Publishing Group.
War Widow Fights The Past, American Pilot Fights For The Future
Award-Winning Author Delivers an Emotion-Packed,
Gripping Tale of War, Intrigue and Love
The country is still at war in Blue Skies Tomorrow (ISBN: 978-0-8007-3423-7, $14.99, 448 pages, August 2011) by award-winning author Sarah Sundin. It is 1944 and America longs for the war to be over so their boys can come home. This war has taken too many lives and made too many widows, orphans, and broken hearts. However, the homeland continues to pull together and buy bonds to support the troops, and Helen Carlisle has become the town’s war widow heroine. Doing her part with her son, she faithfully appears at community events asking people to support the troops. But deep down she is troubled. How much longer can she do this? Is she living a lie? Was her dead husband a hero? How can she live with the past?
Lt. Ray Novak prefers to follow his calling into ministry rather than the cockpit. But his current position offers him the luxury of a personal life since he is stateside training B-17 pilots. His interest in Helen, the young war widow, grows, but he knows she is hiding a painful past under a frenzy of volunteer work. Ray is called to fly a European combat mission at the peak of the air war. Their romance is tense because Helen is afraid, but Ray cannot help because he is in Europe. As Helen tries to make ends meet and confronts the past, Ray encounters a deadly enemy of his own. Will they find the courage to face their challenges? Will the truth come out? Will hope and redemption ring true for Helen?
The great era of World War II in Blue Skies Tomorrow is brought to life by Sundin in this emotion-packed novel.
ISLAND BREEZES
I enjoyed coming back to the Novak family, and getting to know Ray better. His life is full of ups and downs. I didn’t intend that as a pun, but it’s filling since he’s a pilot.
A blossoming relationship with childhood friend, Helen, is part of those ups and downs.
And speaking of Helen. That lady has a depressing and challenging life.
It wasn’t easy for either of them as they faced their deepest fears after Helen broke off their relationship. Can they come out on top with an only friends” relationship? It won’t be easy.
Remember this phrase. “In order to live, one must first die.”
You are so going to need that box of tissues – maybe even the entire box!
***Thank you to Donna Hausler for providing a review copy***
Sarah Sundin received the 2011 Writer of the Year Award from the Mount Hermon Christian Writers Conference, and her second novel, A Memory Between Us, is a finalist for an Inspirational Readers’ Choice Award. She is the author of A Distant Melody and A Memory Between Us. Her great-uncle flew with the US Eighth Air Force in England during WWII. Sarah lives in California with her husband and three children. For more interesting information about Sarah visit: sarahsundin.com
Revell, a division of Baker Publishing Group, offers practical books that bring the Christian faith to everyday life.? They publish resources from a variety of well-known brands and authors, including their partnership with MOPS (Mothers of Preschoolers) and Hungry Planet.
Available August 2011 at your favorite bookseller from Revell, a division of Baker Publishing Group.
It is time for a FIRST Wild Card Tour book review! If you wish to join the FIRST blog alliance, just click the button. We are a group of reviewers who tour Christian books. A Wild Card post includes a brief bio of the author and a full chapter from each book toured. The reason it is called a FIRST Wild Card Tour is that you never know if the book will be fiction, non~fiction, for young, or for old…or for somewhere in between! Enjoy your free peek into the book!
You never know when I might play a wild card on you!
Today’s Wild Card author is:
and the books:
and
Treasures from Grandma’s Attic
David C. Cook; Reprint edition (August 1, 2011)
***Special thanks to Audra Jennings, Senior Media Specialist, The B&B Media Group for sending me a review copy.***
The late Arleta Richardson grew up an only child in Chicago, living in a hotel on the shores of Lake Michigan. Under the care of her maternal grandmother, she listened for hours to stories from her grandmother’s childhood. With unusual recall, Arleta began to write these stories for an audience that now numbers over two million. “My grandmother would be amazed to know her stories have gone around the world,” Arleta said.
Grandma did what? You might be surprised. Back in the 1880’s, when she was a young girl named Mabel, trouble seemed to follow her everywhere. She and her best friend, Sarah Jane, had the best intentions at home and at school, but somehow clumsiness and mischief always seemed to intrude. Whether getting into a sticky mess with face cream, traveling to the big city, sneaking out to a birthday party or studying for the spelling bee, Mabel’s brilliant ideas only seemed to show how much she had to learn. And each of her mishaps turned into lessons in honesty, patience and responsibility.
Arleta Richardson’s beloved series, Grandma’s Attic, returns with Still More Stories from Grandma’s Attic and Treasures from Grandma’s Attic, the third and fourth books in the refreshed classic collection for girls ages 8 to 12. These compilations of tales recount humorous and poignant memories from Grandma Mabel’s childhood on a Michigan farm in the late 1800’s. Combining the warmth and spirit of Little House on the Prairie with a Christian focus, these books transport readers back to a simpler time to learn lessons surprisingly relevant in today’s world.
Even though these stories took place over a hundred years ago, there are some things about being a girl that never change. Just like Mabel, girls still want to be prettier or more independent. It’s all part of growing up. But the amazing thing is—Grandma felt the same way! Sometimes your brother teases you or someone you thought was a friend turns out to be insincere. Sometimes you’re certain you know better than your parents, only to discover to your horror that they might have been right. It’s all part of growing up.
Richardson’s wholesome stories have reached more than two million readers worldwide. Parents appreciate the godly values and character they promote while children love the captivating storytelling that recounts childhood memories of mischief and joy. These books are ideal for homes, schools, libraries or gifts and are certain to be treasured. So return to Grandma’s attic, where true tales of yesteryear bring timeless lessons for today, combining the appeal of historical fiction for girls with the truth of God’s Word. Each captivating story promotes godly character and values with humor, understanding and warmth.
Product Details:
List Price: $6.99
Reading level: Ages 9-12
Paperback: 160 pages
Publisher: David C. Cook; Reprint edition (August 1, 2011)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 0781403812
ISBN-13: 978-0781403818
Treasures from Grandma’s Attic:
Reading level: Ages 9-12
Paperback: 160 pages
Publisher: David C. Cook; Reprint edition (August 1, 2011)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 0781403820
ISBN-13: 978-0781403825
ISLAND BREEZES
Old people used to be kids. They got into trouble doing things they weren’t supposed to do -just like you and I, along with today’s young people.
But Grandma’s stories are better, because she did things that we can’t do now that the world’s grown up and changed. These stories make me want to go back in time so I could see Mable’s grandma and her friend, Sarah Jane, get into trouble.
I love thes stories, but even better than that, my grandson does, too.
When Grandma Was a Little Girl
One hundred years! What a long, long time ago that is! Not very many people are still alive who can remember that far back. But through the magic of stories, we can be right there again.
When I was a little girl, I thought no one could tell a story like my grandma.
“Tell me about when you were a little girl,” I would say. Soon I would be back on the farm in northern Michigan with young Mabel—who became my grandmother—her mother and father, and her brothers, Reuben and Roy.
The old kitchen where I sat to hear many of Grandma’s stories didn’t look the same as when she was a little girl. Then there was no electricity nor running water. But my grandma still lived in the house she grew up in. I had no trouble imagining all the funny jams that Grandma and her best friend, Sarah Jane, got into. Or how it felt to wear long flannel stockings and high-buttoned shoes.
From the dusty old attic to the front parlor with its slippery furniture, Grandma’s old house was a storybook just waiting to be opened. I was fortunate to have a grandma who knew just how to open it. She loved to tell a story just as much as I loved to hear one.
Come with me now, back to the old kitchen in that Michigan farmhouse, and enjoy the laughter and tears of many years ago….
1
Face Cream from Godey’s Lady’s Book
Receiving mail always excited me. I never had to be told to get the mail for Grandma on my way home from school. But sometimes the mail became even more important. Like the time I was watching for something I had ordered from Woman’s Home Companion.
When the small package finally arrived, my face revealed how excited I was.
“What did you get a sample of this time?” Grandma asked as I came in proudly carrying the precious box.
“You’ll see. Just wait till I show you,” I said, promising Grandma the box held something special.
Quickly I tore the wrapping paper off the small box. Inside was a jar of skin cream for wrinkles.
Grandma laughed when she saw it. “You certainly don’t need that,” she said. “Now it might do me some good if those things ever really worked.”
“You aren’t wrinkled, Grandma,” I protested. “Your face is nice and smooth.”
“Perhaps so. But not because of what I’ve rubbed on it. More than likely I’ve inherited a smooth skin.”
She took the jar of cream and looked at the ingredients “This doesn’t look quite as dangerous as some stuff Sarah Jane and I mixed up one day. Did I ever tell you about that?”
“No, I’m sure you didn’t,” I replied. “Tell me now.”
Grandma picked up her crocheting, and I settled back to listen to a story about Grandma and her friend, Sarah Jane, when they were my age.
***
Sarah Jane had a cousin who lived in the city. This cousin often came to stay at Sarah Jane’s for a few days. She brought things with her that we were not accustomed to seeing.
One morning as Sarah Jane and I were walking to school together, Sarah Jane told me some very exciting news. “My cousin Laura will be here tomorrow. She’s going to stay all next week. Won’t that be fun?”
“Yes,” I agreed. “I’m glad she’s coming. What do you think she’ll bring this time?”
“Probably some pretty new dresses and hats,” Sarah Jane guessed. “She might even let us try them on.”
“Oh, I’m sure she wouldn’t want us to try on her dresses. But maybe she wouldn’t mind if we peeked at ourselves in the mirror to see how the hats looked.”
Laura arrived the next day with several new hats. She amiably agreed that we might try them on.
They were too big, and had a tendency to slide down over our noses. But to us, they were the latest fashion.
As we laid the hats back on the bed, Sarah Jane spied something else that interested her. It was a magazine for ladies. We had not seen more than half a dozen magazines in our lives, so this was exciting.
“Oh, Laura,” Sarah Jane cried, “may we look at your magazine? We’ll be very careful.”
