Seems I have less and less time to blog. And whenever I do pop in here it's with a book review. Let me assure you I don't always publish what I write, because I'm such a politically incorrect person, I sometimes don't dare publish what I have written down in words...that mostly gets shelved in my Word Document and I stumble upon it as much as a year later!
It's raining this late Monday night and the sound is music to my ears. Raindrops slide monotonously down the window and the glow of the lamp casts a warm, fuzzy atmosphere about the room. I can't help but think of the less fortunate...near and far. I feel like the riches person on earth right now...(no doubt that feeling will pass by tomorrow noon when I feel that the voices of a hundred children beckongin to be heard)!
Someone asked me today which one of my nieces and nephews (who happen to be students) is my favorite. Having a favorite isn't uncommon...there just happens to be something about a child's personality that endears you...making your heart swell and you think you will explode with love for them.
Following the question each of their faces raced thru my mind. My answer was that of utmost truth.
"My heart skips a beat everytime I see each one of them."
Either it's Maria dragging her feet home after breakfast...ready to conquer the world, and she will, one small area at a time!
Or it's Jonah with one of the hundred hugs I'll get from him thru out the day...telling me I'm beautiful and his princess!
I don't know how it's possible for an eight year old to still smell like a baby after a bath...but Mika does it. He has me WRAPPED around his finger (about a million times) and his intelligence blows me away.
Maybe it's his huge green eyes or the way he winks at me in church or even the ridiculous tales he comes up with, but Levi brings my hurried heart to a standstill and soften the rough edges...
"A child shall lead them"
They do. They are. And they will. And thank God. For how empty my heart would be without them to wake it up each day.
This story of a young woman’s yearning for family and a home to call her own reflects many young women today. Everyone hungers for someone to share and make memories with and Julie Cavanaugh is no exception. Julie grew up in an orphanage and loved being mother to the young girls there. But when Mrs. Gaffin, the headmistress, announces her plans to get married and that she’s sending the girls on an orphan train out west, Julia’s world is shattered. But she’s even more devastated when she arrives in Lonesome Prairie and learns that Mrs. Gaffin had arranged a marriage to an old prospector. Stranded in the small town with no place and money to go elsewhere, Julia quickly gets drawn into Isaac Shepherd’s family circle. Julia finally gets to feel a sense of belonging and family love when she gets hired by the family to teach their children.
I really enjoyed reading about Julia’s journey as she lovingly cared for the orphaned girls and helped them find a caring home. She remained faithful and courageous as she faced a bleak and unknown future. And she always relied on God and trusted Him to work everything out for the good.
This story really made me count my blessings and feel grateful for the huge and loving family I have been blessed with. I really felt deep for Julia when she finally found the love of her life and the family she always longed for. A nice, comfortable read I'd recommend to everyone who likes a happily ever after.
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!
***Special thanks to Amy Lathrop of LitFUSE Publicity Group for sending me a review copy.***
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Tricia Goyer was named Mount Hermon Christian Writers Conference "Writer of the Year" in 2003. Her book Night Song won Book of the Year from ACFW in the Long Historical Fiction category. Her book Life Interrupted: The Scoop On Being a Young Mom was a Gold Medallion Finalist. Tricia has written hundreds of articles, Bible Study notes, and both fiction and non-fiction books.
Ocieanna Fleissis a published writer and has edited six of Tricia Goyer's historical novels. She lives with her husband and their four children in the Seattle area. Connect with Ocieanna on Facebook!
Product Details:
List Price: $12.99 Paperback: 320 pages Publisher: Summerside Press (December 1, 2009) Language: English ISBN-10: 1935416294 ISBN-13: 978-1935416296
AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:
The sound of little girls’ voices and the sight of the sun streaming through the tall, second-story window of the Open Door Home for Destitute Girls, a privately owned orphanage on upper Manhattan, told nineteen-year-old Julia Cavanaugh that the day had started without her. Julia, an orphan herself, now running the place for the owner, brushed a strand of dark hair from her eyes. She submitted to a second yawn as a twelve-year-old girl hopped onto her bed.
“He’s gonna ask her to marry him, don’t you think, Miss Cavanaugh?”
“Oh, Shelby.” Julia wiped the sleep from her eyes and smiled into the freckled face staring eagerly at her. “Give me a moment to wake before you go asking such things.” Julia stroked the girl’s cheek, her heart seeming to double within her chest with love for the youngster.
The embroidery sampler she’d fallen asleep working on still lay at the end of her bed. She picked it up and eyed the image of a small house she’d copied from Godey’s Lady’s Book. Above the house, she’d stitched the words Home Sweet Home in fancy script. Gazing around the broad room lined with small metal cots and bustling with little-girl chatter, Julia noted the embroidered pillowslips, carefully pressed—albeit dingy—curtains, and dandelions smiling from scavenged jam-jar vases. She’d done her best to make the room pleasant for the girls—and herself. She glanced at their faces and smiled, gladly embracing her role as caretaker.
A less-than-subtle “ahem” from Shelby reminded Julia she’d been asked a question. She glanced at her young charge, still perched on the end of her bed. “What did you ask?”
“Finally.” Shelby eyed her with mock frustration. “I said, do you think they will get married—Mrs. Hamlin and Mr. Gaffin? Haven’t you noticed the way they look at each other?” Shelby’s cheeks hinted of red. Her golden hair was already fixed in a proper bun, her hands and face washed, and her simple dress clean and pressed despite its patches and stray threads.
