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

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

and the book:

My So-Called Life as a Proverbs 31 Wife: A One-Year Experiment…and Its Surprising Results

Harvest House Publishers (September 1, 2011)

***Special thanks to Karri | Marketing Assistant | Harvest House Publishers for sending me a review copy.***

Sara Horn is a wife and mom, a writer, author and founder of Wives of Faith, a military wives ministry. She’s a sought-after media guest and writer of numerous articles and books including GOD Strong and the Gold Medallion nominee A Greater Freedom cowritten with bestselling author Oliver North. She’s devoted to her husband who serves in the U.S. Navy Reserves, crazy about her son, and passionate about her ministry to women. Please visit

Visit the author’s website.

Sara Horn, a busy writer and mother, deemed the Proverbs 31 wife to be an impossible ideal. Or is it? This surprising, heartfelt personal account of Sara’s one-year experiment reveals how even a domestically-challenged woman can embrace God’s purpose and encourages readers to pursue God’s amazing plan for their lives.

 

Product Details:

List Price: $12.99
Paperback: 208 pages
Publisher: Harvest House Publishers (September 1, 2011)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 0736939415
ISBN-13: 978-0736939416

ISLAND BREEZES

Have any of you all thought you’d like to try being a Proverbs 31 wife?  I’ve thought about just like our author.  But I just couldn’t get past reading it and thinking, “Am I sure I want to try to do all that?”

I’ve always come up with a lot of excuses for not even bothering, but Sara really put it all in words.  Good words.  Plain words.  Funny words.  She had me with the banana pudding and sticking stuff in the microwave to finish out the meal.

I thoroughly enjoyed this book.  And even more, I’ve been inspired to try that Proverbs 31 thing.

AND NOW…THE FIRST CHAPTER:

Yesterday was Sunday.

Our pastor started a new sermon series on the family. We missed the first sermon last week, but we were there yesterday for the second. The first week was “Dads Matter More than Anything.” This week’s was titled “Moms Matter Just as Much.”

Good to know.

As the pastor got started, I pulled out my Bible and my notebook, all ready to take notes. But then he said something that made my stomach churn. My hands instinctively made fists. My eyebrows furrowed.

The biblical passage he was speaking from was Proverbs 31.

Of course, I muttered to myself, turning to the passage I revere and fear at the same time.

The Proverbs 31 wife and I don’t get along very well. I don’t appreciate how bad she makes me look. I don’t like the guilt I feel when I see her. If she is the standard all Christian wives should work toward, then I’m in serious trouble. If she’s the equivalent of Miss America, then I’m a whole lot more like Lucille Ball. I have a lot of explaining to do for why I’m not more like Miss America. And I’m not really sure I can.

The pastor started making his points:

An Excellent Wife Is a Rare Find (v. 10).
An Excellent Wife Can Be Trusted in Every Way (vv. 11-12).
An Excellent Wife Is Concerned for Others (v. 20).
An Excellent Wife Is Strong and Stable (v. 25).
And so it went.

I stopped taking notes at “An Excellent Wife Is a Tireless Worker.”

My husband glanced over at me when he heard my notebook snap shut. He knows that’s never a good sign. Neither was the steam coming out of my ears and the laser stare in my eyes. He started looking for the exits, just in case.

I don’t like it when men tell women what will make us excellent. I don’t consider myself a feminist at all, but I just don’t think men can possibly understand the woman any more than we can understand the man. That’s why Men Are from Mars, Women Are from Venus was written. Eve may have been formed from the man’s rib, but she definitely had a mind of her own. And maybe, just maybe, if Adam had taken more time to understand her, the whole scene with the apple and the garden might have gone a lot better. Just sayin’.

Part of my struggle with the treatment of the fairer sex comes from the attitudes I’ve witnessed through the church denomination I’ve partly grown up and worked in. I agree with a lot that my denomination stands for. But when it comes to the treatment and attitudes about the service of women in the church, it often leaves me with the same feeling I get when I hear fingernails scratch down a chalkboard.

What I don’t understand is why there’s this 21-verse list of what the perfect wife is and not at least a Top 10 of what makes a perfect husband. I raised this question once on Facebook, and a guy I know who is deep into seminary classes pointed out that Ephesians 5:25-28 is an all-encompassing directive for husbands. See what you think:

Husbands, love your wives, just as Christ loved the church and gave himself up for her to make her holy, cleansing her by the washing with water through the word, and to present her to himself as a radiant church, without stain or wrinkle or any other blemish, but holy and blameless. In this same way, husbands ought to love their wives as their own bodies. He who loves his wife loves himself.

Really? That’s great. Husbands are told to love their wives as they love themselves, and wives are given a laundry list of ways to show our love (just in case we might get confused and think the husband, as part of his love, might also “get up while it’s still dark and provide food” for his family). Husbands—you show love. Wives—get to cookin’.

Back to my stewing. I sat, listening to our pastor as he continued to speak on all the things that make an excellent wife, from the example of the Proverbs 31 superwoman:

A wife of noble character who can find?
She is worth far more than rubies.

Her husband has full confidence in her
and lacks nothing of value.

She brings him good, not harm,
all the days of her life.

She selects wool and flax
and works with eager hands.

She is like the merchant ships,
bringing her food from afar.

She gets up while it is still night;
she provides food for her family
and portions for her female servants.

She considers a field and buys it;
out of her earnings she plants a vineyard.

She sets about her work vigorously;
her arms are strong for her tasks.

She sees that her trading is profitable,
and her lamp does not go out at night.

In her hand she holds the distaff
and grasps the spindle with her fingers.

She opens her arms to the poor
and extends her hands to the needy.

When it snows, she has no fear for her household;
for all of them are clothed in scarlet.

She makes coverings for her bed;
she is clothed in fine linen and purple.

Her husband is respected at the city gate,
where he takes his seat among the elders of the land.

She makes linen garments and sells them,
and supplies the merchants with sashes.

She is clothed with strength and dignity;
she can laugh at the days to come.

She speaks with wisdom,
and faithful instruction is on her tongue.

She watches over the affairs of her household
and does not eat the bread of idleness.

Her children arise and call her blessed;
her husband also, and he praises her:

“Many women do noble things,
but you surpass them all.”