“Why, yes. I’m not going to be reading it right away. Go ahead.”
Eagerly we snatched the magazine and ran out to the porch. The cover pictured a lady with a very fashionable dress and hat, carrying a frilly parasol. The name of the magazine was Godey’s Lady’s Book.
“Ooh! Look at the ruffles on her dress!” Sarah Jane exclaimed. “Wouldn’t you just love to have one dress with all those ribbons and things?”
“Yes, but there’s little chance I’ll ever have it,” I replied. “Ma wouldn’t iron that many ruffles for anything. Besides, we’re not grown up enough to have dresses like that. It looks like it might be organdy, doesn’t it?”
“Mmm-hum,” Sarah Jane agreed. “It looks like something soft, all right. And look at her hair. It must be long to make that big a roll around her head.”
We spread the magazine across our laps and studied each page carefully. Nothing escaped our notice. “I sure wish we were grown up,” Sarah Jane sighed. “Think how much prettier we’d be.”
“Yes, and how much more fun we could have. These ladies don’t spend all their time going to school and doing chores. They just get all dressed up and sit around looking pretty.”
We looked for a moment in silence; then Sarah Jane noticed something interesting. “Look here, Mabel. Here’s something you can make to get rid of wrinkles on your face.”
I looked where she was reading.
Guaranteed to remove wrinkles. Melt together a quantity of white wax and honey. When it becomes liquid, add the juice of several lemons. Spread the mixture liberally on your face and allow it to dry. In addition to smoothing out your wrinkles, this formula will leave your skin soft, smooth, and freckle free.
“But we don’t have any wrinkles,” I pointed out.
“That doesn’t matter,” Sarah Jane replied. “If it takes wrinkles away, it should keep us from getting them too. Besides,” she added critically, “it says it takes away freckles. And you have plenty of those.”
I rubbed my nose reflectively. “I sure do. Do you suppose that stuff really would take them off?”
“We can try it and see. I’ll put some on if you will. Where shall we mix it up?”
This would be a problem, since Sarah Jane’s mother was baking in her kitchen. It would be better to work where we wouldn’t have to answer questions about what we were doing.
“Let’s go to your house and see what your mother is doing,” Sarah Jane suggested.
We hurriedly returned the magazine to Laura’s bedroom and dashed back outdoors.
“Do you have all the things we need to put in it?” Sarah Jane asked.
“I know we have wax left over from Ma’s jelly glasses. And I’m sure we have lemons. But I don’t know how much honey is left.
“I know where we can get some, though.” I continued. “Remember that hollow tree in the woods? We found honey there last week.”
Soon we were on our way to collect it in a small pail.
“This is sure going to be messy and sticky to put on our faces,” I commented as we filled the pail.
“Probably the wax takes the sticky out,” Sarah Jane replied. “Anyway, if it takes away your freckles and makes our skin smooth, it won’t matter if it is a little gooey. I wonder how long we leave it on.”
“The directions said to let it dry,” I reminded her. “I suppose the longer you leave it there, the more good it does. We’ll have to take it off before we go in to supper, I guess.”
“I guess so,” Sarah Jane exclaimed. “I don’t know what your brothers would say. But I’m not going to give Caleb a chance to make fun of me.”
I knew what Reuben and Roy would say, too, and I was pretty sure I could predict what Ma would say. There seemed to be no reason to let them know about it.
Fortune was with us, for the kitchen was empty when we cautiously opened the back door. Ma heard us come in and called down from upstairs, “Do you need something, Mabel?”
“No, Ma’am,” I answered. “But we might like a cookie.”
“Help yourself,” Ma replied. “I’m too busy tearing rags to come down right now. You can pour yourselves some milk too.”
I assured her that we could. With a sigh of relief, we went to the pantry for a kettle in which to melt the wax and honey.
“This looks big enough,” Sarah Jane said. “You start that getting hot, and I’ll squeeze the lemons. Do you think two will be enough?”
“I guess two is ‘several.’ Maybe we can tell by the way it looks whether we need more or not.”
“I don’t see how,” Sarah Jane argued. “We never saw any of this stuff before. But we’ll start with two, anyway.”
I placed the pan containing the wax and honey on the hottest part of the stove and pulled up a chair to sit on. “Do you suppose I ought to stir it?” I inquired. “It doesn’t look as though it’s mixing very fast.”
“Give it time,” Sarah Jane advised. “Once the wax melts down, it will mix.”
After a short time, the mixture began to bubble.
“There, see?” she said, stirring it with a spoon. “You can’t tell which is wax and which is honey. I think it’s time to put in the lemon juice.” She picked up the juice, but I stopped her.
“You have to take the seeds out, first, silly. You don’t want knobs all over your face, do you?”
“I guess you’re right. That wouldn’t look too good, would it?”
She dug the seeds out, and we carefully stirred the lemon juice into the pan.
“Umm, it smells good,” I observed.
Sarah Jane agreed. “In fact, it smells a little like Ma’s cough syrup. Do you want to taste it?”
“Sure, I’ll take a little taste.” I licked some off the spoon and smacked my lips. “It’s fine,” I reported. “If it tastes that good, it will certainly be safe to use. Let’s take it to my room and try it.”
We carefully lifted the kettle from the stove. Together we carried the kettle upstairs and set it on my dresser.
“It will have to cool a little before we put it on,” I said.
“What if the wax gets hard again? We’ll have to take it downstairs and heat it all over.”
“It won’t,” I assured her. “The honey will keep it from getting too hard.” By the time the mixture was cool enough to use, it was thick and gooey—but still spreadable.
“Well, here goes,” Sarah Jane said. She dipped a big blob out and spread it on her face. I did the same. Soon our faces were covered with the sticky mess.
“Don’t get it in your hair,” I warned. “It looks like it would be awfully hard to get out. I wonder how long it will take to dry?”
“The magazine didn’t say that. It would probably dry faster outside in the sun. But someone is sure to see us out there. We’d better stay here…. I wish we had brought the magazine to look at.”
“We can look at the Sears catalog,” I suggested. “Let’s play like we’re ordering things for our own house.”
We sat down on the floor and spread the catalog out in front of us. After several minutes, Sarah Jane felt her face.
“I think it’s dry, Mabel,” she announced, hardly moving her lips. “It doesn’t bend or anything.”
I touched mine and discovered the same thing. The mask was solid and hard. It was impossible to move my mouth to speak, so my voice had a funny sound when I answered her.
“So’s mine. Maybe we’d better start taking it off now.”
We ran to the mirror and looked at ourselves.
“We sure look funny.” Sarah Jane laughed the best she could without moving her face. “How did the magazine say to get it off?”
Suddenly we looked at each other in dismay. The magazine hadn’t said anything about removing the mixture, only how to fix and spread it on.
“Well, we’ve done it again,” I said. “How come everything we try works until we’re ready to undo it? We’ll just have to figure some way to get rid of it.”
We certainly did try. We pushed the heavy masks that covered our faces. We pulled them, knocked on them, and tried to soak them off. They would not budge.
“I think we used too much wax and not enough honey,” Sarah Jane puffed as she flopped back down on the bed.
“That’s certainly a great thing to think of now,” I answered crossly. “The only way to move wax is to melt it. And we certainly can’t stick our faces in the fire!”
“Mine feels like it’s already on fire. I don’t think this stuff is good for your skin.”
“You’re going to have to think about more than that,” I told her. “Or this stuff will be your skin. There has to be some way to get it off.”
“We’ve tried everything we can think of. We’ll just have to go down and let your rna help us.”
That was the last thing in the world I wanted to do. But I could see no other alternative. Slowly we trudged down to the kitchen.
Ma was working at the stove, and she said cheerfully, “Are you girls hungry again? It won’t be long until suppertime, so you’d better not eat ….”
She turned around as she spoke. When she spotted us standing in the doorway, her eyes widened in disbelief.
“What on earth? … What have you done to yourselves?”
I burst into tears. The sight of drops of tears running down that ridiculous mask must have been more than Ma could stand. Suddenly she began to laugh. She laughed until she had to sit down.
“It’s not funny, Ma. We can’t get it off! We’ll have to wear it the rest of our lives!”
Ma controlled herself long enough to come over and feel my face. “What did you put in it?” she asked. “That will help me know how to take it off.”
We told her.
“If you two ever live to grow up, it will only be the Lord’s good mercy. The only thing we can do is apply something hot enough to melt the wax,” Ma told us quickly.
“But we boiled the wax, Ma,” I cried. “You can’t boil our faces!”
“No, 1won’t try anything as drastic as that. I’ll just use hot towels until it gets soft enough to pull away.”
After several applications, we were finally able to start peeling the mixture off. As it came loose, our skin came with it.
“Ouch! That hurts,” I cried.
But Ma could not stop. By the time the last bits of wax and honey were removed, our faces were fiery red and raw.
“What did we do wrong?” Sarah Jane wailed. “We made it just like the magazine said.”
“You may have used the wrong quantities, or left it on too long,” Ma said. “At any rate, I don’t think you’ll try it again.”
“I know I won’t,” Sarah Jane moaned. “I’m going to tell Laura she should ignore that page in her magazine.” She looked at me. “The stuff did one thing they said it would, Mabel. I don’t see any freckles.”
“There’s no skin left, either,” I retorted. “I’d rather have freckles than a face like this.”
“Never mind.” Ma tried to soothe us. “Your faces will be all right in a couple of days.”
“A couple of days!” I howled. “We can’t go to school looking like this!”
***
“We did, though.” Grandma laughed as she finished the story. “After a while we were able to laugh with the others over our foolishness.”
I looked at the little jar of cream that had come in the mail.
“I don’t think I’ll use this, Grandma. I guess I’ll just let my face get wrinkled if it wants to!”
************************************************
Cousin Agatha
My best friend, Sarah Jane, and I were walking home from school on a cold November afternoon.