“Shelby Bruce.” Julia shook her head, as Shelby’s two-year-old sister Beatrice wiggled onto Julia’s lap with a squeal. Julia planted a firm kiss on the top of Bea’s head.
“Married? I don’t think so,” Julia continued. “Mrs. Hamlin would’ve told us—told me—if she was being courted. Mr. Gaffin’s just an old family friend.” Julia wondered where on earth the girl got the notion that their headmistress wished to marry.
Although they have been spending a lot of time together. Julia pushed the thought out of her mind as little Bea shuffled to a stand, planting her pint-sized feet on Julia’s thighs. “Fammy fend!” She pointed a chubby finger at her older sister, Shelby.
“All right, Bea.” Julia plopped the toddler on the floor and swiveled her toward the small bed she shared with Shelby. “Time to straighten your bed.” Then Julia eyed the twins. “Charity, Grace, would you two virtuous girls fetch fresh water for the basin?”
Shelby pushed away from the bed, wrinkled her brow, and thrust her hand behind her as if to support her back—a perfect imitation of their middle-aged headmistress. “Now where did I put my spectacles?” Shelby clucked her tongue as she waddled forward.
Laughter spilled from the lips of the girls around the room. Encouraged, Shelby scratched her head. She plopped down on her bed then hopped up again as if surprised, pulling imaginary spectacles from under her rump. “Oh!” she squealed. “There they are.”
The laughter grew louder, and Julia pursed her lips together to smother the impulse to laugh along with them. She planted her fists on her hips. “That’s enough. All of you know what must be done before breakfast.” The girls’ laughter quieted to soft giggles hidden behind cupped palms as they scattered to do their chores.
Shelby lingered behind, her form now straight and her eyes pensive. “Maybe she forgot to tell you, Miss Cavanaugh.” The young girl gazed up at her. “The way they look at each other—it’s like my ma and pa used to, that’s all.”
Julia folded a stray sandy blond curl behind the girl’s ear. “Don’t worry, my sweet. If Mrs. Hamlin was getting married, we’d be the first to know.”
Julia hoped her own gaze didn’t reflect the sinking disquiet that draped her. Mr. Gaffin was a rich world traveler. If there was any truth to Shelby’s suspicion, Julia couldn’t imagine he’d let Mrs. Hamlin continue to work with orphans. Perhaps they’d get a new headmistress.
Or maybe the girls would be separated, moved to new homes…
If Mrs. Hamlin got married, all their lives would be radically changed. And if Julia had to leave the orphanage, she had no idea what she would do. Julia swept that painful thought away and steadied her gaze at Shelby. She couldn’t hide her true feelings from this girl. Julia took Shelby’s hand and answered as honestly as she could.
“I don’t think she’ll get married, but if she does, God will take care of us, like He always has.” Julia lifted her chin in a smile. “And really, Mrs. Hamlin may be forgetful, but no one could forget that. I sure wouldn’t.”
Ardy, a shy Swedish girl, removed her dirty sheets from a small bed and then approached, taking Julia’s hand. “Don’t ya think you’ll ever be gettin’ married?”
“Actually, there is something I’ve been wanting to tell you all….” Julia leaned forward, resting her hands on her knees.
The two girls eyed each other in surprise, and Shelby’s brow furrowed.
“Come closer.” Julia curled a finger, bidding them.
“What is it?” Shelby asked, her eyes glued to Julia.
The girls leaned in. “I’d like to tell you…that there’s a wonderful man who’s asked me to marry him!”
The squeals of two girls erupted, followed by the cheers of nearly three dozen others who’d been quietly listening from the stairwell.
“There is?” Shelby reached forward and squeezed Julia’s hand.
Julia let out a hefty sigh and giggled. “No, you sillies. Well, at least not yet. Someday. Maybe.”
Shelby pouted “But you said… ”
“I said I’d like to tell you I had a man. I’d sure like to, but of course since I don’t, I’m happy to stay here with all of you.”
The girls moaned.
The squeak of the front door down on the first floor of the Revolutionary War–era home-turned-orphanage drew their attention. They waited as Mrs. Hamlin’s familiar chortle filled the air, along with a bash and clang of items—hopefully food and supplies that she’d picked up.
“Julia!” Mrs. Hamlin yelped. “Julia, dear, where are you?”
“Coming.” Julia hurried down the stairs to help the older woman.
Julia neared the bottom of the steps and paused, trying to stifle a laugh at the sight of the twinkly-eyed woman sprawled flat on her back. Scattered boxes and bags covered the donated rug.
“Mrs. Hamlin! What on earth? Why didn’t you get a steward to help you?”
“Oh, I didn’t want to be a bother.” She cheerfully picked herself up. “I was in such a hurry to show you all what I’d bought. And to tell you my surprise. Such a wonderful surprise.” Julia eyed the boxes and noted they were from R.H. Macy & Co. More than a dozen boxes waited to be opened, and she couldn’t imagine the cost.
“I found just what the girls need, and on sale!” the headmistress exclaimed.
What they need is more food—vitamin drops, too—and maybe a few new schoolbooks. But Julia didn’t dare say it. And somehow God’s hand of providence always provided.
“New clothes, I gather. That is a surprise.”
“But only half of it, dear.” Mrs. Hamlin rubbed her palms expectantly. “I also must tell you my news. The best news an old widow could hope for.”
Julia followed Mrs. Hamlin’s gaze toward the idle youngsters who’d gathered on the staircase to watch. Her eyes locked with Shelby’s, then she quickly looked away. “News?” The muscles in Julia’s stomach tightened.