Charm is deceptive, and beauty is fleeting;
but a woman who fears the Lord is to be praised.

Honor her for all that her hands have done,
and let her works bring her praise at the city gate.
(Proverbs 31:10-31)

I kept reading this passage, over and over, the successes of this great wifely role model taunting me more than encouraging me, my very being wilting and shrinking as I sat there, no comparison to this giant of an example. I was waiting, for what, I didn’t know. Waiting for something—a bright glimmer, anything that my pastor might say to give all the wives sitting in the audience, or maybe just me, some hope. He didn’t let me down. His last point was the same point I have made in the past: The Proverbs 31 woman’s most important task is to fear the Lord (v. 30).

My breathing relaxed a little. This, after all, was something I understood. Of course, I want to be a better wife and homemaker. I want to be a better woman in general. But my greatest desire is to be closer to God as his daughter. I want that close, incredible relationship with him.

I haven’t always done well with this. If God and I were going for a walk in the park, I’d be the kid running out in front, barely able to wait for him. Patience is not my strength. Waiting on God is hard.

I began to prayerfully think over the pounding of my heart, the churning of my stomach, and my fingers digging into my thighs. OK, so why am I so mad? Am I mad at the Proverbs 31 wife? Am I upset with the pastor? Am I angry at myself? I mean, I argued with myself. Wouldn’t it be great if you COULD be like the Proverbs 31 wife—if you were praying and reading the Bible and really staying in touch with God every day? Couldn’t God help you do it all?

He could if he wanted to, I’m sure. I’m just not convinced he wants me to be able to do it all. I’m not even convinced that the Proverbs 31 wife was real. I mean, I grew up being told King Solomon wrote the book of Proverbs, and he wasn’t exactly a role model when it came to women. He liked having as many wives as he could, and in fact it was his infatuation for the opposite sex that got him into trouble toward the end of his reign.

What if this woman we’ve all idolized and tried to emulate is just a concoction from King Solomon and a group of his royal cronies who sat around one day, drinking beers, and decided to have an impromptu brainstorming session on what makes the perfect wife? And some servant of his wrote all of these ideas down on a big Post-it note and it eventually made its way into Proverbs with all the other wise things Solomon wrote? In fact, my Bible notes that verses 10-31, the Proverbs 31-wife passage, is actually an acrostic. Each verse begins with a successive letter of the Hebrew alphabet. See? I told you it was a drinking game.1

Or if this woman really did exist, then maybe she was like the Martha Stewart of her day, and I’m sure the majority of the women living in that time didn’t like her and didn’t appreciate her. And while they watched her television shows and read her magazine, Housekeeping in the Holy Land, behind closed doors, they lived in fear and guilt that one day their husbands would come home and say, “Why can’t you be more like the Proverbs 31 wife?”

But then I got a crazy idea. Why can’t I be more like the Proverbs 31 wife? What would it be like to try and actually follow the example of this woman so many hold in such esteem?

I definitely had some things to think about.

While investigating a mysterious double homicide in an isolated northern Wisconsin town, FBI Special Agent Patrick Bowers uncovers a high-tech conspiracy that ties together long-buried Cold War secrets with present-day tensions in the Middle East.

In his most explosive thriller yet, bestselling author Steven James delivers a pulse-pounding, multilayered storytelling tour de force that will keep you guessing.

The latest installment in “The Bowers Files” brings another eagerly awaited suspense thriller that fans have been clamoring for. This time, FBI Special Agent Patrick Bowers is working a case in rural Wisconsin when he realizes there is much more to investigate than originally thought. Steven James’ masterful, fast-paced story-telling has won numerous awards – The Queen is sure to earn similar acclaim!

ISLAND BREEZES

A Patrick Bowers novel has me on edge from the moment I start reading.  I know from the beginning that something could jump out and happen at any time.

And Tessa.  There’s always concerns about what might happen to her.

This book has your adrenaline all over the place.  There’s things happening everywhere, and everyone’s in on the act.

Don’t read this right before bedtime.  You’ll be too wired to sleep for a day or two.

***Thanks to Donna Hausler for providing a review copy* 

WARNING: This book contains violence and graphic descriptions of disturbing crime scenes. It is not for the faint-of-heart who may be offended by such written images. For more on this topic, please read Steven James’ blog article entitled “Why I Write about Evil” .

You can go here to download an except and read more about the author and his writings.

Available September 2011 at your favorite bookseller from Revell, a division of Baker Publishing Group.

The Ground Zero mosque, that is.  The good news is that it’s not coming out of the taxpayer’s money.  According to Dick Morris,  the Lower Manhattan Development Corporation has denied their request for federal funds.

There’s not going to be any mending or making do today.  I’m on my way out the door soon.  I’m going to the mainland soon and will be driving over to the east coast to spend a little time with Consumer Man.

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:

ON BEING A RAT And Other Observations including talk on writing, trauma, full moons, and the memes of me

Port Yonder Press (January 1, 2012)

***Special thanks to Chila Woychik for sending me a review copy.***

Chila Woychik is a multi-published author and managing editor at Port Yonder Press. She lives with her husband of 30 years in the lovely state of Iowa.

Visit the author’s website.

ON BEING A RAT is a strange literary mix that’s been called “lyrical, inspiring, gut-wrenchingly honest, special.” It’s a genre mashup of creative nonfiction with light doses of memoir and poetry sprinkled throughout. A definite crossover book; a definite book of the heart. Rated PG13 for language and adult themes. Illustrated by Glynda Francis.

 

Product Details:

List Price: $5.99
Paperback: 160 pages
Publisher: Port Yonder Press (January 1, 2012)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 193560046X
ISBN-13: 978-1935600466

ISLAND BREEZES

This book is probably unlike any you may have read previously.  That right there is a good reason to read this book.

Another good reason – she remembers soylent green.

Chila’s writings remind me of the beat generation.  I was quite young then, but aspired to be one of those who were called beatniks.  I think Chila would have been one, too.

BTW I never bend the pages.

AND NOW…THE FIRST CHAPTER:

INTRODUCTION

I write to pay the doctor

I write to pay the nurse,

I write to pay the funeral gig

and driver of the hearse.

I’ve often wondered what it’d be like to be a crosswalk attendant, herding busy little children and placid old ladies across an intersection while waving an officious octagonal red sign: STOP.