“Do you realize, Mabel, that 1886 is almost over? Another year of nothing important ever happening is nearly gone.”
“Well, we still have a good bit of life ahead of us,” I replied.
“You don’t know that,” Sarah Jane said darkly, “We’re thirteen and a half. We may already have lived nearly a third of our allotted time.”
“The O’Dells live to be awfully old,” I told her. “So, unless I get run down by a horse and buggy, I’ll probably be around awhile.”
We walked along in silence. Then suddenly Sarah Jane pulled me to the side of the road.
“Here’s the horse and buggy that could keep you from becoming an old lady,” she kidded. We turned to see my pa coming down the road.
“Want to ride the rest of the way, girls?” he called. We clambered into the buggy, and Pa clucked to Nellie.
“What did you get in town?” I asked.
“Some things for the farm and a letter for your ma.” Around the next bend, Pa slowed Nellie to a halt. “Your stop, Sarah Jane.”
“Thanks, Mr. O’Dell.” Sarah Jane jumped down. “I’ll be over to study later, Mabel. ‘Bye.”
“Who’s the letter from?” I asked Pa.
“Can’t tell from the handwriting. We’ll have to wait for Ma to tell us.”
When Ma opened the letter, she looked puzzled. “This is from your cousin Agatha,” she said to Pa. “Why didn’t she address it to you, too?”
“If I know Aggie, she wants something,” Pa declared. “And she figured you’d be more likely to listen to her sad story.”
Ma read the letter and shook her head at Pa. “She just wants to come for Thanksgiving. Now aren’t you ashamed of talking that way?”
“No, I’m not. That’s what Aggie says she wants. You can be sure there’s more there than meets the eye. Are you going to tell her to come ahead?”
“Why, of course!” Ma exclaimed. “If I were a widowed lady up in years, I’d want to be with family on Thanksgiving. Why shouldn’t I tell her to come?”
Pa took his hat from the peg by the door and started for the barn, where my older brothers were already at work. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” he remarked as he left.
“What did Pa warn you about?” I asked as soon as the door closed behind him. “What does Cousin Agatha want?”
“I don’t believe Pa was talking to you,” Ma replied. “You heard me say that she wants to come for Thanksgiving.”
“Yes, but Pa said—”
“That’s enough, Mabel. We won’t discuss it further.”
I watched silently as Ma sat down at the kitchen table and answered Cousin Agatha’s letter.
Snow began to fall two days before the holiday, and Pa had to hitch up the sleigh to go into town and meet the train.
“It will be just our misfortune to have a real blizzard and be snowed in with that woman for a week,” he grumbled.
“Having Aggie here a few days won’t hurt you,” Ma said. “The way you carry on, you’d think she was coming to stay forever!”
Pa’s look said he considered that a distinct possibility. As I helped Ma with the pies, I questioned her about Cousin Agatha.
“Has she been here before? I can’t remember seeing her.”
“I guess you were pretty small last time Agatha visited,” Ma replied. “I expect she gets lonely in that big house in the city.”
“What do you suppose she wants besides dinner?” I ventured.
“Friendly company,” Ma snapped. “And we’re going to give it to her.”
When the pies were in the oven, I hung around the window, watching for the sleigh. It was nearly dark when I heard the bells on Nellie’s harness ring out across the snow.
“They’re coming, Ma,” I called, and Ma hurried to the door with the lamp held high over her head. The boys and I crowded behind her. Pa jumped down from the sleigh and turned to help Cousin Agatha.
“I don’t need any assistance from you, James,” a firm voice spoke. “I’m perfectly capable of leaving any conveyance under my own power.”
“She talks like a book!” Roy whispered, and Reuben poked him. I watched in awe as a tall, unbending figure sailed into the kitchen.
“Well, Maryanne,” she said, “it’s good to see you.” She removed her big hat, jabbed a long hat pin into it, and handed the hat to me. “You must be Mabel.”
I nodded wordlessly.
“What’s the matter? Can’t you speak?” she boomed.
“Yes, ma’am,” I gulped nervously.
“Then don’t stand there bobbing your head like a monkey on a stick. People will think you have no sense. You can put that hat in my room.”
I stared openmouthed at this unusual person until a gentle push from Ma sent me in the direction of the guest room.
After dinner and prayers, Pa rose with the intention of going to the barn.
“James!” Cousin Agatha’s voice stopped him. “Surely you aren’t going to do the chores with these two great hulking fellows sitting here, are you?”
The two great hulking fellows leaped for the door with a speed I didn’t know they had.
“I should guess so,” Cousin Agatha exclaimed with satisfaction. “If there’s anything I can’t abide, it’s a lazy child.”
As she spoke, Cousin Agatha pulled Ma’s rocker to the stove and lowered herself into it. “This chair would be more comfortable if there were something to put my feet on,” she said, “but I suppose one can’t expect the amenities in a place like this.”
I looked at Ma for some clue as to what “amenities” might be. This was not a word we had encountered in our speller.
“Run into the parlor and get the footstool, Mabel,” Ma directed.
When Cousin Agatha was settled with her hands in her lap and her feet off the cold floor, I started the dishes.
“Maryanne, don’t you think Mabel’s dress is a mite too short?”
Startled, I looked down at my dress.
“No,” Ma’s calm voice replied. “She’s only thirteen, you know. I don’t want her to be grown up too soon.”
“There is such a thing as modesty, you know.” Cousin Agatha sniffed.
Pa and the boys returned just then, so Ma didn’t answer. I steered an uneasy path around Cousin Agatha all evening. For the first time I could remember, I was glad when bedtime came.
The next day was Thanksgiving, and the house was filled with the aroma of good things to eat. From her rocker, Cousin Agatha offered suggestions as Ma scurried about the kitchen.
“Isn’t it time to baste the turkey, Maryanne? I don’t care for dry fowl.”
“I see the boys running around out there with that mangy dog as though they had nothing to do. Shouldn’t they be chopping wood or something?”
“I should think Mabel could be helping you instead of reading a book. If there’s one thing I can’t abide . . . “
“Mabel will set the table when it’s time,” Ma put in. “Maybe you’d like to peel some potatoes?”
The horrified look on Cousin Agatha’s face said she wouldn’t consider it, so Ma withdrew her offer.
A bump on the door indicated that the “mangy dog” was tired of the cold. I laid down my book and let Pep in. He made straight for the stove and his rug.
“Mercy!” Cousin Agatha cried. “Do you let that—that animal in the kitchen?”
“Yes,” Ma replied. “He’s not a young dog any longer. He isn’t any bother, and he does enjoy the heat.”
“Humph.” Agatha pulled her skirts around her. “I wouldn’t allow any livestock in my kitchen. Can’t think what earthly good a dog can be.” She glared at Pep, who responded with a thump of his tail and a sigh of contentment.
“Dumb creature,” Cousin Agatha muttered.
“Pep isn’t dumb, Cousin Agatha,” I said. “He’s really the smartest dog I know.”
“I was not referring to his intellect or lack of it,” she told me, “‘Dumb’ indicates an inability to speak. You will have to concede that he is unable to carry on a conversation.”
I was ready to dispute that, too, but Ma shook her head. Cousin Agatha continued to give Pep disparaging glances.
“Didn’t you ever have any pets at your house, Cousin Agatha?” I asked.
“Pets? I should say not! Where in the Bible does it say that God made animals for man’s playthings? They’re meant to earn their keep, not sprawl out around the house absorbing heat.”
“Oh, Pep works,” I assured her. “He’s been taking the cows out and bringing them back for years now.”
Cousin Agatha was not impressed. She sat back in the rocker and eyed Pep with disfavor. “The one thing I can’t abide, next to a lazy child, is a useless animal—and in the house!”
I began to look nervously at Ma, thinking she might send Pep to the barn to keep the peace. But she went on about her work, serenely ignoring Cousin Agatha’s hints. I was glad when it was time to set the table.
After we had eaten, Pa took the Bible down from the cupboard and read our Thanksgiving chapter, Psalm 100. Then he prayed, thanking the Lord for Cousin Agatha and asking the Lord’s blessing on her just as he did on the rest of us. When he had finished, Cousin Agatha spoke up.
“I believe that I will stay here until Christmas, James. Then, if I find it to my liking, I could sell the house in the city and continue on with you. Maryanne could use some help in teaching these children how to be useful.”
In the stunned silence that followed, I looked at Pa and Ma to see how this news had affected them. Ma looked pale. Before Pa could open his mouth to answer, Cousin Agatha rose from the table. “I’ll just go to my room for a bit of rest,” she said. “We’ll discuss this later.”
When she had left, we gazed at each other helplessly.
“Is there anything in the Bible that tells you what to do now?” I asked Pa.
“Well, it says if we don’t love our brother whom we can see, how can we love God whom we can’t see? I think that probably applies to cousins as well.”
“I’d love her better if I couldn’t see her.” Reuben declared. “We don’t have to let her stay, do we, Pa?”
“No, we don’t have to,” Pa replied. “We could ask her to leave tomorrow as planned. But I’m not sure that would be right. What do you think, Ma?”
“I wouldn’t want to live alone in the city,” Ma said slowly. “I can see that she would prefer the company of a family. I suppose we should ask her to stay until Christmas.”
“I think she already asked herself,” Roy ventured. “But she did say if she found things to her liking. . . .”
We all looked at Roy. Pa said, “You’re not planning something that wouldn’t be to her liking, are you?”
“Oh, no, sir!” Roy quickly answered. “Not me.”
Pa signed. “I’m not sure I’d blame you. She’s not an easy person to live with. We’ll all have to be especially patient with her.”
There wasn’t much Thanksgiving atmosphere in the kitchen as we did the dishes.
“How can we possibly stand it for another whole month?” I moaned.
“The Lord only sends us one day at a time,” Ma informed me. “Don’t worry about more than that. When the other days arrive, you’ll probably find out you worried about all the wrong things.”