“Girls,” Julia shooed them away with a wave of her hand, “you know better than to eavesdrop. Off to chores with you. We’ll have breakfast soon.”
The girls started to scurry off, but Mrs. Hamlin halted them with her words.
“No, no,” her high-pitched voice hailed. “Come back. This news is for all of you.” They circled around her, and she tenderly patted their bobbing heads.
“What is it?” Julia wasn’t sure she’d ever seen Mrs. Hamlin’s cheeks so rosy or her eyes so bright.
I have to admit, it took me awhile to get into the story, but once I did, I couldn’t wait to pick it up again!
Set in the declining days of World War II in Germany and Switzerland, a young woman must put herself in harms way to courier a scientist out of enemy territory; not knowing who to trust and who is loyal. It’s not much of a romance, more of a tense, keep you on your toes kind of story with a little love woven into it. A great story full of history and of the tyranny the Jews had to endure.
At first I thought it had too many characters, but after awhile I got used to it and realized that they were all connected in some way. You know the way some books use other languages in the story without translating? Well, this book had some German and Swiss-German words; some translated, some not. It was awesome to be able to read and understand the words without the translation. It might not be so great for those people who don’t know any German words, because I get frustrated when I see words I can’t read and understand.
This is a mystery kind of book with several twists and turns. Sometimes the author lets you into the game so you can follow and understand the story a bit more closely. Other things you have to get in the shadows and wait for everything to unfold. I really liked how, at the end of the story, some of the anonymous characters come into light.
This is a book for those who like to read up on WWII, mostly about the Nazi Germany.
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!
***Special thanks to Amy Lathrop of the LitFUSE Publicity Group for sending me a review copy.***
ABOUT THE AUTHORS:
Tricia Goyer is the author of several books, including Night Song and Dawn of a Thousand Nights, both past winners of the ACFW's Book of the Year Award for Long Historical Romance. Goyer lives with her family in Montana.
Mike Yorkey is the author or coauthor of dozens of books, including the bestselling Every Man's Battle series. Married to a Swiss native, Yorkey lived in Switzerland for 18 months. He and his family currently reside in California.
List Price: $13.99 Paperback: 336 pages Publisher: Revell (October 1, 2009) Language: English ISBN-10: 0800733363 ISBN-13: 978-0800733360
AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:
To the Reader
In the early afternoon of July 20, 1944, Colonel Claus Graf von Stauffenberg confidently lugged a sturdy briefcase into Wolfsschanze—Wolf’s Lair—the East Prussian redoubt of Adolf Hitler. Inside the black briefcase, a small but powerful bomb ticked away, counting down the minutes to der Führer’s demise.
Several generals involved in the assassination plot arranged to have Stauffenberg invited to a routine staff meeting with Hitler and two dozen officers. The one o’clock conference was held in the map room of Wolfsschanze’s cement-lined underground bunker. Stauffenberg quietly entered the conference a bit tardy and managed to get close to Hitler by claiming he was hard of hearing. While poring over detailed topological maps of the Eastern Front’s war theater, the colonel unobtrusively set the briefcase underneath the heavy oak table near Hitler’s legs. After waiting for an appropriate amount of time, Stauffenberg excused himself and quietly exited the claustrophobic bunker, saying he had to place an urgent call to Berlin. When a Wehrmacht officer noticed the bulky briefcase was in his way, he inconspicuously moved it away from Hitler, placing it behind the other substantial oak support. That simple event turned the tide of history.
Moments later, a terrific explosion catapulted one officer to the ceiling, ripped off the legs of others, and killed four soldiers instantly. Although the main force of the blast was directed away from Hitler, the German leader nonetheless suffered burst eardrums, burned hair, and a wounded arm. He was in shock but still alive—and unhinged for revenge.
Stauffenberg, believing Hitler was dead, leaped into a staff car with his aide Werner von Haeften. They talked their way out of the Wolfsschanze compound and made a dash for a nearby airfield, where they flew back to Berlin in a Heinkel He 111. When news got out that Hitler had survived, Stauffenberg and three other conspirators were quickly tracked down, captured, and executed at midnight by a makeshift firing squad.
An enraged Hitler did not stop there to satisfy his bloodlust. For the next month and a half, he instigated a bloody purge, resulting in the execution of dozens of plotters and hundreds of others remotely involved in the assassination coup. The Gestapo, no doubt acting under Hitler’s orders, treated the failed attempt on the Führer’s life as a pretext for arresting 5,000 opponents of the Third Reich, many of whom were imprisoned and tortured.
What many people do not know is that Hitler’s manhunt would dramatically alter the development of a secret weapon that could turn the tide of the war for Nazi Germany—the atomic bomb.
This is that story . . .
1
Waldshut, Germany
Saturday, July 29, 1944
4 p.m.
He hoped his accent wouldn’t give him away. The young Swiss kept his head down as he sauntered beneath the frescoed archways that ringed the town square of Waldshut, an attractive border town in the foothills of the southern Schwarzwald. He hopped over a foot-wide, waterfilled trench that ran through the middle of the cobblestone square and furtively glanced behind to see if anyone had detected his presence.
Even though Switzerland lay just a kilometer or two away across the Rhine River, the youthful operative realized he no longer breathed free air. Though he felt horribly exposed—as if he were marching down Berlin’s Kurfürstendamm screaming anti-Nazi slogans—he willed himself to remain confident.