I’d see a driver I knew but didn’t like, or one who forgot to acknowledge me once years ago, then I’d run out into the middle of that car-less lane, spread my legs like a resurrected Colossus, and thrust that command into her curious face. The real or imagined group of children and old ladies would safely pass behind me, I’d continue eyeing the motorist—sternly of course—then finally signal her on. And if I were in an especially benevolent mood, I’d not take down her license number and report her for indecent exposure.

But no, not a crosswalk attendant—I don’t have the patience. A barricade snatcher. A roadblock remover: pulling down the weave-and-bobs—straightening paths.

I write like I feel—gritty sand lining my soles, the smooth hardness of pinewood flooring under each step, the long sharp splinters scraping through skin, flesh and bone to show up on the topside where I can see them stark draped in blood, feel it deep. Writers are the ultimate masochists, after all.

I lay my pen on the tiny porch outside my door and let the sun renew it with words. That’s me in the lawn chair beside it—a browning me. My leathered self will make good shoes one day for all those poor African children still running around barefoot on the hot soil outside their huts. Or maybe I’ll be a laced book cover filled with words from my very own sun-pen. I’d write a science fiction story with beautiful soylent green ink.

Much is metaphorical here—not as it seems. It’s written for writing’s sake, as if I were to say, “Let me tell you I’m dying.” Well of course I am. So are you. But I digress.

I am dying—a slow, utterly methodical death: a tractor beam once latched to my bones and won’t let go. It works from the feet up, and gravity assists.

You cry for me because your mother said it’s the thing to do; your preacher taught you how to bow your head. Don’t turn around—it’s got you too!

A mist rises from a nearby mound. It could be me—that mist—or simply the caretaker’s mower-dust. If the breeze blows just right, I’ll ghost your solid, entwine your hair. Promise me you won’t shampoo—but carry me along: tiny dust-particles of me.

The piece of protruding granite is what you recall best—that’s where you stood under an umbrella while the rain flattened the mound on top of me, there where the cold black dirt pressed on the box around my cold white frame. Take out your hanky; wipe the lawn clippings from my name; tell me you still care.

Tell me you’ll find my photo when you get home and magnet it to your fridge. Tell me you’ll visit my now-defunct Facebook page and click LIKE—my last status: CHOCOLATE—here today, gone tomorrow. Tell me you’ll look into those once blue eyes of mine, all grey and dusted now, and smirk. I saw that!

This isn’t a religious book though I mention God; not a medical advisory though I speak of pain. It’s a circus, a mortuary, a grade school, a limousine ride. Will it be worth the paper it’s printed on or the screen you hold in your hand? I just hope you remember it next week.

I call this a haimoir—a haiga-memoir—a sort of mashup of life writing trauma self-realization and the seas. It’s a drizzled-down me, but it’s you too; it’s us. Take life seriously, but not too seriously. Take this truth for what it’s worth.

The default prose form found within is the lyric essay: creative nonfiction’s choir. Can you say “vignette”?

You’ll also find moderate doses of poetry; I don’t claim to be a poet.

In THE OBSERVATIONS, I’ve laid open a few brief glimpses into my earlier years as well as a section on my bout with Post Traumatic Stress—darker than the rest— but the nice thing about tunnels is their finiteness: you’ll reach the end; watch for rats. Friendship is discussed, as well as the usual “why am I here?” of living.

THE WRITING part is all about, well, writing. This is, after all, a thinly disguised writing tract.

In NATURE I’ve glanced around, up, and surface deep—at the rural, the moon & the tides.

In the ADDENDUM, I’ve included a couple of letters to friends—letters, yes, on writing.

Essays and randomness and poems and hardness and love—a fever in the ice storm of life. Wear your coat. Bring a fan.

I started soft—

a tentative line

an untried word—

slowly grew

to run-on sentences

and strung-together paragraphs.

I’ve been read

straight through

bared and seen

between the lines

into the me.
Pull me down like the book I am—

read for all you’re worth …

but please don’t bend the pages.

PART 1 – THE OBSERVATIONS

Writing is finally a series of permissions you give yourself to be expressive in certain ways.

To leap. To fly. To fail. ~Susan Sontag

My head as a doorstop

I continue to live inside a dichotomy:

what was and what shall be.

It’s not a hammering so much as an extended pinch, inside, over my left eye today, right eye yesterday, right ear the day before that. Some days they join forces, the nerves, and pinch in sync, holding with varying degrees of intensity. If they pinched together with the same amount of pressure, at exactly the same time, my head might roll off my shoulders, cross the floor, pass the door, and plop into the watery ditch down the driveway. Someone would no doubt stop, pick it up, and use it for a doorstop or lawn decoration atop a metal pole near her sidewalk. My head. My beautiful, aching, bodyless head. Gawk at me, passersby; gawk and braid my hair …

I suspect my nerve endings balk at being subjected to the brightness of a computer screen hour after hour, day after day, week after week. I soothe them when I think about it, when the pinching stays too long, with copious amounts of vitamin B and sometimes Tylenol, but my liver rebels at the Tylenol, so I try to limit that.

Today I meet with a friend who likewise is dealing with a headache. We shall compare notes, not on pinched brain nerves, but life—how it’s treating us, how we’re responding to its circus of rides and carnie con-men. We’ll drink flavored coffee and pretend it hasn’t been six months since we last saw each other. We’ll pretend we’re still young and foolish, I in my leather and she in her jeans.

I continue to live inside a dichotomy: what was and what shall be. The pain in my skull is me trying to mesh the two.

A POST TRAUMATIC OBSERVATION

It wasn’t me you talked to

when we chatted over latte.
Hollowed out, I listened

and your voice was like an echo.

Somewhere in the midst of me

I lived, but shell-dropped empty

like a mine-field tripped and dripping.

Robots have been made to speak;

metal can be programmed.

How much more the living

can pretend to think and feel.

I can live remotely now,

I’ve done it for so long.

___
Now we sit with latte

and the sounds and touches sting;

it’s the hurt-exchange of life,

but damn, this hurting’s good.

Trauma’s the thing

Life is flinching in the midst of breathing,

gasping at the thought of dying.

Just visiting, the haunting hung

coiled cobras in the air,

then slithered out in statue-slow …

inch by week and year.