As soon as the work was finished, I put on my coat and walked over to Sarah Jane’s.
“What will you do if she stays on after Christmas?” she asked.
“I’ll just die.”
“I thought you were going to be a long-living O’Dell.”
“I changed my mind,” I retorted. “What would you do if you were in my place?”
“I’d probably make her life miserable so she’d want to leave.”
“You know I couldn’t get away with that. Pa believes that Christian love is the best solution.”
“All right, then,” Sarah Jane said with a shrug. “Love her to death.”
As though to fulfill Pa’s prediction, snow began to fall heavily that night. By morning we were snowed in.
“Snowed in?” Cousin Agatha repeated. “You mean unable to leave the house at all?”
“That’s right,” Pa replied. “This one is coming straight down from Canada.”
Cousin Agatha looked troubled. “I don’t like this. I don’t like it at all.”
“We’ll be all right,” Ma reassured her. “We have plenty of wood and all the food we need.”
But Cousin Agatha was not to be reassured. I watched her stare into the fire and twist her handkerchief around her fingers. Why, she’s frightened! I thought. This old lady had been directing things all her life, and here was something she couldn’t control. Suddenly I felt sorry for her.
“Cousin Agatha,” I said, “we have fun when we’re snowed in. We play games and pop corn and tell stories. You’ll enjoy it. I know you will!”
I ran over and put my arms around her shoulders and kissed her on the cheek. She looked at me in surprise.
“That’s the first time anyone has hugged me since I can remember,” she said. “Do you really like me, Mabel?”
Right then I knew that I did like Cousin Agatha a whole lot. Behind her stern front was another person who needed to be loved and wanted.
“Oh, yes, Cousin Agatha,” I replied. “I really do. You’ll see what a good time we’ll have together.”
The smile that lighted her face was bright enough to chase away any gloom that had settled over the kitchen. And deep down inside, I felt real good.
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:
Hell is Real (But I Hate to Admit It)
David C. Cook (August 1, 2011)
***Special thanks to Audra Jennings, Senior Media Specialist, The B&B Media Group for sending me a review copy.***
Brian Jones is the senior pastor at Christ’s Church of the Valley, an innovative community of faith in the suburbs of Philadelphia. Brian is a graduate of Cincinnati Christian University (B.A.) and Princeton Theological Seminary (M. Div.) and has served in leadership positions in churches for over twenty years. His humorous and raw style has made him a popular speaker for conferences, seminars, churches and retreats.
Visit the author’s website.
Recently, the media has ignited in a brimstone blaze of controversy over the question of Hell, and the idea that’s generating so much attention is that Hell isn’t real, and even if it were, a loving God wouldn’t possibly send people there. Is Hell real, or is it a concept that is misguided and out of place in today’s Christianity? Many believe the answer to this question will have profound implications on the future of the faith, and important personalities on both sides of this question are drawing lines in the sand.
If you would like to hear his sermon on Hell is Real, see video below…
Product Details:
List Price: $14.99
Paperback: 272 pages
Publisher: David C. Cook (August 1, 2011)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 0781405726
ISBN-13: 978-0781405720
ISLAND BREEZES
Do you believe in an actual hell? I always have, but never really thought about it in much depth.
I’ve been studying Revelation. It’s enough to make a person start thinking a bit more about hell. Also, I recently found a free book I had downloaded to my Kindle. It was Taken, the first in the Left Behind books and movies. Now, I’m really thinking about hell.
This book came along at a good time. It made a good adjunct study. Hell really is real. It’s not that people “make their own heaven or hell on earth” business. Wake up, folks. We don’t know when our time on earth is up. I know I want to be prepared.
If this book doesn’t scare you enough to be concerned for your family and friends, then you’d better read it again.
AND NOW…THE FIRST CHAPTER:
The great Christian revolutions come not by the discovery of something that was not known before. They happen when somebody takes radically something that was always there.
—H. Richard Niebuhr1
My three daughters know that I have one sacred, unbreakable rule when our family drives anywhere on vacation: If you have to go to the bathroom once we’re on the highway, you better have a Pringles can close by because we’re not stopping.
I’ve learned the hard way that when it comes to small bladders, you have to exert martial law on the hole van. Otherwise you’ll spend half your vacation touring the country’s finest rest stops and eating twelve times the daily recommended allowance of pork rinds. In fact, after years of driving to remote vacation spots, I’ve learned four key principles for a successful road trip with kids: Keep ’em sleeping, keep ’em separated, keep ’em dehydrated, and keep ’em watching videos. If complaining erupts, I’ve also found it helpful to have memorized Bill Cosby’s classic line: “I brought you into this world; I can take you out!”2
There have been times, however, I’ve been tempted to break my own rules. For instance, I’ll never forget the time we drove from Dayton, Ohio, to Dallas. We had just stopped in Louisville to fill up, and after twenty minutes we had successfully emptied all the bladders, gotten situated with our snacks, and pulled back on the road heading toward the highway. Suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a plume of smoke rising from the rooftop of a small apartment complex. I looked for a chimney but saw none. I reassured myself that surely someone had already called 911 and everything would be fine.
Besides, I thought, I can’t even tell for sure if there’s a fire.
Yet something inside of me kept wondering, What if I’m the only person who is seeing this right now? As I approached the onramp I went back and forth in my head, Should we stop? Should we keep going? Should we stop? We don’t have time for this! But what if I’m the only person—I swerved to the left at the last second, drove past the onramp, and circled back into the apartment complex. My guilt (or basic human decency) had won out.
As I pulled up I discovered that it was in fact a fire, and by then the flames had engulfed a large part of the roof. Worse, my suspicion was accurate—we were the only ones there. I asked my wife, Lisa, to call 911, and then I ran inside to warn people to get out.
Once I reached the third floor, I frantically started to bang on the doors, one by one, but at each door there was no response. I then ran down to the second floor and did the same. As I was about to go down to the first floor, a shirtless young man with disheveled hair stuck his head out of one of the second-floor units. He cracked the door open, and as I ran back to meet him, I was hit with a wall of marijuana smoke.
“Yo, my man, what’s up?” he said with a slight grin.
“What’s up is that your apartment is about to burn to the ground. Put your joint down and help me get people out of here!”
We ran down the steps to the first floor. Two couples responded to our knocking. “There’s an elderly lady on the third floor!” one woman shouted. “Did you get her out?”
My heart sank. After racing back up to the third floor, we began furiously pounding on her door. The first-floor neighbor yelled, “She gets confused easily. We may have to break down the door.” But just as she said that the handle slowly began to turn. Coughing, confused, and minutes away from being consumed by the fire, she followed her neighbors down to safety. As we stepped out the front door, we heard sirens in the distance. After we guided the elderly woman into the hands of the paramedics, I turned around and watched the firemen storm up the apartment steps to stop the blaze.
As I stood there, the weight of it all hit me. I let out a deep sigh and thought to myself, What would have happened if I had kept driving?
A few hours later, when my adrenaline had finally worn down and the kids were asleep, a bizarre thought came out of nowhere. I call it a “thought” because to this day I’m still not sure if what popped into my mind came from God or from the triple stack of chocolate chip pancakes from IHOP digesting in my stomach. Here’s what came to my mind:
Let me get this straight: You’re willing to run into a
burning building to save someone’s life, but non-
Christians all around you are going to hell and you
don’t believe it, let alone lift a finger to help.
Admittedly, I was a little freaked out by the “thought,” but at the time I blew it off as a lingering remnant of my conservative-evangelical upbringing.
Four years prior to this event I had graduated from seminary, and with the endless boxes of books I lugged into the moving truck when I left, I also packed my watered-down theology, a healthy dose
of skepticism about biblical authority, and a nail-tight conviction that hell was a mythological concept that no loving and thinking Christian could accept. I had weighed the evidence, read all the books, and sat at the feet of experts for three years. Now the verdict was in—the Bible’s teaching about hell was inaccurate at best and hateful at worst. What I was taught as a child was a lie, and now that I was becoming a pastor, I was sure I’d never perpetuate that ridiculous myth again.
Objections to Hell
Undoubtedly, you’re a smart person. You like to read, and you were intrigued enough by the topic of hell and eternal damnation to give this book a go (either that or the bookstore didn’t have that Dan Brown novel you were looking for). And so I think you can understand the six good reasons it seemed ridiculous to me that God would send anyone to hell. Read through these objections and see if you resonate with how I felt.
1. Hell Is a Very Unpopular Idea
Hell has always been an unpopular concept, and for obvious reasons. According to a recent survey by The Pew Forum on Religion and Public Life, only 59 percent of Americans believe in hell.3 That’s six out of ten people, a slight majority in any room. But another poll narrowed the question even more and discovered that “fewer than half of all Americans (43 percent) thought people go to heaven or hell depending on their actions on earth.”4 Furthermore, in twenty-five years of being a pastor, I would add that maybe three out of every ten Christians I’ve met truly believe people who die without becoming Christians go to hell.
The fact that so few people believe in hell made me wonder if it was about as factual as the lost city of Atlantis.
2. The Punishment Doesn’t Fit the Crime
To my post-seminary self, sending someone to hell for all eternity seemed tantamount to sending someone to death row for stealing a postage stamp. Enduring physical, emotional, and spiritual torture not just for a year, or ten years, or billions of years on end, but for all eternity—it just didn’t seem fair. In fact, it seemed hateful and absurd. Who would propose such a punishment on anyone for anything done in this life? Atheist William C. Easttom put it this way,
God says, “Do what you wish, but make the wrong
choice and you will be tortured for eternity in hell.”
That … would be akin to a man telling his girlfriend,
do what you wish, but if you choose to leave
me, I will track you down and blow your brains
out. When a man says this we call him a psychopath
and cry out for his imprisonment/execution.
When God says the same we call him “loving” and
build churches in his honor.5
When I looked at it from this vantage point, I understood why Tertullian, a well-known pastor in the early church, wrote, “We get ourselves laughed at for proclaiming that God will one day judge the world.”6 In eighteen hundred years that sentiment hasn’t really changed.