His part was a small but vital piece of the larger war effort. Yes, he risked his life, but he was not alone in his passion. A day’s drive away, American tanks drove for the heart of
Paris—and quickened French hearts for libération. Far closer, Nazi reprisals thinned the ranks of his fellow resisters. The young man shuddered at the thought of being captured, lined up against a wall, and hearing the click-click of a safety being unlatched from a Nazi machine gun. Still, his legs propelled him on.
Earlier that morning, he’d introduced himself as Jean- Pierre to members of an underground cell. The French Resistance had recently stepped up their acts of sabotage after the Allies broke out of the Normandy beachhead two weeks earlier, and they’d all taken nom de guerres in their honor.
Inside the pocket of his leather jacket, Jean-Pierre’s right hand formed a claw around a Mauser C96 semiautomatic pistol. His grip tightened, as if squeezing the gun’s metallic profile would reduce the tension building in his chest. The last few minutes before an operation always came to this.
His senses peaked as he took in the sights and sounds around him. At one end of the town square, a pair of disheveled older women complained to a local farmer about the fingerling size of the potato crop. A horse-drawn carriage, transporting four galvanized tin milk containers, rumbled by while a young newsboy screamed out, “Nachrichten!” The boy’s right hand waved day-old copies of the Badische Zeitung from Freiburg, eighty kilometers to the northwest.
Jean-Pierre didn’t need to read the newspaper to know that more men and women were losing their lives by the minute due to the reprisals of a madman.
Though the planned mission had been analyzed from every angle, there were always uncertain factors that would affect not only the outcome of the mission but who among them would live. Or die.
Their task was to rescue a half-dozen men arrested by local authorities following the assassination attempt on Reichskanzler Adolf Hitler. If things went as Jean-Pierre hoped,
the men would soon be free from the Nazis’ clutches. If not, the captives’ fate included an overnight trip to Berlin, via a cattle car, where they would be transported to Gestapo headquarters on Prinz-Albrecht-Strasse 8. The men would be questioned—tortured if they weren’t immediately forthcoming— until names, dates, and places gushed as freely as the blood spilling upon the cold, unyielding concrete floor.
Not that revealing any secrets would save their lives. When the last bit of information had been wrung from their minds, they’d be marched against a blood-spattered wall or to the gallows equipped with well-stretched hemp rope. May God have mercy on their souls.
Jean-Pierre willed himself to stop thinking pessimistically. He glanced at his watch—a pricey Hanhart favored by Luftwaffe pilots. His own Swiss-made Breitling had been tucked inside a wooden box on his nightstand back home, where he had also left a handwritten letter. A love note, actually, to a woman who had captured his heart—just in case he never returned. But this was a time for war, not love. And he had
to keep reminding himself of that.
Jean-Pierre slowed his gait as he left the town square and approached the town’s major intersection. As he had been advised, a uniformed woman—her left arm ringed with a red
armband and black swastika—directed traffic with a whistle and an attitude.
She was like no traffic cop he’d ever seen. Her full lips were colored with red lipstick. Black hair tumbled upon the shoulder epaulettes of the Verkehrskontrolle’s gray-green
uniform. She wielded a silver-toned baton, directing a rambling assortment of horse-drawn carriages, battered sedans, and hulking military vehicles jockeying for the right of way.
She looked no older than twenty-five, yet acted like she owned the real estate beneath her feet. Jean-Pierre couldn’t help but let his lips curl up in a slight grin, knowing what was
to come. “Entschuldigung, wo ist das Gemeindehaus?” a voice said beside him. Jean-Pierre turned to the rotund businessman in the fedora and summer business suit asking for directions to City Hall.
“Ich bin nicht sicher.” He shrugged and was about to fashion another excuse when a military transport truck turned a corner two blocks away, approaching in their direction.
“Es tut mir Leid.” With a wave, Jean-Pierre excused himself and sprinted toward the uniformed traffic officer. In one quick motion, his Mauser was drawn.
He didn’t break stride as he tackled the uniformed woman to the ground. Her scream blasted his ear, and more cries from onlookers chimed in.
Jean-Pierre straddled the frightened traffic officer and pressed the barrel of his pistol into her forehead. Her shrieking immediately ceased.
“Don’t move, and nothing will happen to you.”
Jean-Pierre glanced up as he heard the mud-caked transport truck skid to a stop fifty meters from them.
A Wehrmacht soldier hopped out. “Halt!” He clumsily drew his rifle to his right shoulder.
Jean-Pierre met the soldier’s eyes and rolled off the female traffic officer.
A shot rang out. The German soldier’s body jerked, and a cry of pain erupted from his lips. He clutched his left chest as a rivulet of blood stained his uniform.
“Nice shot, Suzanne.” Jean-Pierre jumped to his feet, glancing at the traffic cop, her stomach against the asphalt with her pistol drawn.
Suzanne rose from the ground, crouched, and aimed.
Her pistol, which had been hidden in an ankle holster, was now pointed at the driver behind the windshield. The determined look in her gaze was one Jean-Pierre had come to
know well.
One, two, three shots found their mark, shattering the truck’s glass into shards. The driver slumped behind the wheel.
As expected, two Wehrmacht soldiers jumped out of the back of the truck and took cover behind the rear wheels.
Before Jean-Pierre had a chance to take aim, shots rang out from a second-story window overlooking the intersection.
The German soldiers crumbled to the cobblestone pavement in a heap.
“Los jetzt!” He clasped Suzanne’s hand, and they sprinted to the rear of the truck. Two black-leather-coated members of their resistance group had already beaten them there.
Jean- Pierre couldn’t remember their names, but it didn’t matter.