The light worked in between the blind

and air replaced the stale—

forever turned to yesterday

and numbness turned to feel.

I asked the wind to rearrange,

re-man the scattered blood of dust,

repaginate theology

and give me back as much.

Heavy prolonged stress squeezes the flimsy out of a person. Previously tolerated “maladjustments” can no longer be tolerated. Counseling becomes necessary.

Now I wake anew every single morning. Life’s small potatoes get skinned, boiled, and eaten (with a little butter and salt, please).

The number seven is magical, they say. Seven years ’til our cells completely regenerate. Seven years ’til Jacob possesses Rachel; no, Leah, and seven more for Rachel. Seven days in a week. Post traumatic stress often resolves itself in toto only after seven full years have passed; such is the case for some brain trauma patients too. Seven. It’s a number worth remembering.

In this big starred universe, pain rides on; even Pegasus isn’t safe. Who’s to say a falling star’s not weeping? “Life is pain, highness,” says Wesley to Buttercup. And it’s masks. And ships at sea, commandeered by dreaded pirates and rodents of unusual size.

Life is flinching in the midst of breathing, gasping at the thought of dying. It’s climbing ropeless up sheer rock faces, groping for the next finger hole of hope. Steady on! Only a thousand feet to go and after that a jungle, a minefield, a rapids. (Can I stop smiling now?)

Once, not long ago, I was flung off the cliff of the moment, thrust into an illicit relationship with destiny, an affair not of my making. Was I making love or being raped? The lines were fuzzy.

Let’s face it: suffering discredits goodness. I’m agnostic in practice though faith-based in theory. I pray but know he’ll do what he darn well pleases when he darn well pleases. Will he listen? Maybe. We have a book that says so, but how much happens beyond that book, I can’t say. That’s agnosticism in its bleakest and most honest form. Don’t judge me, yet believe me when I tell you that years of abuse tend to wring out every ounce of one’s ability to understand and adhere to faith in standard form.

It’s over.

Hell has sucked me dry

of worry and care

that crippled me cramped

like a fly

caught between

a window and screen.

Indigo flames

singed emoting

(of the female kind),

left me androgynous—

unable to cry

for the most part.

Ever been to hell?

Surely it’s preparation

for heaven,

that tearless realm

and life,

where everything

groans.
“Support our troops!” we cry, but I say, “Love our veterans!” And when he neglects church, take him cookies anyway. Sing him a song. Pet his cat.

The unrelenting grip of Soldier’s Syndrome slips finger by slow finger. The marrow’s been affected—emotional leukemia at the deepest level. Transplants of love and friendship aid healing, yet time is still key, and the clock never ticks fast enough. Eternity gains perspective when seconds feel like years. How long have I been gone? Six eternities and counting.

I sipped more than slugged the low-carb beer. “I hate medicine,” I told the doctor. Post Traumatic Stress was the diagnosis. A drunk driver had hit me. Now I sat sipping a beer. It seemed oxymoronic.

The no-booze rule is one of several shams perpetuated by certain religious groups, presumably to keep their flocks in line. After all, what’s a shepherd to do with drunk sheep?

So take your medicine, but leave the booze on the shelf. We have a label to keep, and it’s not Jack Daniels. Don’t mourn for me. Just tell me what to do rather than teach me what to be. Slam another pill, pop that one last sedative…you’ll find me in the kitchen, washing my glass.

Legalized comfort bypasses the need for a physician, yet begs for a strong moral compass. I have the compass.

Ever seen a diabetic cram down three pieces of cake and then have less mental control than someone who’s had a glass or two of wine? Yet we insist on justifying the one while condemning the other. In situations like that, it’s only fair to ask if someone’s passing gas or if that’s judgment we smell.

Regular pleasures bring healing and release. Life is hard and we’re not forbidden comfort. Lately I’ve been awash in raging rivers. I’ve dragged myself to shore more than once, spewed algae-water and finger-combed debris from my hair. Now I watch from the bank while the river does its thing, etching my future. In the lull of the day, I find a shady tree and groan. Sometimes I write.

Life shards feeling flesh

with splintered crossbeams

whittled, thrust

impaler-style

through cavities of me.

They scrape

along my spine

reducing life

to ground

and feeding death.

My heartbeat slows

but courses on …

skipping so, and faster now.

Oh God for a platform

and feet that dangle less.
Without the hard we stay too soft, and heaven is reduced to myths like life. Theology aside, it’s plain to see that God forbids we get too comfortable.

Hopelessness is bred in me; hope’s absent unless I find it, grab it, hang on ’til my knuckles whiten and flesh down to bone. Even then, ghost-like it vanishes with the slightest breeze. Why should I hope? Crying’s easier than groping for light. I’d rather fall off a cliff than assure someone they’ll never fall off a cliff; how can I promise them hope? I’m past the idealism of pure joy on earth; if hope survives me, I may yet find it on the other side.

I am Frustration. I am Memory-Lost. Sometimes I read a line a dozen times before it sticks. My creative force has slipped. I type slower, speak slower, think at a snail’s pace. I’m Life shapeshifted by Post Traumatic Stress, bastardized by Fate.

Stand at the edge with me;

stand where I’ve stood so long,

look where I look, where I’ve looked,

where I’ve wept, weeping still,

and as I turn to walk away, stay.

Stand at the edge with me—

now understand:
Joy if lost is pain

and healing slow.
Lewis wrote “The Problem of Pain” as a studied treatise, not a life observation, that is, until his beloved Joy died. Then the “problem” became a “grief.”1 In the midst of doubt, anger, and the profound numbness that followed, he was finally able to write with feeling, to know himself beyond himself. Pain deals in change. Will you understand if I’m never the same?

Share your heart, but not so plain;

give me less to wonder on.

We wrap our babes in swaddling clothes, with blinders on. Soon enough their fingers lift the veil, push away the hidden. It’s the way we do it, and no mistaking the big mistake when they grope to swallow every fresh cookie on the counter, drink in swill.

Grab your nerve and splash their canvas with blood and black and wrong. Hold them breast-bound but guide their face toward the easel of reality. Draw patches of hope and love and gentleness but don’t start over. Paint it true. Push the Dali.