3. Life Is Hell Enough
The more I thought about the concept of eternal punishment, the more I kept thinking to myself, Don’t most people go through enough hell in one lifetime? Think about all the suffering people go through in this life. Hell just didn’t make any sense to me. One blogger does a fantastic job of illustrating this point:
Given life’s headaches, backaches, toothaches,
strains, scrapes, cuts, rashes, burns, bruises, breaks,
PMS, fatigue, hunger, odors, molds, colds, parasites,
viruses, cancers, genetic defects, blindness, deafness,
paralysis, retardation, deformities, ugliness, embarrassments,
miscommunications, confused signals,
ignorance, unrequited love, dashed hopes, boredom,
hard labor, repetitious labor, old age, accidents, fires,
floods, earthquakes, typhoons, tornadoes, hurricanes,
and volcanoes, I cannot see how anyone, after
they’re dead, deserves “eternal punishment” too.7
4. Hell Seems Intolerant and Hateful
One of the biggest things that weighed on me was how cruel and arrogant the concept of hell sounded when I talked about it with good friends of mine who weren’t Christians.
A friend once asked me, “How can you believe my great-grandparents who brutally suffered and died in the Holocaust won’t go to heaven just because they didn’t believe in Jesus? They were loving, God-fearing people.” I didn’t have a good answer, and the lack of an answer that sounded loving and moral troubled me immensely. The vast majority of people on this planet think that believing anyone—except people like Hitler who commit heinous crimes against humanity—would go to hell is arrogant, insensitive, ignorant, and hateful.
Victor Hugo wrote, “Hell is an outrage on humanity. When you tell me that your deity made you in his image, I reply that he must have been very ugly.”8 I had to agree. What kind of God would send
anyone to hell? I thought.
5. Respected Evangelical Scholars Reject the Idea of Hell
What troubled me even more was that everywhere I turned, noted Christian scholars confirmed my inner struggle. For instance, evangelical theologian Clark Pinnock wrote,
I consider the concept of hell as endless torment in
body and mind an outrageous doctrine.… How can
Christians possibly project a deity of such cruelty
and vindictiveness whose ways include inflicting
everlasting torture upon his creatures, however sinful
they may have been? Surely a God who would do
such a thing is more nearly like Satan than like God.9
Statements like this made sense to me. Knowing that highly educated people like Pinnock and others thought this way gave me more confidence that it might be okay to veer away from my traditional
Christian beliefs if I chose to do so. If they veered from clear biblical teachings, why couldn’t I?
6. I Like Being Liked
Finally, truth be told, the need to be liked was a real factor in my personal struggle. I hated the fact that I could have friendships with people, but if I stayed true to my Christian beliefs, I felt like I had to spend all my time and energy trying to convert them. I wanted to embrace them, cherish their uniqueness, understand their beliefs, and celebrate our diverse cultural and religious upbringings. Hell was an affront to all of this. I didn’t want to be thought of as the nutty, intolerant guy who was always trying to get people to admit that they were sinners in need of a Savior. I wanted to be the cool, relevant, and intelligent pastor people liked and wanted their friends to know.
Do you resonate with any of those objections to hell?
An Unexpected Confrontation
The combined weight of the attacks by my professors and the sheer immorality of the idea itself finally broke the theological dam open for me. Over time I simply gave up on the idea, proudly. The problem was that believing the Bible is God’s Word is, well, up near the top of any pastor’s job description, at least in an evangelical church. I needed a job, so I came up with what seemed like a simple solution:
I would never tell anyone about my disbelief. In fact, I carried my secret around for four years after graduate school without ever telling anyone, not the people who went to my church, not the staff with whom I worked, not my friends, not even my wife. The secret was so well hidden that sometimes I was able to forget about it—until that apartment fire in Louisville, and then again a few months later at a monastery in northwest Ohio.
I was in the habit of going to a monastery roughly once a month for a spiritual retreat. I would arrive early in the day to pray, journal, take long walks in the woods, and leave late in the afternoon. On one such retreat I felt an overwhelming sense of spiritual pressure, the spiritual equivalent of the kind of pressure you feel in your ears when swimming in deep water. I sensed that something was wrong, but I didn’t know what it was. For the better part of the day, I locked myself into a cold, cement-block room and asked God to show me the source of my consternation.
For the first three hours, I heard nothing—my prayers seemed as if they were bouncing off the ceiling. By noon I felt like I was starting to make a connection with God, but I wasn’t prepared for what happened next, when I felt God’s Spirit impress upon my heart, “Brian, this charade has to end. You’re a pastor and your job is to teach people the Bible, but you don’t believe what you’re teaching. You don’t believe in hell.”
I was a little startled, so I picked up my Bible and did something I had up to that point discouraged people in my church from doing—I played what I call “Bible Roulette.” In his book Formula for a Burning Heart, A. W. Tozer said, “An honest man with an open Bible and a pad and pencil is sure to find out what is wrong with him very quickly.”10 I can attest to the truth of that statement.
I closed my eyes, wildly fanned the pages back and forth, and randomly pointed to passages and read them. The first passage was about eternal punishment. I looked up at the ceiling and said, “That’s a coincidence.” The second passage was about God’s wrath. This time I felt a little uneasy. Then I did it a third time and couldn’t believe my eyes—eternal punishment again. I’m not usually the most mystical person in the world, but I slowly closed the pages of my Bible, put it down on the table next to me, and said, “I get the message.” Church leaders must “keep hold of the deep truths of the faith with a clear conscience” (1 Tim. 3:9), and hell is one of those “deep truths.”
I spent the next five hours reading and underlining every passage about hell in the New Testament, and as I did, I felt an overwhelming sense of conviction. What I discovered shocked me. I had always assumed that the Bible contained only a few scattered references to hell. I was wrong; hell is taught everywhere.
Take the book of Matthew, for instance, just one book among twenty-seven in the entire New Testament. Here is what we learn about hell from that book alone:
Twelve separate passages record Jesus’ teachings about the judgment of nonbelievers and their assignment to eternal punishment.11 Matthew 13:49–50 summarizes them all: “This is how it will be at the end of the age. The angels will come and separate the wicked from the righteous and throw them into the blazing furnace, where there will be weeping and gnashing of teeth.”
Jesus employed the most graphic language to describe what hell is like: fire (Matt. 5:22; 18:9); eternal fire (18:8); destruction (7:13); away from his presence (7:23); thrown outside (8:12; 22:13; 25:30); blazing furnace (13:42); darkness (22:13; 25:30); eternal punishment (25:46); weeping and gnashing of teeth (8:12; 13:42; 13:50; 22:13; 24:51).
Jesus twice used the word eternal (18:8; 25:46) to convey that the punishment of nonbelievers would continue forever.
As I moved from the Gospels into the rest of the New Testament, I was struck by how the writers unashamedly addressed the issue. There is no hesitancy or apology in their words. The basic tone is,
“This is a reality. Now let’s get out there and tell people how to avoid it.” Second Thessalonians 1:7–9 summarizes what these other New Testament authors taught:
This will happen when the Lord Jesus is revealed
from heaven in blazing fire with his powerful
angels. He will punish those who do not know God
and do not obey the gospel of our Lord Jesus. They
will be punished with everlasting destruction and
shut out from the presence of the Lord and from
the glory of his might.
My heart raced as I flipped page after page after page. I discovered, by the end of my study, that the New Testament’s teaching about hell is not an ambiguous topic supported by a few hard-to understand passages. It is inescapable: Virtually every book in the New Testament underscores some aspect of the reality of hell. Jesus taught it; Paul, Peter, and every early church leader taught it, but I wasn’t teaching it. I realized I had a decision to make. Could I discount what Jesus taught about hell if I based my belief in heaven on similar passages in the same books?
Could it be possible that Jesus’ disciples actually had some of the same reservations I had but still persisted in teaching it because they knew in the depths of their souls that hell was real? Wasn’t my hesitancy to believe in hell a sign of my compassion for people? Yet, if hell really exists, and I knew that but wasn’t willing to tell people how to avoid it, wouldn’t that also be the most extreme form of cruelty imaginable? Most of all, could it be that I was ultimately basing my acceptance of this teaching more on what people thought of me than on whether I felt it was intellectually plausible?
As the weight of it all finally set in, I dropped to my knees, stretched out my arms and legs to the sides, and fell prostrate on the unfinished concrete monastery floor. Not content, however, with the act of simply lying facedown, I shoved my face over and over against the concrete as if an invisible hand pushed against the base of my neck. I buried my face in the silence and wept. After an hour or so passed, I just couldn’t stomach listening to myself any longer. I stood up, gathered my belongings, and walked out of the monastery retreat house I had rented for the day. While my planning retreat certainly didn’t end quite like I thought it would, I left knowing exactly what I needed to do.
I drove straight home and met Lisa in our kitchen, sharing everything that had transpired from beginning to end, and then I begged for her forgiveness. Then I drove over to the church, gathered my staff, and did the same. Later that night at an emergency Leadership Team meeting, I walked our bewildered church overseers step-by-step through every detail of my secret. A few days later, standing before the church, I completely fell apart. Four long years of strategic rationalizing couldn’t protect me from the inevitable—my sin had indeed found me out.
Do you want to know what’s scary? When I confessed this, nobody really cared. In fact, the response from a man on my Leadership Team captured the response of just about everyone: “Oh, thank God. You really scared me,” he said. “I thought you called us together to tell us that you did something serious like have an affair.”
Want to know what’s even scarier? You probably agree with him.
I’ve shared that story hundreds of times over the last two decades, and each time I’ve always gotten the same reaction: “Let me get this straight—you started believing in hell again because you reread every passage in the New Testament that talked about hell and then fell on the ground and asked for forgiveness?”