What mattered was the safety of the prisoners in the truck. Jean-Pierre only hoped the contact’s information had been correct.
With a deep breath, he lifted the curtain and peered into the truck. A half-dozen frightened men sat on wooden benches with hands raised. Their wide eyes and dropped jaws displayed their fear.
“Don’t shoot!” one cried.
The sound of a police siren split the air.
“Everyone out!” Jean-Pierre shouted. “I’ll take this one. The rest of you, go with them.” He pointed the tip of his Mauser at the men in leather jackets.
The sirens increased in volume as the speeding car gobbled up distance along the Hauptstrasse, weaving through the autos and pedestrians. An officer in the passenger’s seat leaned out, rifle pointed.
Jean-Pierre leaned into the truck and yanked the prisoner’s arm. Suzanne grabbed the other. “Move it, come on!”
Bullets from an approaching vehicle whizzed past Jean- Pierre’s ear. The clearly frightened prisoner suddenly found his legs, and the three sprinted away from the speedingcar.
Jean-Pierre’s feet pounded the pavement, and he tugged on the prisoner’s arm, urging him to run faster. He could hear the screech of the tires as the police car stopped just behind the truck. Jean-Pierre hadn’t expected the local Polizei to respond so rapidly.
They needed to find cover—
More gunfire erupted, and as if reading his thoughts, Suzanne turned the prisoner toward a weathered column. Jean-Pierre crumbled against the pillar, catching his breath.
The columns provided cover, but not enough. Soon the police would be upon them. They had to make a move. Only ten steps separated them from turning the street corner and sprinting into Helmut’s watch store. From there, a car waited outside the back door.
Another hail of gunfire struck the plaster. Jean-Pierre mouthed a prayer under his breath.
“Suzanne, we have to get out of here!”
She crouched into a trembling ball, all confidence gone. “They’re surrounding us!” The terror in her uncertain timbre was clear. “But what can we do? We can’t let them see us run into the store.”
“Forget that. We have no choice!” Jean-Pierre raised his pistol and returned several volleys, firing at the two policemen perched behind a parked car.
“Listen to me,” he said to Suzanne, taking his eyes momentarily off the police car. “You have to go. You take this guy, and I’ll cover you. Once you turn the corner, it’s just twenty more meters to Helmut’s store.” His hands moved as he spoke, slamming a new clip of ammunition into his pistol.
“But what if—”
“I’ll join you. Now go!”
Jean-Pierre jumped from behind the protection of the column and rapidly fired several shots. One cop dared expose himself to return fire—not at Jean-Pierre but at the pair running for the corner.
No!
Jean-Pierre turned just in time to see Suzanne’s body lurch. The clean hit ripped into her flesh between the shoulder blades. She staggered for a long second before dropping
with a thud. The gangly prisoner didn’t even look back as he disappeared around the corner.
I can’t lose him, Jean-Pierre thought, remembering again the importance of this mission.
Yet to chase after the prisoner meant he’d have to leave his partner behind.
Suzanne . . .
He emptied his Mauser at the hidden policemen, ducking as he scrambled toward his partner. Sweeping up her bloody form, he managed to drag her around the corner to safety.
“Go,” Suzanne whispered.
“I can’t leave you. Stay with me—”
Her eyelids fluttered. “You need to go . . .” A long breath escaped, and her gaze fixed on a distant point beyond him.
Jean-Pierre dropped to his knees and ripped open Suzanne’s bloodstained woolen jacket. Her soaked chest neither rose nor fell. He swore under his breath and brushed a lock of
black hair from her face.
Jean-Pierre cocked his head. Incessant gunfire filled the air. His colleagues were apparently keeping the German soldiers and local Polizei at bay, at least for the time being. He knew only a few valuable seconds remained to escape with
the prisoner.
He planted a soft kiss on Suzanne’s forehead. “Until we see each other in heaven,” he whispered.
Jean-Pierre darted to a trash can, where the shaken prisoner had hunkered down, covering his head. The resistance fighter clutched the man’s left arm and hustled him inside the watch store, pushing past two startled women. The rear door was propped open, and a black Opel four-door idled in the alley.
With a few quick steps, they were inside the vehicle.
Before the rear door was shut, the driver jerked the car into gear, and the Opel roared down the tight alley. The door slammed shut, and Jean-Pierre glanced back. No one followed.
The car merged onto a busier street, and only then did Jean-Pierre sink in his seat and close his eyes.
Soon they’d arrive at a safe house pitched on the Rhine River. And later, with the dark night sky as their protection, a skiff would sneak them into the warm arms of Mother
Switzerland—a skiff piloted by the mentor who’d recruited him. His nom de guerre: Pascal.
Jean-Pierre’s mission would soon be complete, but at what cost? Another agent—a good woman and a friend—had been sacrificed.
He had followed orders for the greater good, to save the life of a nameless prisoner. He only hoped this mission was worth it.
Tricia Goyer and Mike Yorkey, The Swiss Courier: A Novel,
About the book: Ollie is an ordinary boy who really wants to fit in with the people who get stilts. After all, possessing stilts makes you special! You’re up there looking down your nose at the others who longingly peer up at you, envying your high status.
But Ollie won’t likely get his stilts. He’s disorganized, clumsy and altogether too common. There’s nothing special about him! But low and behold one day Ollie gets selected for stilts. Proudly he harnesses them and walks to and fro…
But not for long…Ollie soon discovers that walking around in the “air” isn’t as stately has he imagined it would be. He stumbles, tumbles and looses his stilt status in defeat.