Bloodless tales

wick my wounds,

cart me distant

whisper-soft

from Lucy Maud and PEI

to Little House and Laura.
Then Mars exploded

bloodied me

and Laura lost her innocence.
Nowadays I romp and weep

with Sylvia and Ginny Wolfe

and masochistic nihilists;

I’ve learned to lick

my own foul wounds

and prize the taste of ache.

Thick and thin, I’ve known it all, and it’s known me. Before anorexic, I was. Before the dream of perfect lines, I had them. It’s speed and fury, reckless limits, little white pills.

Some days I think I’d rather die than lie too fat; it’s pain and trauma at the base core level.

The thin thought, line, bone—

a part of me too long—

too long and tall and straight

like skinny standing strong.

Though twiggy yesterday—

today’s another face—

a line filled in with thick

and thinness not a trace.
On a recent trip north while on the outskirts of a small town, I hit a bird. It flew in front of me—black wings flapping—crashed into my windshield, then flipped onto the road. I looked back to see it struggling for its very existence.

Five years before, I flew in front of a driver who, unlike me, was in the wrong lane. Though I lived to tell about it, my wings had been clipped. I lay struggling in the road for the next five years, wondering if I’d ever regain what I lost in those ravaging few seconds.

Life does that. In times of random injustice—injustice undreamt of in my childhood and young adult years—I can say with the rest, with the best, it’s a bitch. Through no misdeed of mine, I got owned, ready or not.

Lying there, in dust-like grams—

it sloughed itself as dying goes

at life’s deep crap-holes stumbled on—

the flecks still flickered, shimmering

against a rising sun.
(In an open universe, some gathering

occurs, and God is not contained.)

Bit by dram the damned relives

in small-souled breaths;

I choke at ample oxygen.
My broken faith is broken still

but gains with time

what time misspent
but God the going’s slow …

God, O God, where art thou? Thou art as distant to me as the lady combing rice in the Yunnan Province of China or a piece of floating space debris circling Pegasi. In this feeling-dead world of post traumatic stress, skepticism is king, queen, and court jester.

READJUSTING

Exploring the dark

like a honeymooned virgin

I grope, but slowly,

feign tension, stay sheeted

with a wait-turned-wonder

and feelings familiar

yet not this way …

as still unnamed.
A kiss and lightly, a touch just there

then sting and ache and ever-changed

but good like dying in a Cleopatra-way.

I lie in a bed another will make,

has made, had made,

and softly cry myself to sleep

from the sheer exhilaration.
I’m dead, mortally wounded, yes, dead to you and all but this never-ending anxiety. I’m learning my way around the dark; the stars help: a flash here, a fall there, a streak of lightning, a blinding pain.

Why is it I don’t want to leave? It’s a strange thrill—a clinging to the fog, a dampening on my arms ’til my elbows drip dew and my hair lies in tangles—but still it doesn’t feel like love to me.

(I’ll not call it “love” ’til I see it on your face …)

I just read this and had to share it with my readers.  You can read it at Zilla of the Resistance.  I just discovered her today, and will definitely be going back to read more from her.

I don’t think so.  9/11 is a day of remembrance and mourning.  Our head community organizer wants to turn our minds and hearts away from the terrorist attacks.  It’s not even politically correct to call it as it is. 

All the firefighters, police and others who want to remember their own who heroically gave their lives that day aren’t allowed to be there.  Non-Muslim clergy are not allowed to be there.  I don’t know about Muslim clergy. But since they are allowing a mosque funded in part by taxpayer money, it makes one wonder.

I would not be at all surprised if some event “just happened” so that Big Brother will be able to grab some of the honor for himself.

All we the people can really do is pray and remember the survivors. 

Update:  This according to World Net Daily.

“Klayman noted that Bloomberg originally had invited the controversial imam Feisal Rauf, who is connected to the planned Ground Zero mosque in New York, to the event, but was forced to cancel because of negative reaction.”

 

The plans of the mind belong to mortals; but the answer of the tongue is from the Lord.

All one’s ways may be pure in one’s own eyes, but the Lord weighs the spirit.

Commit your work to the Lord, and your plans will be established.

The Lord has made everything for its purpose, even the wicked for the day of trouble.

All those who are arrogant are an abomination to the Lord; be assured, they will not go unpunished.

By loyalty and faithfulness iniquity is atoned for, and by the fear of the Lord one avoids evil.

When the ways of people please the Lord, he causes even their enemies to be at peace with them.

Better is a little with righteousness than large income with injustice.

The human mind plans the way, but the Lord directs the steps.

Inspired decisions are on the lips of a king; his mouth does not sin in judgment.

Honest balances and scales are the Lord’s; all the weights in the bag are his work.

Proverbs 16:1-11

I didn’t realize just how many sewing blogs I follow until I started trying to list them all.  So, my friends, I’m sharing some more today.

• Coletterie features Colette patterns.
• Dispaches From Whitcomb Street is featuring Self-Stitched September.
• Flutterby Stitches features a talented lady who specializes in FSL.
• New Vintage Lady will take you on a journey of vintage sewing for the stout woman.
• Sew Ewellyn is dedicated to all things sewing and crafts.
• Sew, Mama, Sew! has lots of tutorials and giveaways.
• Sew Retrois a community of vintage sewers.  This site is up for sale, and if not sold by October 1, 2011, it will cease to be active. 
• Sewaholic has recently launched her own line of patterns.

Stop by these blogs and enjoy.

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:

Pirate of My Heart

B&H Books (September 1, 2011)

***Special thanks to Julie Gwinn, B&H Publishing Group, A Division of LifeWay Christian Resources for sending me a review copy.***

Jamie Carie is the author of Snow Angel, a ForeWord magazine Romance Book of the Year winner, USA Book News National “Best Books 2007” Awards winner, and 2008 RITA Awards® Best First Book finalist. Her third novel, Wind Dancer, was a 2010 Indiana State Library Best Books of Indiana finalist. She lives with her husband and three children in Indianapolis.

Visit the author’s website.

When her doting father dies, Lady Kendra Townsend is given a choice: marry the horrid man of her cold, money-grubbing uncle’s choosing or leave England to risk a new life in America with unknown relatives. Armed with the faith that God has a plan for her, Kendra boards a cargo ship and meets American sea captain Dorian Colburn. But the captain has been wounded by a woman before and guards his independent life. A swashbuckling man doesn’t need an English heiress to make him slow down, feel again, or be challenged with questions about his faith-or so he thinks. It is not until Dorian must save Kendra from the dark forces surrounding her that he decides she may be worth the risk.