When you put it that way, well, then yes, that’s exactly how it happened. But it wasn’t that simple. There was much more going on beneath the surface. Undergirding that experience were two foundational truths that I didn’t come to realize until much later.
Christians must repent of “sins of disbelief ” in the same way they repent of “sins of behavior.”
Most Christians I know think they need to ask God’s forgiveness only for things they do that are outside of God’s will for His followers. Did I lie today? I need to ask for forgiveness. Did I gossip? I need
to ask for forgiveness for that sin too. Did I take something that wasn’t mine? I’ll ask for forgiveness for that as well. Sins of disbelief are no different. 1 Timothy 4:16 says, “Watch your life and doctrine closely.
Persevere in them, because if you do, you will save both yourself and your hearers.”
It’s life and doctrine—we can sin against God in both how we act and how we think. Both our actions and our thoughts should be under Christ’s control because both have the power to negatively impact our relationship with God and the spiritual walk of everyone around us. We can’t live our lives guided by the Word of God and then allow our minds to function differently. Scripture tells us to love the Lord our God with … what? All our hearts, souls, and minds! How we think is a reflection of our love for God. Don’t believe me? Reread the New Testament and notice how many times the phrase false teachers pops up. Then look at how ruthlessly Paul and other church leaders deal with false teaching.
Christians don’t think their way out of a faith crisis; they repent their way out of a faith crisis.
When it comes to leaving behind “sins of disbelief,” recapturing a biblically correct position regarding the reality of hell (and the fact that non-Christians will go there) is never accomplished by laying out all the evidence and weighing the options. It’s about obedience to Jesus Christ. At its core, believing in hell is an obedience issue, not a theological issue. Am I willing to trust Christ to forgive my sins? That’s an obedience issue. Am I also willing to trust what He says about heaven? Of course. He’s my Lord. If He says it, I believe it. Then why would the issue of hell be any different? As Oswald Chambers wrote,
The golden rule for understanding spiritually is not
intellect, but obedience. If a man wants scientific
knowledge, intellectual curiosity is his guide; but
if he wants insight into what Jesus Christ teaches,
he can only get it by obedience. If things are dark
to me, then I may be sure there is something I will
not do.12
The fact of the matter is: Hell is real. Deciding whether or not hell exists isn’t an intellectual exercise; it’s a matter of eternal life or death. Of course I still have doubts about hell from time to time, but the point is my relationship with the risen Jesus supersedes all my doubts. The reality you and I need to grasp is that this is happening. Right now. On our watch. This is happening to friends and acquaintances of yours and mine who aren’t Christians. And you and I have one decision to make in this matter—are we going to keep on driving and pretend we know nothing, or are we going to turn around?
If you’re ready to slam on the brakes and do a 180, I’ll sit in the passenger’s seat and take that ride with you. I’ll help you understand why hell makes sense. I’ll also help you feel good about believing in the Bible—all of it. I’ll help you feel confident defending what you believe before your friends who lump you together with the crazy televangelists who make people want to throw up in their mouths. Together we’ll discover that believing what the Bible teaches regarding hell is logical, fair, and above all else—loving.
And finally, if you let me, I’ll also coach you on how you can have authentic conversations with your friends without getting creepy in the process. That’s really, really important. More on that later.
However, I have one tiny piece of advice: You might want to grab a Pringles can because we’re not stopping.
Notes
1. H. Richard Niebuhr, quoted in Philip Yancey, What’s So Amazing About Grace?
(Grand Rapids, MI: Zondervan, 1997), 13–14.
2. Bill Cosby, “The Grandparents,” Himself (Motown, 1983), compact disc.
3. Greg Garrison, “Many Americans Don’t Believe in Hell, but What
about Pastors?” USA Today, August 1, 2008, http://www.usatoday.com/news/
religion/2009-08-01-Hell-damnation_N.htm.
4. Christiane Wicker, “‘How Spiritual Are We?’ The PARADE Spirituality Poll,”
PARADE, October 4, 2009, 5.
5. William C. Easttom II, quoted in Gary Poole, How Could God Allow Suffering
and Evil? (Grand Rapids, MI: Zondervan, 2003), 59.
6. Tertullian, The Apology, quoted in Alexander Roberts and James Donaldson,
trans., Ante-Nicene Fathers (Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, 1999), 4:52.
7. Edward T. Babinski, “Hell and Heaven, and Satan, and Christian Superstition,”
October 22, 2005, http://www.edwardtbabinski.us/skepticism/heaven_hell.html.
8. Victor Hugo, quoted in Rufus K. Noyes, M.D., Views of Religion (Boston: L.K.
Washburn, 1906), 125.
9. Clark Pinnock, “The Destruction of the Finally Impenitent,” Criswell
Theological Review 4 (1990): 246–47, 253, as quoted in Randy Alcorn, Heaven
(Carol Stream, IL: Tyndale, 2004), 24–25.
10. A. W. Tozer, The Formula for a Burning Heart, quoted in Martin H. Manser,
compiler, The Westminster Collection of Christian Quotations (Louisville, KY:
Westminster John Knox Press, 2001), 363.
11. See Matthew 7:21–23; 8:12; 10:15, 33; 11:22–24; 12:41–42; 13:30, 40–43,
49–50; 24:50–51; 25:11–12, 29–46.
12. Oswald Chambers, My Utmost for His Highest (New York: Dodd, Mead &
Company, 1935), 209.
Copyright 2011 Brian Jones. Hell is Real (But I Hate to Admit It) published by David C Cook.
Publisher permission required to reproduce in any format or quantity. All rights reserved.
But the Lord said to Samuel, “Do not look on his appearance or on the height of his stature, because I have rejected him; for 
the Lord does not see as mortals see;
they look on the outward appearance, but the Lord looks on the heart.”
1 Samuel 16:7
There’s a Make Do and Mend Monday thing going around the Internet. I think it started at The Cranberry Chronicle. Yes, I know it’s not Monday, but I’ve decided I need to participate in this or I’ll never get any sewing done.
I really do not like to mend. I’d rather make something from scratch. BUT I feel guilty sewing the fun stuff when I have mending laying around and around. In fact all around my sewing room – on a chair, on the cutting table, under the cutting table, in a bin, in the closet. You get the idea.
I also have lots of UFO’s, but we’re not going to go there today.
Make Do and Mend isn’t just for sewing. Anything around the place that needs mended, repaired, etc. is part of this challenge.
Jump in here with me. Monday, we’ll share our projects and accomplishments.
To the trail-weary and frightened women, Fort Endeavor seemed unwelcoming at first, but Roxanna Rowan knew they needed to get to safety as quickly as possible in The Colonel’s Lady (ISBN: 978-0-8007-3341-4, $14.99, 416 pages, August 2011) by bestselling author Laura Frantz. Deep within the Kentucky Territory, Fort Endeavor could provide a new life for genteel spinster Roxanna as long as she was with her father. She had to find him in the mass of all these soldiers. But where was he?
Shortly after arriving at the Kentucky fort commanded by Colonel Cassius McLinn, the Colonel tells Roxanna that her officer father has died. Penniless and destitute, Roxanna accepts the Scrivener position once held by her father. Before long, Roxanna discovers secrets that her father uncovered shortly before his death. Who could she trust with this discovery that she found in her father’s Scrivener desk? Could she trust the Colonel? Was his attraction to her real or was he hiding his own secrets including her father’s death? Roxanna needed answers that only the Colonel could provide.
Set in 1779 The Colonel’s Lady is a powerful and emotion-packed story full of love, suspense, intrigue, faith, and forgiveness from reader favorite Laura Frantz. Her solid research and skillful writing immerse readers in the world of the early frontier while her realistic characters become intimate friends.
ISLAND BREEZES
She was definitely a lady – even while she was scrubbing dirty clothes and cooking for a fort full of men.
When the colonel returned from his campaign with bad news for her, it was really bad news/good news.
Bad news – her father was killed. Good news – you can quit cooking and have your father’s job.
Life at a frontier fort proved to be messy. For Roxanna, other women & children who lived there, captured Indians and the soldiers.
Throw a spy into the mix and it stirs up a whole lot more confusion and trouble. I was back and forth between a couple men the entire book, but never once figured out the identity of the spy.
And, of course, the love developing between the lady and her colonel was never smooth sailing. There were all kinds of obstacles.
You just might need some of those tissues before you finish this book.
***A special thank you to Donna Hausler who provided a review copy***
Laura Frantz credits her grandmother as being the catalyst for her fascination with Kentucky history. Frantz’s family followed Daniel Boone into Kentucky in the late eighteenth century and settled in Madison County, where her family still resides. Frantz is the author of The Frontiersman’s Daughter and Courting Morrow Little and currently lives in the misty woods of Washington with her husband and two sons. More information about Laura at: www.laurafrantz.net
Revell, a division of Baker Publishing Group, offers practical books that bring the Christian faith to everyday life.? They publish resources from a variety of well-known brands and authors, including their partnership with MOPS (Mothers of Preschoolers) and Hungry Planet.
Available August 2011 at your favorite bookseller from Revell, a division of Baker Publishing Group
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 Ransome Trilogy)
Harvest House Publishers (August 1, 2011)
***Special thanks to Karri | Marketing Assistant | Harvest House Publishers for sending me a review copy.***
Kaye Dacus, author of Ransome’s Honor has a BA in English, with a minor in history, and an MA in writing popular fiction. Her love of the Regency era started with Jane Austen. Her passion for literature and for history come together to shape her creative, well-researched, and engaging writing.
Visit the author’s website.
This engaging end to the Ransome Trilogy is a fast-paced tale of love, faith, and danger on the Caribbean Sea in the early 1800s. Captain William Ransome frantically searches for his kidnapped wife and sister. But who will rescue them when buried secrets emerge and challenge everything they believe?
Product Details:
List Price: $13.99
Paperback: 320 pages
Publisher: Harvest House Publishers (August 1, 2011)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 0736927557
ISBN-13: 978-0736927550
ISLAND BREEZES
And then there were three. This is the last book in the Ransome Trilogy. Oh, how I wish a trilogy had more than three books.