But someone special reaches out to give Ollie the lift he needs to walk on his own two feet again. Someone with a message that will touch Ollie’s heart and help him realize that he doesn’t need stilts to be special! He is a precious package just the way he is.
Created specially and uniquely for Jesus, Ollie is the tallest of smalls! My thoughts: Max Lucado has written some exceptional children’s books. I keep mine on a special place on a certain shelf because I don’t want them to get “weather-worn” by the kids.
I was very excited over the release of his newest children’s book. But it didn’t strike the “extra special” cord for me.
One of the main attractions in this book is the artwork done by Maria Monescillo. My kids loved it and were engaged by it. The book’s style is written in rhyming verses which isn’t always easy to understand for ESL children.
Altogether it’s a sweet, charming book and I’m planning to add it to my Christmas contest giveaway pile for my readers! So stay tuned!
Special thanks to Thomas Nelson Publishing for the review copy of this book.
Imagine hauling this up a mountain for a few scenery snapshots!
I took a photo of this at our local historical museum. I must have forgotten the date on the plate, but you can about guess the era. It was amusing because I kept thinking back to Africa when I got tired of carrying around my much, much smaller Sony. After a couple days it simply got left behind and I started grabbing Ruthie's tiny pocket-sized Canon whenever we went out...carrying my heavy one around my neck at all times got old really fast...
I think I am reading too many heartrending novels.
It took me several weeks to get through this book. It was too sad. I read only small portions at a time. Maybe if I’d have known there to a victorious outcome I could’ve hurried thru it. There was a ray of hope hidden within its pages. The thoughts running thru my head reading this book were: though the historical events are actual the characters are fictional therefore reminding me that the redemption of slaves in that era what virtually null. This story does ends with a flicker of hope though.
I highly recommend this book. Authored by Kay Marshall Strom it’s the first of three books that takes us into West Africa in the late 1700's. Grace Winslow is the daughter of a greedy white slave trader and his equally evil African wife. Her parents have little interest in their daughter; they care only of power and the money the selling of slaves bring them. Ironically, the courageous Grace is spun from a different cloth. Desperate to escape an undesirable, arranged marriage she runs away from home only to take a path leading to Zulina, her parents slave fortress. This is where Grace learns for the first time of her parent’s true occupation; she’d been completely in the dark over this. Following her own captivity, Grace finds out more than what her parents do behind the gates of Zulina…
…Horrified by the discovery at how the Africans are treated and equally petrified by the ghastly, hopeless voices of humanity surrounding her, Grace makes a decision to aid in whatever way she can. She has little to lose in any case. Her vile mother has no affection for her and her father merely tolerate her to amuses himself in thinking he can mold her into an English lady. Here, within the walls of Zulina, where so much violence and hopelessness is born and breed, Grace finds out what it means to live, what it means to have purpose. And in this prison she will first learn what it means to call out to the living God.
Together the small bend of slaves, with Grace by their side, decide to take down the fortress of Zulina. More than a few obstacles rise up to meet them-treachery, discouragement, clashes of strong wills, and Grace’s parents attempt to thwart their every effort towards freedom.
I’m impatient for the continuation of Grace’s story. The next two books won’t come out soon enough for me. There is no doubt that Grace’s trouble aren’t over. At her plea for mercy, the redeemed slaves spared her father’s life, and her cunning mother escaped death as well. Certainly we haven’t heard the last of them either. There was also just a hint of a young man whom Grace’s thoughts turned towards throughout the book. I’m certain we’ll see his name connected to hers yet! I’m hoping!! There are many other characters in The Call of Zulina that the heart endears itself to.
I’d recommend this book to anyone, perfect for any school library. This novel is saturated with factual details. What do you suppose happened between the time Africans were captured and brought as slaves to America? How you suppose they were captured? I learned a few surprising facts.
Special thanks to Kathy Willis for the review copy of this book. You can find purchasing info here.
I am not finished with this book yet. I've had to concentrate very hard reading it. The subject of climate change is one of interest to me (if you can believe that) and I was looking forward to reading a book on it from a Christian perspective...because frankly, if I hear something on this subject from a Hollywood celebrity or a politician I don't give it a fleeting thought. So, though wary towards any book regarding global warming, I welcomed the challenge because I wanted to see if I could be persuaded from what I originally believe about climate change. Early on in the book I read something I firmly do not believe in and have had trouble getting through the rest of this books message. I'm not saying I completely disregard their message, I merely have a have a different perspective on it.
I hope to post a more concrete review soon. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
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!
***Special thanks to Valerie M. Russo of the Hachette Book Group for sending me a review copy.***
ABOUT THE AUTHORs:
Katharine Hayhoe is a professor in the Department of Geosciences at Texas Tech University and CEO of ATMOS Research, a scientific consulting company. She contributed her research to and served as Expert Reviewer for the Nobel Prize-winning Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change. Katharine's work has been presented before the U.S. Congress, highlighted by state and federal agencies, and featured in over 200 newspapers and media outlets around the world.
Andrew Farley is the lead teaching pastor of Ecclesia (http://www.EcclesiaOnline.com/) and co-hosts Real Life in Christ, a 30-minute program that airs every week on ABC-TV in the West Texas area. Andrew served as a professor at the University of Notre Dame for five years and is now a tenured professor at Texas Tech University. Andrew has coauthored three textbooks and more than a dozen journal articles. He is also the author of The Naked Gospel: The Truth You May Never Hear in Church.