 

Product Details:

List Price: $14.99
Paperback: 320 pages
Publisher: B&H Books (September 1, 2011)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 0805448152
ISBN-13: 978-0805448153

ISLAND BREEZES

You’ve all heard stories about the evil stepfather or stepmother.  How about the evil uncle who just happens to be your father’s twin?

After her father’s death, Lady Kendra’s uncle moves to take over everything her father had, and he wants Kendra out of the way.  He tried to palm her off into marriage with a horrid old man, but that didn’t work out very well.

The only thing left for her to do is go to America to live with unknown relatives.  Her adventures begin as soon as she steps foot on the ship for her Atlantic crossing and continues when she ends up barefoot in the back woods of Massachusetts.

Dorian, the sea captain, has been involved in Kendra’s adventures and misadventures from the time she boarded his cargo ship.  Being her knight in shining armour was definitely not what he bargained for.  It just happened.

Will this lady be the one to change Dorian’s mind regarding matrimony?  Or maybe it will be Angelina.  Only one way to find out, my friend.  Read the book.  You’ll be glad you did. 

AND NOW…THE FIRST CHAPTER:

Arundel, England 1777

The grey clouds of dawn shivered against the paned glass of the castle, shrouding the three figures at the side of the four-poster bed in an eerie light. The raging storm of the night before had settled into a dreary misting rain though an occasional jagged flash of lightning flaunted its power, not yet ready to relinquish its right to ravish the leaden sky. Dim light clung to the faces of those inside the bedchamber where the very walls seemed to echo the anguish felt inside the room.

All that could be heard in the chamber was the shallow, labored breathing of the one abed. A frail creature, now, pale and lifeless after the travails of childbirth. The others included the old family doctor, Radley, who hovered beside his patient and friend of many years with a strained look in his eyes. Hovering in the shadows was Bridget, the lady’s long-standing nurse and companion. But their suffering was not to be compared to the tall, handsome gentleman who knelt at the woman’s bedside, her hand clasped in his; a haunted look in his eyes that attested to the fact that he too feared the end was near for his beloved.

He gazed down at the limp form of his wife. She lay so still, so pale, sunk into the feather mattress as if she’d become a part of it. In a matter of hours she’d become a shallow breathing shell of the bright and glorious women she had once been. How was he to live without her? His heart spasmed with the thought.

He held his breath as her thin, white eyelids opened to reveal pain-racked eyes the color of bluebells. She exerted a small strength in squeezing his hand while a serene smile played at her lips. Her voice was a weak whisper. “I will not be leaving you forever, my darling. Our daughter will grow strong and always be a symbol of the love we shared.”

“No.” Edward groaned in anguish, his head falling forward, his hand clasping tight as if to force his strength into her. “I will not let you go.”

“Love her, Edward, love her with all that you are.” Lady Eileen closed her eyes seeming to gather what little strength she had to continue speaking. A small, whimpering sound came from the shadows of the room where Bridget held the newborn babe to her bosom. Lady Eileen opened her eyes at the sound. “Please, let me hold my sweet child.”

The nurse skirted around the bed with the tiny bundle, her eyes bright with tears. “She’s the mos’ beautiful of babes, my lady, truly she is.” She laid the wee babe in her mother’s fragile arms.

His wife stared down at their daughter and then looked up at him. Her voice became fierce but still so quiet Edward had to lean in to catch the words. “This one has a special purpose in life and I expect you all to care for her as I would have.”

Edward could only nod, mute and staring, aching with grief.

“I have one more request to ask of you, my love.” Her breath rasped in and out causing the panic in Edward’s stomach to claw into his chest like a nightmare’s hand, but he nodded for her to continue and clung to her hand.

“My greatest joy in life has been you. I want her to find love, someone to share her life with who is as kind, as loving and wonderful as I have had in you.” She rested a moment before continuing. “Let her choose, Edward, do not make a match for her. I know it is right.” She gasped for a final breath. “I’ve made provision. In my will . . . no entailments, Edward. Give her the dragonfly brooch as a promise from me that I will be looking down from heaven to keep her safe.”

“Of course, my darling, anything you ask I will do.”

A small smile touched Eileen’s lips as she gazed at their beautiful child for the last time. With a single tear sliding down her cheek she kissed the light fuzz on the child’s head. “I love you.” She breathed the words with her last breath, barely audible, and then she went still.

Edward collapsed over her limp hand still clutched in his strong one. “No,” he cried with ragged breath. He brought the hand to his check, soaking it with his tears, willing her to come back to him.

CHAPTER ONE
Arundel, England – 1796

Kendra stopped halfway down the path that led to the stables, happiness lifting her heart at the autumn scene. The leaves had turned into a crimson, sunny yellow and carroty riot of color, as if a magician had waved a wand during the night and created a new world. She stepped across the lawn, feeling the kind of happiness that burst against the walls of her chest, stopping long enough to turn in slow circles so to watch the waving leaf show. She closed her eyes, still slowly twirling and smiled up toward heaven, humming a simple song of praise to God. The notes of her song danced around her and made a happy knot form in her throat. There was nothing she loved more than singing praises to God. Her father had instilled his love for God in her since she was a child – always making sure they had a curate in the village residence for weekly services at St. Nicholas Parish Church, praying with her each night before bedtime and teaching her scriptures and hymns. Most of all, he’d been an example of someone who was temperate, kind and patient. They had memorized the scripture about the fruits of the Spirit – love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness and self-control – and often reminded each other of the one they should practice when the occasion called for it. She wished so much to be like him but sometimes her best intentions went awry and she fell short, far short of her father’s shining example.