The first book was about Julia. The socond was about Charlotte and the third is about them both.
As a former sea person, the lure of the sea and her salty air will always draw me. Throw in action, romance and history, and I’m totally hooked.
The adventures in this last book out shine the two previous. (Maybe it’s because most of the action is at sea.) Although this is part of a trilogy, it is still a very good stand alone read. Yet, I would still recommend reading Ransome’s Honor and Ransome’s Crossing for the complete story.
AND NOW…THE FIRST CHAPTER:
William Ransome snapped his cutlass into its scabbard and turned to face his wife. “The longer I delay, the farther away they take Charlotte.”
Dread froze his lungs, his stomach, his heart. Charlotte. His sister. Taken. “If anything happens to her…”
Julia wrapped her arms around her abdomen and leaned against one of the heavy posts at the end of the bed. “Why the message to my father? What has he to do with Charlotte?”
William double-checked the load of his pistol and tucked it under his belt. “Your father has publicly vowed—more than once—to rid the Caribbean of pirates and privateers for good. Charlotte was likely a target of opportunity, not purpose.”
“But if the man’s argument is with my father, it should have been me taken, not Charlotte.”
William could not disagree with her. Nor could he agree, as the very idea of Julia’s being taken by pirates nearly ripped his heart from his chest. “I should have put her on that ship in Barbados returning to England. If I had followed my conscience”—instead of listening to Julia’s and Charlotte’s emotional arguments—“she would have been well out of harm’s way by now.”
They both startled at a knock on the door.
“Come.”
The door opened at his command, revealing Jeremiah. “The horses are ready, Commodore.”
“Very good.” William took up his case and hat and moved toward the door.
Julia stepped in front of him, expression imploring. “Please, William, wait until dawn. The roads are treacherous enough in the full light of day. At night…and you do not know where you are going. What good will it do Charlotte if you become lost or…or something else happens to you or the horse? Or what if the pirates have laid a trap and done this to lure you from the safety of the house?”
A mirthless laugh expanded in his throat, but he stifled it. Safety of the house? Was the house safe when the brigands had snatched Charlotte from the porch almost directly outside this very room?
“I am sending Asher with him, Miss Julia,” Jeremiah said. “He knows the roads ’twixt here and Kingston better than anyone I know.”
William tore his gaze away from Julia’s anxious face. “Jeremiah, I am depending on you to protect Mrs. Ransome and ensure no harm comes to her while I am away.”
“I will protect her with my life, sir.”
He stepped around Julia and handed his bag and hat to Jeremiah. “Thank you. I shall join you in a moment.”
As he hoped, Jeremiah understood the dismissal. He gave a slight bow and left the room, closing the door behind him.
William took Julia by the shoulders and directed her to the chaise positioned at the end of their bed. He had to apply more pressure than he liked to make her sit. “You are to stay at Tierra Dulce. You will keep an escort with you at all times. I want armed guards posted near the house.”
She nodded, never blinking or breaking eye contact. “Yes, William.”
“If you hear any word from Charlotte or receive”—his voice caught in his throat—“a ransom demand from the pirate, you will send a messenger to Fort Charles. They will get word to me.”
“Yes, William.”
Heart tearing asunder at the necessity of leaving Julia behind, he bent over and pressed his forehead to hers. “Pray for Charlotte.”
Julia’s hands slid around behind his neck, her fingers twining in his hair. She angled her head and kissed him. “I promise. I will pray for you also, my love.”
He kissed her again and then tore himself away from her embrace. “I must go. I promise I will return—and I will bring Charlotte with me.”
Determined to not look back, he made for the door. He opened it and then hesitated. Without turning around, he said the words he needed to say, just in case they were the last he ever said to his wife. “I love you.”
“I love you, William.” Though softly spoken, her words acted as the command that loosed him from his mooring. He stepped through the door and closed it, leaving her on the other side.
Ned Cochrane paced the drive below the porch steps when William exited the house. He barely spared his former first officer a glance. Intellectually, he knew Ned had done his best, having been taken by surprise and set upon by several men. However, in his heart, he wanted to rail at the younger man for failing to protect Charlotte.
Though a horse was his least favorite mode of transportation, William easily swung himself up into the saddle. Once he was settled—and Ned appeared to be also—William nodded at Asher to lead the way.
Darkness enveloped them. Behind, the light from the house acted as a siren’s call, beckoning him to turn, to look, to regret his decision to leave in the dead of night and wish he had taken Julia’s advice and waited until dawn.
His neck ached from the effort of keeping his face forward instead of giving in to temptation and taking one last look at the house, hoping to catch a final glimpse of Julia.
He focused on the bumpy motion of the animal underneath him. He must leave all thoughts of—all worries about—Julia behind, just as he now left her home behind. Jeremiah had known Julia most of her life. He had been as much of a substitute father for Julia as her father, Admiral Witherington, had been for William.
No, he could not worry about Julia and her safety. Rescuing Charlotte must be his only focus, his only thought.
The monotonous rhythm of the horses’ hooves, at a walk over the dark, deeply rutted dirt roads, along with the necessity of keeping his eyes trained on the light shirt stretched across Asher’s broad back, lulled William into a stupor.
Ahead lay his ship. The thought of boarding Alexandra and getting under sail chipped away at his anxiety. As soon as he was on the water, as soon as he stood on the quarterdeck and issued the command to weigh anchor, he would be that much closer to finding Charlotte and bringing her home.
The road widened, and Ned pulled up beside him.
“You are certain the man did not identify himself?”
“No, sir. He did not give his name. He only said her safety depended on the mercy of a pirate.” Ned’s voice came across flat and hoarse.
“What were you doing out on the porch, alone with her in the dark?” Even as William asked this, he reminded himself Ned was not at fault. But if Charlotte had been inside, perhaps…
“I followed them—Miss Ransome and Winchester—when they went for their walk. I did not trust Mrs. Ransome’s steward to behave honorably.” He paused. “I need not have worried. Char—Miss Ransome handled the situation admirably and dispatched Winchester, and their engagement, with aplomb.”
“Winchester was with you when she was taken? Why did you not tell me this before?”
“No, sir. Miss Ransome dismissed him. He had been gone for…several minutes.”
Could Winchester be involved? Dread sank like a cannonball in William’s gut. Julia already suspected the steward of embezzling money from the plantation. And William had left her there with that man—
“I asked her to marry me.”
If Winchester were involved, and this was a ploy to get William away from Tierra—he yanked the reins. The horse voiced its protest and jerked and swerved, nearly unseating William. “I beg your pardon?”
“After Charlotte broke her engagement with Winchester, we talked about our mutual regard. I proposed marriage to her, and she accepted.” Ned’s words barely rose above the sounds of the horses’ hooves on the hard-packed earth.
From a sinking ship into shark-infested waters. Could Charlotte not have waited even a full day after breaking one engagement before forming another—again, without her family’s knowledge? “And if I refuse my permission?”
“Then we shall wait. We’ll wait until you think I am worthy to marry her, sir.”
Worthy to marry her. William did not have to think hard to remember standing before Julia’s father twelve years ago and saying the same words. Sir Edward had graciously given him—a poor, threadbare lieutenant with no prospects and nothing to recommend him as husband or son-in-law—a father’s blessing for William and Julia to marry based on nothing other than their love for each other. William had been the one to deem himself unworthy of her affections, and he had almost lost her forever.
“We shall discuss this after we return Charlotte home.”
“I pray that will be soon, sir.”
“So do I, Ned. So do I.”
Charlotte awoke with a gasp. Wooden planks formed the low ceiling above her. A canvas hammock conformed to her body and swung with the heave and haw of the ocean beneath the ship.
A ship?
Not possible. They had made port, hadn’t they?
She stared at the underside of the deck above, trying to clear the haziness from her brain. Yes. They had made port. Left Alexandra and ridden in carriage across those horrible, rutted roads to Tierra Dulce, Julia’s sugar plantation. The low, sprawling white house with the deep porch that wrapped all the way around and the white draperies billowing through the open windows.
The porch. She blinked rapidly. The porch. At night. In the dark. Henry Winchester and…and Ned.
She bolted upright and then flung her torso over the side of the hammock as her stomach heaved.
Why should she be sick? She hadn’t experienced a moment of seasickness on the crossing from England to Jamaica. She climbed out of the hammock, skirt and petticoats hindering her progress until she hoisted them above her knees, and made for the small table with a glass and pitcher.
Wan light from the stern windows sparkled through the glass, revealing a residue of white powder in the bottom of it. She set the glass back on the stand. Last night the pirate had made her drink from the glass, and then everything had gone hazy. But before that…
She buried her face in her hands. Being torn away from Ned. She prayed they had not killed him. She’d heard no gunshot, but as their raid had been one of stealth, they would more likely have used a blade to end Ned’s life.
A sob ripped at her throat, but she forced it to stay contained. She would not give the pirates the satisfaction of seeing her upset. And she must, and would, find a means of escape.
Thirst got the better of her, and she lifted the china pitcher of water and rinsed her mouth before drinking deeply the brackish liquid. She then turned and surveyed the cabin. Obviously the pirate captain’s quarters. Though smaller than Ned’s aboard Audacious, which was in turn smaller than William’s aboard Alexandra, the room was neatly kept, with serviceable furnishings, whitewashed walls and ceiling, and plain floors. Nothing to exhibit the extravagance or wealth she’d expected to see in a pirate’s private lair.
The desk. Perhaps something there would tell her more about her captor. She crossed to it, rather surprised by the empty work surface. No stacks of the papers or books like the ones resting on William’s or Ned’s worktables. Her fingers itched to open the drawer under the desktop and the small doors and drawers along the high back of it, but Mama had taught her better than that.