I fear I depend on the Internet for far to many things. I don't remember what life was like before the Internet. I love to blog...would do it everyday if time permitted. And who isn't on Facebook? Ok, fine, so maybe you haven't opened a FB account (yet) but you're likely part of some social media group. There are a ton of things, besides the news, that beckon us to the cyber world everyday. If you're one of the few who can raise your hand and say, "I have no idea what you're talking about!" I admire you!!
I had intended to be a part of YLCF blog carnival this past Wednesday, which elaborated the ordinary days of Christian ladies around the globe. I was only halfway thru chronicling the all too ordinary events of one of my days when one of my brothers and his six year daughter had a very frightening four wheeler accident. It’s taken me several days to recover from the absolute miracle of their survival. I can only conclude of the Lord’s merciful hand in it. Repetitive thoughts of gratitude and sincere praise are constantly being resurrected in me.
I’ve been thinking about eternity for many weeks now. What it means to be gone from this moral life in mere seconds. What it would be like to stand before our Maker. And how? Will I go empty-handed? As I gaze into Maria’s swollen face, bruised and battered from being thrown off a swiftly moving ATV ( her dad is by no means a reckless driver), I cannot quite shake the image of her and her daddy lying there lifeless. My mind cannot grasp, cannot reconcile to the reality of the harshness of sudden death. It’s too final, too cold. If this is a reflection of some failure in my own fallible, selfish heart, forgive me.
I thank the Lord for the ordinary days that flow in and out of my life. Yes, there is always the danger of becoming lukewarm if our lives fall into too much of a rut. But for how many people is that really a problem? The doors of eternity opens for so many people everyday. It’s the stark reality of life. Everyday children lose a mother or father. I cannot begin to imagine the desolate, empty feeling of losing my parents. Everyday a mother must let go of a child’s hand and give it back to the Maker, but I fail to grasp the agony of that moment. I can’t imagine a mother having to take one last look at her child, knowing she will never wrap her arms around her little boy’s small frame again, never to relish her little girl’s wet kisses. She and her daddy will never again cuddle on the couch with their favorite story. I have plenty of nieces and nephews and those thoughts have been punctuated deeply into my soul these past weeks. It must require a special grace given by the Lord.
Someone once said, “Snoring is the most beautiful sound in the world-ask any widow.” I thought the wise Elizabeth Elliot said that but I can’t verify it. Think about that next time he tracks mud into the house, or forgets (again) to take out the garage. Because of my single status I haven’t much to offer in this arena. Nonetheless, having five sisters-in-laws one picks up a thing of two. How they worry about them when something breaks down at the turkey barns late at night. How easily they’ll pick up the phone to call them if they haven’t heard from them for a few hours. The great lengths they’ll go to to make something just to their man's liking. I love it how Michael will offer to change Tabitha’s diaper for me when I’m babysitting. He’s so much more fluent at it then I am. I’ve seen how much selflessness marriage requires, but I’ve also seen how much pleasure it gives. I pray everyday for the safely of my brothers as they go about their jobs. In the perilous moments of life I hope to never see one of my sister-in-laws having to wake up alone in bed. But I know that the Lord works in mysterious ways; ways I will not even endeavor to comprehend.
Cherish your family. Enjoy your children. Love and appreciate your spouse. For the dawn of a new day may not be over the horizon for your loved one.
Enjoy this!! When I made one of these last year several of you said the quality was bad. I can't help that, sorry! I assume they have to minimize the resolution so more images fit into your storage bin...? If you wanna see last summer's, click here.
The time for designated schedules has come knocking at my door once again. Late nights spent devouring books is now limited mostly to weekends. Now the droll sound of that dreaded alarm clock is my early morning master. Oh, for the freedom of summer days! Gone they are! Replaced with scenes from the classroom determined to become my second home for the next nine months.
I will miss summer. The popsicle grins. The evenings spent spitting sunflower seeds on the front porch while enjoying the activities of children and adults alike. No more swimming trunks hanging on the wash line to dry off---only to be grabbed again by mischievous boy’s mere hours later. I wonder how we live without the taste of a fresh cucumbers, delicious muskmelons, and last minute tomato sandwich snacks…? What about the scattered sandals and crocs parked by the sandbox and trampoline? Not to mention the popsicle wrappers no one threw down! I’m afraid I’m guilty too; I don’t always sweep off my sunflower seeds from the sidewalk. Sometimes I forget to bring in my water glass and it sleeps in the great indoors.
Oh, to watch lush trees and green grass lose their colors to the dusty hues of autumn. Autumn has mysteries if its own. Like how dull-painted leaves finally, reverently surrender their glory to naught we all but trample on. Unless we stop and think a moment we forget that they’re crumbling to make the earth futile as promises of spring chase away the last harshness of winter.
I stopped yesterday to listen to the falling of leaves. Leaves really do make a sound as the fall. It is a true wonder. The scent and scenes of autumn took refuge in my scarred heart and calmed the storm within. I felt and knew peace. There are few pleasures that rate higher on my scale then the beauty of my home and the people I love so close within reach. To walk down beaten paths knowing no matter which winding trail I take it will no less lead me back home again.
I hope I’ll never get used to it, will never concede to it as normal…and will always see it for the gift it’s meant to be.
Giving up everything she worked for, the author of Love Has A Face writes about the challenges she faced doing the will of God. Michele Perry, born without her left hip and leg, leaves the comfortable life to show love and care to one hundred little lives in a war zone. The stories she recalls are heart wrenching and seem almost impossible to deal with. In world where love is so scares that it’s hard to even imagine it, Michele Perry portrays the love of Christ so vividly, she shows hundreds of people what Christ is like by giving them love. Showing you how important love is to the people in your life and challenging you to apply it.