The sound of wheels crunching over dead leaves gave her pause. She stopped, turned toward the horse-shoe drive at the front of the castle and saw a shiny black post-chaise carriage. Who could it be? They had not seen visitors in so long. Kendra hurried toward the entrance to meet their guest, then came to an abrupt stop and clasped her hands in front of her dress. She held her breath as a tall, handsome man sprang from the carriage. He was dressed in a waist-coat of navy wool with an intricately knotted necktie at his throat, cream colored breeches and matching hose. She lifted her gaze to his face. Her jaw dropped with surprise. The face staring back at her looked like the one in her bedchamber mirror each morning . . . except for the color of his eyes.
Andrew Townsend matched his nieces startling gape as he found himself looking into the younger, female version of himself. Surely this was not Edward’s daughter! She could have been his own child. Recovering from his shock with more effort than he’d exerted in months, Andrew questioned the young lady. “And who might this lovely creature be? A relative of mine, perhaps?”

She curtsied and smiled up at him. “I’m Kendra Townsend sir, and who might you be?” Her smile was soft and contagious, so irresistible that Andrew found himself thawing in her presence.

“I am Andrew Townsend, your uncle, my dear.” He held out his hand in greeting. “I am most pleased to finally meet you. It seems we bear a striking resemblance to one another.”

“You’re very handsome.” She stated with bold faced honesty.

Andrew let out a bark of laughter. “Well. Thank you, I’m sure. Now, would you be so kind as to show me to your father? I have some business to conduct with him.”

“Of course, sir.” Kendra replied as she reached for his arm. “Your papa’s brother, his twin, aren’t you?” Her eyes lit up as she led him through the front door, past their astonished looking butler, and down the wide corridor, the elegant carpet making silence of their footsteps. Just as well, the surprise element couldn’t hurt to gage how his dear brother was going to react to his request. “Father will be in his study with his solicitor this time of day.” At her knock they heard a preoccupied “come in.”

The Earl of Arundel sat behind an ancient desk with stacks of documents in front of him. Facing him was Mr. Walcott, the trusted family solicitor. As they walked into the study, Edward’s face lit up with joy. Then, as he looked beyond her, his eyes widened and his mouth dropped open.

“Andrew?”

Andrew put on his best smile and chuckled, walking forward toward his brother. He needed Ed to accept him back into the family fold and that might require some persuasion. “Great heavens, man, is it really you?” Edward came from behind the desk and greeted him with a handshake and an awkward hug that turned into a haphazard slapping against his shoulder. “You remember Parker Walcott.” He motioned to the man who had risen, eyes round behind his spectacles.

“Yes, of course, how’s the family, Parker? Dorothy and the children doing well?” Andrew felt the smooth mask of charm take hold of his being and hoped Parker would take the hint. He looked as if he’d seen a ghost.

“Oh, very good, my lord, yes indeed. And yourself?”

“After meeting my lovely niece here, I couldn’t be in better spirits.” Andrew replied. “Ed, why have you failed to mention our likeness in your letters? It nearly frightened us both out of our wits when we clapped eyes on one another.” The laughter in his voice was real this time.

“It’s been so long since I’ve seen you.” Edward hastened to explain. “Until this moment I didn’t realize just how much you resemble each other.” He glanced from one to the other, astonishment and something disapproving, consternation perhaps in his eyes before continuing. “Your eyes are more blue than her unusual shade of violet, but you’re quite right, you resemble twins more than you and I ever did. It’s remarkable, isn’t it?”

Edward motioned for Andrew to have a seat. “Please, join us.” They both looked up at Kendra to find her staring at Andrew. Andrew winked at her as he plopped down in the chair beside Parker. Edward cleared his throat and frowned at his daughter. “Kendra, go down and have Willabee bring up some refreshments please.”

Kendra nodded but clung to Andrew’s side before she left. “How long can you stay Uncle Andrew? You should stay at least until the end of the week.” Her eyes were bright with excitement.

“And what, pray tell, happens at the end of the week?” Andrew asked with a half grin that he’d been told sent the ladies into a swoon.

“I’ve persuaded papa to have a garden party.” Her eyes slid to her father before she continued. “He hates to entertain you know, but I’ve been so forlorn for company my own age since my friend, Lucinda, moved away that he’s feeling guilty and has agreed. Please say you’ll stay. Lady Willowbee’s girls will be absolutely speechless for once.”

“I seem to recall a Lady Willowbee, lives down the way, only other gentry around here, eh?” At Kendra’s nod Andrew chuckled with the memory. “A bit of a sour puss. Are her girls as malicious and back-biting as she and her sisters used to be?”

Kendra put her hand to her mouth in an attempt to suppress a horrified giggle.

“Can’t offend them though,” Andrew continued with grave mirth, “must do our duty and invite the only other cream de la cream in the area, even though it is soured cream, is that the dilemma you find yourself in, my dear?”

“Papa says I must love them as the Bible says.” Kendra raised her brows in beseeching charm that he recognized as one of his own trademark moves. “But if you were there it would be ever so much easier. They will be nice in hopes of an introduction. Please say you’ll stay.”

Andrew caught his brother’s gaze and asked in a soft voice. “Can you deny her anything?”

Edward looked down and cleared his throat, a red flush filling his cheeks. “Very little, I’m afraid.

Swinging back to Kendra’s expectant gaze, Andrew mused. “I will have to give you your answer later, moppet, but I promise I’ll try.

That seemed to satisfy her as she gave him a happy nod and turned to leave the men to their business.

“You’re going to have a devil of a time fighting off all the suitors at your door, Edward. She’s amazing.” Andrew remarked as he watched the whirl of Kendra’s skirts around the door as she left.

Edward sighed. “I’ve already had my share of offers, but she’s just nineteen. I’m not ready to see her betrothed to anyone yet.”

“I can understand why, she brightens up the old place.” Pausing, Andrew ran his fingers through his blond hair and added. “I was truly sorry about Eileen, Edward. I would have attended the funeral had I not been out of the county.”

“I won’t pretend I was anything other than devastated. But time has a way of taking the edge off the grief and Kendra has taken care of the rest. I don’t know how I would have gone on if she had died with her mother.”

Andrew didn’t know how to respond to his brother’s heart-wrenching revelation. Edward had aged in more than the receding hairline and creases around his mouth it would seem. Andrew cleared his throat and looked down at the floor.

Edward leaned across the desk, his hands clasped together. “Enough about me, what have you been doing with yourself these last fifteen years?”

“A little of everything, I dare say. Traveled around a good bit.” The rake’s smile slide across his lips and he shrugged. “Been enjoying life with good drink, fine horseflesh and beautiful women.”