Two miniatures hanging above the desk caught her eye. One showed a woman, probably a few years older than Charlotte, with dark hair and angular features. Too plain to be called pretty, but not ugly either. The green backdrop of the second painting contrasted vividly with the reddish-brown hair of a pretty girl and matched her vibrant green eyes.
Mahogany hair and green eyes—just like Julia. Why would a pirate have a portrait of Julia hanging in his cabin? But, she corrected herself, the painting was of a girl no older than thirteen or fourteen. Surely the resemblance to Julia was merely coincidental.
“She was lovely, was she not?”
Charlotte gasped and whirled. A dark-haired man dressed in a blue coat that resembled a commodore’s or admiral’s—complete with prodigious amounts of gold braid about the cuffs, collar, and lapels—stood in the doorway of the cabin.
He tossed a bicorne hat—also similar to a navy officer’s—onto the oblong table in the middle of the cabin, clasped his hands behind his back, and sauntered toward her, his eyes on the portrait.
“What do you want with me?”
“I am sorry for the manner of your coming here, Miss…?” He cocked one eyebrow at her.
“Ransome. Charlotte Ransome. My brother is Commodore William Ransome. He will hunt you down. And when he finds you—”
“When he finds me,” the pirate said, sighing, “I am certain the encounter shall be quite violent and bloody. Is that what you were going to say?”
Charlotte ground her teeth together. The man stood there, serene as a vicar on the Sabbath, acting as if they stood in a drawing room in Liverpool discussing the weather. “What do you want with me?”
“With you? Nothing.” He flicked an invisible speck of dust from the oval frame. “My business is with her.”
“With her?” Charlotte nodded toward the painting. “Is that…?”
“Julia Witherington—or Julia Ransome, as I have lately learned. Empress of the Tierra Dulce sugar empire.”
The strange lilt in his voice when he said Julia’s name sent a chill down Charlotte’s spine. “Yes, she is married. To my brother.”
“The famous Commodore Ransome.” The pirate turned and ambled toward the dining table. “His reputation precedes him.”
Worry riddled Charlotte at the pirate’s lack of worry over the thought of William’s hunting him down and blowing him and his crew out of the water. After Charlotte escaped, naturally.
“You were not part of my plan, little Charlotte Ransome.” He turned, leaned against the edge of the table, and crossed his arms. The coat pulled across his broad chest and muscular shoulders. A lock of dark hair fell over his forehead, softening the way his heavy black brows hooded his eyes. His nose had been aquiline once, but now it sported a bump about halfway down from whence the rest of the appendage angled slightly to his left. A scar stretched across his forehead and down into his left eyebrow. On first sight he could have passed for Spanish, but his accent marked him as an Englishman.
If he weren’t a no-good, dastardly, cowardly, kidnapping pirate, she might consider him handsome.
“Did you kill him?” The question squeezed past her throat unbidden.
“Him?”
“Ned—Captain Cochrane. The man with me on the porch.” She schooled her emotions as best she could, pretending the man standing before her was none other than Kent, her nemesis during her days aboard Audacious as a midshipman.
“If he is dead, it is through no work of me or my men. We do not kill for sport, only for defense.”
“Ha!” The mirthless laugh popped out before she could stop it. “Morality from a pirate? Someone who spends his life pillaging and thieving and destroying and killing and…and…” Heat flooded her face.
“And?” The pirate stood and stalked toward her, an odd gleam in his dark eyes. “And ravishing young women? Is that what you were going to say?”
Charlotte backed away, right into the edge of the desk. She gripped it hard. “N-no.”
The pirate leaned over her, hands on either side of her atop the desk, trapping her. “Do not try to lie to me, little Charlotte Ransome. You have no talent for it.”
Stays digging into her waist, she bent as far back as she could. “Yes, then. Ravishing.” Not that he would get a chance to ravish her. A fork. A penknife. Anything with a sharp edge or point. Once she had something like that in her possession, she would be able to defend herself against him.
Up close, the pirate’s brown eyes held chips of gold and green. A hint of dark whiskers lay just beneath the skin of his jaw and above his upper lip.
He blinked when someone knocked on the door but didn’t move. “Come!”
“Captain, Lau and Declan are back.”
“Very good. I shall meet with them in the wheelhouse momentarily to hear their report. Dismissed.”
Charlotte wanted to cry out to stop the other man from leaving, but she knew she deluded herself. She was no safer with any man on this ship than with their captain.
Would Ned still want her—even be able to look at her—after the pirates were finished with her?
“What’s this?” The pirate reached up and touched Charlotte’s cheek. “Tears?”
She shook her head, more to dislodge his hand than in denial.
With another sigh he straightened and then handed her a handkerchief. “Calm yourself, Miss Ransome. I have no intention of ravishing you. Nor of allowing anyone else to ravish you. While you are aboard my ship, you are under my protection.”
He crossed to the table and retrieved his hat. “You, however, must stay to this cabin at all times. Though my men know my rules of conduct, a few of them might give in to the temptation of their baser desires should they see you about on deck.”
Charlotte leaned heavily against the desk. The handkerchief in her hand was of the finest lawn, embroidered white-on-white with a Greek-key design around the edge. She frowned at the bit of cloth. Why would a pirate carry something so delicate?
He settled the bicorne on his dark head, points fore-and-aft, the same way the officers of the Royal Navy wore theirs.
“Who are you?”
He touched the fore tip of the hat and then flourished a bow. “I am called El Salvador, and you are aboard my ship, Vengeance. Welcome to my home, Miss Ransome.”
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 CD:
Lorente Publishing
***Special thanks to Suzanne Lorente for sending me a review cd.***
Suzanne Perry Lorente has been a child of the Lord since age 7. Her gift of music began at age two and has carried her through her life. She is an accomplished long time song writer, singer, guitarist and performer from the age of 13. At a young age, Suzanne chose a career of a professional entertainer as a single singer/guitarist in well known night clubs, dinner houses and special events, with a repertoire of more than 400 songs. During this same time frame, she achieved an Associate of Arts degree in Mass Media from Stephens College in Columbia, MO, and a Bachelor of Arts Degree in Music from San Jose State University in California. As time marched along, she realized God’s calling on her life to turn her heart toward Him as she could hear that “still, small voice” asking her to leave the relentless work of night clubs and secular entertainment. “It was a vow that took place in a day, and His promise took place over my lifetime. I am so blessed and God has kept His promise that He would give me the songs to sing for His children and for His glory.” Suzanne has sung first of all for her family, then in choirs, started and sang in many small groups and trios, sang solo for so many audiences and congregations throughout the United States, and left behind a legacy of musical scenarios as she tells her stories of how each of her songs came about. She has recorded an ageless cassette that continues to be in demand, and a new CD, that has high-lighted the songs God has given to her. Suzanne has been teaching voice and guitar since she was 14 years old. She is presently singing in the little City of Dixon, CA for their Farmers Markets, weddings, and events, as well as with her trio, Suzanne Lorente and Friends, as they embark on recording a CD together. They are out doing concerts whenever possible and wherever the Lord leads. “It’s wonderful to see God change the lives and hearts of people as we just sing our songs and allow Him to work through us. I love that!”
Visit the author’s website.
This CD is a wonderful spiritual uplift and encouragement for any Christian who wants to grow, not only by hearing God’s Word, but by doing what He’s asking us to do. We have to take that first step and that’s what this CD motivates believers and non-believers to do. The songs are original Christian Gospel scenarios that anyone can relate to, and that’s what gives you the anointing strength to keep on going. You will love the beautiful orchestral and vocal backgrounds with each song as Suzanne Lorente and her trio envelope you with their angelic harmonies. God has put His Hand of blessing on Suzanne and given her songs throughout her lifetime of ministry. She and her gals are planning a tour and would love to include your church or event if it’s possible. May God bless every listener and urge them to follow the Lord by listening to His “Still, Small Voice!”
Product Details:
List Price: $14.99
Music CD
Publisher: Lorente Publishing
Language: English
ISLAND BREEZES
The cover picture on this CD is deceptive. I looked at it and expected to hear this lady playing the guitar and maybe singing.
Was I ever surprised! This CD is filled with Suzanne’s lovely voice and beautiful instrumentation.
Feeling stressed out? This will fly you off to a more peaceful place.
AND NOW..A SAMPLE OF A SONG FROM THE CD:
(To hear more samples, please visit Suzanne’s website)
Here is one of the songs, “Misunderstood.” This song is an original of mine written on January 1st of 2010. I am the voice for those who have been aborted, abused and misunderstood. This is quite sad, but it’s telling us that each one of these has identified with the misery, torture, and abuse that Jesus went through on the cross. Many 100’s of thousands have died a martyr’s death, and are with the Lord because He loves them. Please listen carefully! This could be such a blessing for the Christian pregnancy centers and homes of abused women and children.
Here are the lyrics:
Words and Music by Suzanne Lorente
Arranged by Jeannine O’Neal
What can I say? Jesus loves them, they are free.
No-one will take time to listen as they cry
Knowing that I have the answer, I know why.
Their tiny voices still ring in our minds
No-one to love them, no-one to care
What they have to say doesn’t matter…anyway.
There is a hard part to living, not to be heard
Hate takes the joy out of giving, their vision blurred
Where is the love that could give them wings to fly?
Knowing that I have the answer, I know why.
Their little voices still ring in our mind
No-one to hear them, no-one to care
What they have to say doesn’t matter…anyway.
Could you be one who can’t hear them, you can’t see?
Are you aware they are people like you and me?
What would have come of the children who were slain?
There’d be a world of compassion…no more pain!
Their tiny voices still ring in our mind
Someone will love them, someone will care
What they have to say really matters…anyway.
He’s (Jesus) been misunderstood, but not for long
Each tiny baby to Him will belong.
He really loves them, He really cares
What He has to say is what matters…anyway!
What He has to say is what matters….anyway! Matt. 18:1-7
Additional high vocals Suzanne Lorente, Cecelia Dettle
Copyright 2010 BMI-0777 All rights reserved
See my website for further information