She does this not knowing from day to day if she or those around her will survive the bombs and machine gun that pelt against the wall of her orphanage every night. She puts her faith in God and it’s her incredible faith in God that challenges you to look at your own life searching for something better and more meaningful. I would recommend this book to anyone who is searching for true fulfilment and the true meaning of what it means living for Jesus. It is not a fast read (at least wasn’t for me) but it worth your time.
A review copy of this book was provided by Bethany House Publishers. You can purchase it here.
Early in 1872, a Mennonite family leaves Russia for their son’s sake, but are left wondering if they're doing the right thing? They have a ways to travel and are not even in America yet when they encounter grief, tragedy and guilt. Will they be strong enough to stand united in the new world? Will they find their Gnadenfeld- field of Grace?
Each character’s feelings, especially anger, draw you into the story. In the new world, dire circumstances lead them to make choices they don’t want to make. You feel for Henrik, are frustrated along with him. His feelings of betrayal, for reasons that only he thinks are right, can’t help but draw you in. Eli, his longing and dreams make you sad because they are at his fingertips but there is nothing he can do about it. Only his faith in God helps him through his trials. Lillian aggravated me. I was really frustrated with her at times. With all her actions and words, she had to eat the soup she cooked!!
I found something in the book that raised my eyebrows and had me saying, “Wow”. A hymn in my language, “Wach auf mein Herz und Singe” -“Awake, my heart, and render”. There were words I could just make out after I read the translation, but this song I learned when I went to German school when I was but 5 years old.
A great story when you want to shed a few tears and when you are curious of how many emotions a person can go through in a short period of time.
A copy of this novel was made available for review by Bethany House Publishers. You can purchase your copy here.
Review by Rachel W. The Carousel Painter impressed me as a story of mystery and romance set against an historical background.
When Carrington Brouwer’s father, a starving artist, died leaving Carrie without parents and inheritance, Carrie knew she had to find a job quickly. Carrie was made to feel unwelcome by her best friend, Augusta Galloway’s mother when she went to live with them for a while. She quickly found a job as a painter in Mr. Galloway’s carousel factory painting horses. Working in a totally male environment put Carrie at a disadvantage; she was looked down on and suffered daily criticism by the men and their wives, who were afraid Carrie would steal their husbands.
but Carrie kept on with determination and vigor even when she got opposition, going through a chain of mysterious events when accused of stealing Mrs. Carroway’s diamond necklace and then her own father’s painting disappeared. Carrie found herself being investigated and doing an investigation of her own to find out the truth.
An enjoyable read for all historical romance book-lovers.
A review copy of this book was provided by Bethany House Publishers. It is available for purchasing here.
I'd pay someone to do art for me with my students every Friday! That's how much I dislike it.
Sometimes I attempt to draw something on the board and my kids will look at it, frown and say, "what is that?" I'm serious, I can't even draw stick figures...
So I usually dread Friday afternoons. The kids love art though...impatiently they wait for Friday. We did the project below yesterday. I found it here...it's so creative. This is what the caterpillar should have looked like. But my younger students ended up cutting out all kinds of shapes...next time I'd devote a single art hour to work on cutting out circles and complete the project the following week. It's an easy enough project for ages 5 and up.
(Go here for easy instructions on how to make the felt caterpillar).
This is one of my seven year old students doing a story narration on Peter, the Boy Who Cried Wolf. I happen to think it’s incredibly cute, but being extremely bias, you may form your own opinion. Unfortunately, he’s got me wrapped around his finger. I have the hardest time disciplining him. Usually when I catch one of the kids doing something they shouldn’t do, or when they know they’ve crossed the line, they’ll have every excuse in the world. That they didn’t really do it, or they did it because of this or that. Not Mika, he admits his folly. He'll just look at me with sad, repentant eyes and say he’s sorry, that’ll he’ll not do it again…and he won’t, not that day at least. Likely, he’ll start crying and the tears wash his already blue eyes in an impossible beautiful hue of bluer than blue…my heart melts faster than butter in the microwave.
I walked into the classroom just the other day and he was walking away from my desk with a brand new eraser. As soon as he noticed me his whole expression turned guilty as he attempted to hide the eraser. Being sarcastic by nature, I merely raised my eyebrows at him, awaiting his confession.
“I need the eraser, Lisa, mine is kaput.”
“But you went into my desk and took it without asking.” He knows well the rule against going into my desk drawers without permission.
“I’m sorry Lisa, I’m sorry. Please, may I keep the eraser? I won’t do it again…”
Of course, I was a goner. Hook. Line. And. Sinker. I don’t know if he knows he has the power to paralyze me whenever he needs to be disciplined. He’s so happy and energetic, so full of life and vigor…and those freckles sprinkled across his nose and unto his cheeks don’t help either.
Oh, no. I think I smell a little girl's diaper! Babysitting this afternoon. My sister-in-laws are fall cleaning. Any volunteers to change her?
Sunday, October 11, 2009
"The influence of a genuine Christian is noiseless and silent as the continual droppings of a summer shower, which refreshes and enriches oftentimes more than the heavy fall of rain..."
Seems I have less and less time to blog. And whenever I do pop in here it's with a book review. Let me assure you I don't always publish what I write, because I'm such a politically incorrect person, I sometimes don't dare publish what I have written down in words...that mostly gets shelved in my Word Document and I stumble upon it as much as a year later!
Reviewed by Sarah
my charmer...
my firecracker...