Edward shook his head in an older brotherly way. “I know only too well of your love for the worldly passions. It’s a life that will never satisfy you, you know. I have to hear of your exploits every time I’m in London. When will you settle down? Start a family of your own?”

A bark of laughter escaped Andrew’s throat. Not here ten minutes and he was already getting the lecture. “Now is not a good time for thinking of that, Ed. I – uh, seem to have gotten myself into a bit of a jam.” Glancing at Parker Walcott, Andrew girded up his courage and rushed out the rest before his nerve failed him. “I was hoping to have a word with you, big brother. I have some business I would like to discuss.”

Parker rose rather abruptly for one keen to the family’s business dealings. Andrew smothered a chuckle as the solicitor beat a hasty path to the door. “I will bid you both good day, my lord. You and your brother have much catching up to do.” Andrew suppressed a chuckle as he scurried from the room.

After the door was closed silence descended upon the room. Andrew braced his arms on his legs and pressed his sweaty palms together.

Edward broke the silence with a voice both grave and guarded. “What can I do for you, Andrew?”

Shifting in the chair, Andrew ran a well-manicured hand though his blond hair, took a deep breath and plunged into his story.
It would seem Andrew had heard, through a reputable source, about an investment that was sure to make him a very wealthy man. The Brougham Company had been started to finance several voyages of trade to America with goods the colonist desperately needed. Five great ships had set sail over six months ago to deliver their goods. Andrew had invested all that he had and was given a great deal of credit as he bore the Townsend name.

The first two ships to sail had been attacked by pirates and overtaken. The following ship did not survive a great storm, and of the two that made it to America, one had perishables on it that were ill-packed, causing the contents to spoil, while the other had cheaper goods that even when sold at an exorbitant price did not come close to making up for the expense of the trip. “I’ve lost everything and my creditors are threatening Newgate Prison if I don’t come up with the funds.”

Edward listened with sinking despair. It seemed fate would never grant his twin the power he so desperately coveted. “Of course I will help you, Andrew. Have your creditors send me the contracts and I will take care of them.” He paused before continuing in a fatherly tone. “I understand you want to handle matters on your own, but please consider consulting me or even Walcott before plunging into a scheme like this in the future.” Edward pressed his lips together with that eagle-eyed stare that always made Andrew squirm in his chair. “I could have had the company investigated for you, at the very least.”

“Of course.” Andrew shook his head, eyes downcast. The act was growing tedious but pressed on. “It’s just that I was so excited. I wanted to surprise you and mother with my good fortune. I realize the family thinks me a spoiled dandy so I wanted to do something to make you all proud. Instead I proved what an idiot I am.”

“Now don’t be too hard on yourself. We’ve been through worse and we’ll come through this together.”

“I can’t thank you enough, Ed, just the thought of that prison sent me fleeing here on wings. There is just one more thing,” Andrew rushed out, fidgeting with his fingers. “I was wondering if the creditors could go through old Parker instead of you. That way it won’t become common knowledge that my brother had to pay off my debts. It’s a matter of pride you see.” He raised his brows and gave Edward a shrug of his shoulders.

“Of course. There’s no need for our business to become something for the gossip mills.”

Andrew stood up, gave his brother a quick, firm hug, and hurried from the room.
Edward gazed at the closed door, sadness and bewilderment weighing down his shoulders like a heavy blanket. He had not seen his brother for years, and then when he finally did come home, it was only because he was in trouble and needed money. Would they ever be close?

Dear God, help me reach him.

He let his thoughts drift back to their childhood, a good and proper upbringing he had always thought, but not without its animosities. Animosities that led all the way back to their birth.

They had heard the tale countless times. Edward had been the first-born twin, the heir to the earldom, but it had come about by a strange quirk of fate. His mother, who now lived on her own estate miles from Arundel, had pushed for hours with no sign of the babies coming.

The midwife, in an effort to feel the baby’s position, placed one hand on the extended abdomen and the other inside the womb. She pulled back in surprise. “Your ladyship, I do believe you are having twins. There’s a head and feet near the opening.”

His mother gasped and her face whitened. “Twins! I shan’t be able to do it.”

The contractions continued though, strengthened instead of daunted by the thought of two.

Hours dragged by as they all wondered if Lady Lenora would be able to deliver the babies. In a wondrous moment, a hushed moment between pushes, a tiny foot poked out of the womb. The midwife didn’t say anything but knew the importance of the firstborn’s place so she tied a scarlet thread around the tiny ankle. Gently slipping the foot back up, she concentrated on delivering the baby in the head-down position. The child seemed ready to cooperate and after several more minutes emerged from the womb.

“A boy, my lady.” One of the servants rushed to take the child to clean him before he was presented to his mother. After another hour, Lady Lenora held two healthy sons. She noticed the thread and looked up at the midwife. “But what’s this, Ida?”

The midwife told the story of how that child had poked his little foot out first and thought to tie the yarn around his foot in the event that Lord Townsend would regard him the first born.

And he had. Lord Albert Townsend named the babe with the string around his ankle Edward Alexander Townsend, and proclaimed him the rightful heir. Lenora named his twin brother, Andrew Richard Townsend and thought that son cheated.

Edward’s knuckles whitened with the memory as he clinched his hands into fists. They’d been so close when they were boys! Inseparable until the day Andrew heard the story of his birth bluntly put by a stable hand. Andrew had changed then, pulling away and becoming distant and ever more brooding. After awhile it seemed they had little in common and less to like about each other. And that wasn’t even the worst of it. The resentment his mother held destroyed their marriage. Lenora devoted herself to spoiling her younger son which forced the earl to take Edward’s causes.

Edward sighed, his head dropping forward, sadness pulling at his heart. They were so different in every way. Andrew was strikingly handsome with his fair hair and pale blue eyes, so much like their mother. Edward supposed he was the epitome of an Englishman with his dark brown hair, aristocratic nose, and hazel eyes. And that was only their outward differences. Inwardly they couldn’t be more distant. He a long-grieving widower and Andrew a financially destitute dandy in dire straits. But he was back.

His brother had come home.

Maybe if he loved him enough, if he showed it and gave him all the attention and praise and . . . well, whatever it was that Andrew needed, maybe he could, uptight Englishman that he was, humble himself and shower his brother with love.

Father, help me love him the way he needs it. Help me show him You.