 
### Taste and See

A Sampling of First Chapters

by

John 3:16 Marketing Network Authors

Plus Other Surprises

Christmas Gift 2011

Volume One

" _O taste and see that the LORD is good: blessed is the man that trusts in Him"_

Psalm 34:8

Edited by Lorilyn Roberts

Published by the John 3:16 Marketing Network at Smashwords

Copyright 2011, John 3:16 Marketing Network, Gainesville, FL

Cover Design by Cheryl Rogers based on book cover artwork submitted by the authors.

Formatting by Lorilyn Roberts and Cheryl Rogers

Scripture quotations are from The Holy Bible, New King James Version, Contemporary English Version, King James Version, New Living Translation, New International Version, New American Standard Version, English Standard Version, copyright 2001 by Crossway Bibles, a Division of Good News Publishers. <http://www.gnpcb.org/page/esv_copyright/>; American Standard Version of 1901; and the Analytical-Literal Translation of the New Testament of the Holy Bible. Copyright 1999-2001 by Gary F. Zeolla of Darkness to Light Ministry (www.dtl.org/).

Credits: DawnSinger cover design by Anna O'Brien in collaboration with Port Yonder Press.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

Thank you for downloading this ebook. It is copyrighted property and may not be reproduced, copied and distributed for commercial or non-commercial purposes. If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to download their own copy at Smashwords.com, where they can also discover other works by this author. Thank you for your support.

**Table of Contents**

Forward by Bernard Boulton

Section 1

Poetry

Chapter 1: Janalyn Voigt, DawnSinger

Section 2

Fiction

Adult

Chapter 2: Bernard Boulton, Do You Wanna Be Made Whole?

Chapter 3: Elaine Marie Cooper, The Promise of Deer Run

Chapter 4: Laura J. Davis, Come to Me

Chapter 5: Ashley Dawn, Shadows From the Past

Chapter 6: Sidney W. Frost, The Vengeance Squad

Chapter 7: April W. Gardner, Wounded Spirits

Chapter 8: Tracy Krauss, And the Beat Goes On

Chapter 9: Ken Kuhlken, Midheaven

Chapter 10: Marcia Lee Laycock, One Smooth Stone

Chapter 11: Lisa J. Lickel, Meander Scar

Chapter 12: Patience Prence, SCARS: An Amazing End-Times Prophecy Novel

Chapter 13: W.R. Pursche and Michael Gabriele, The Eternal Messiah

Chapter 14: Eddie Snipes, I Called Him Dancer

Chapter 15: Amanda Stephan, Lonely Hearts

Chapter 16: Diane Tatum, Gold Earrings

Chapter 17: Kenneth Winters, The Lost Crown of Colonnade

Young Adult

Chapter 18: Tom Blubaugh, Night of the Cossack

Chapter 19: Lynn Dove, Shoot the Wounded

Chapter 20: Rev. Serafim Gascoigne, Landing Place

Chapter 21: Dr. Robert E. McGinnis, Raised in Paradise

Chapter 22: Dr. Robert E. McGinnis, White Bird Returns

Chapter 23: Cheryl Rogers, Just Like Jonah Wail Tales

Chapter 24: Evelyn Uslar-Pietri, Pirate's Gold, Treasure to Die For

Chapter 25: Amanda Washington, Chronicles of the Broken

Children's Picture Books

Chapter 26: Judi Chesshir, My Finny Fin Fin

Chapter 27: Brenda K. Hendricks, What's Better Than That, Seren Dippity?

Chapter 28: Jay Miller, Sal and Sally

Chapter 29: Sherrill S. Cannon, Santa's Birthday Gift

Section 3

Miscellany

Chapter 30: Nike Chillemi, Burning Hearts, recipes

Chapter 31: Saundra Dalton-Smith, Finding Your G.R.A.C.E. Place , a devotional

Chapter 32: Amy Deardon, The Story Template: Conquer Writer's Block Using the Universal Structure of Story

Chapter 33: Rose Allen McCauley, Regeneration, short story

Chapter 34: B.J. Robinson, Hope Lives Even as a Last Resort, a devotional

Section 4

Non-Fiction

General

Chapter 35: Deborah H. Bateman, The Book of Ruth-A Story of Love and Redemption

Chapter 36: Carol A. Brown, The Mystery of Spiritual Sensitivity

Chapter 37: Sana Edoja, Knowing God

Chapter 38: Anita Estes, When God Speaks

Chapter 39: S.E. Gregg, The Christian Olympics, Going for the Gold Crowns

Chapter 40: CJ and Shelley Hitz, Forgiveness Formula: Finding Lasting Freedom in Christ

Chapter 41: Paulette Harper Johnson, Completely Whole

Chapter 42: Ray W. Lincoln, INNERKINETICS TM

Chapter 43: Patty Mason, Transformed by Desire: A Journey of Awakening to Life and Love

Chapter 44: Kimberley Payne, Fit for Faith – 7 Weeks to Improved Spiritual & Physical Health

Chapter 45: Scott M. Shafer, Receiving Authority

Chapter 46: Joyce Schneider, Sticks and Stones May Break My Bones But Words Can Kill My Spirit

Chapter 47: Yvonne Pat Wright, From Spice to Eternity, Discovering the Main Ingredient to a Life of Fulfillment and Purpose

Christian Family/Lifestyle

Chapter 48: Janet Perez Eckles, Simply Salsa: Dancing Without Fear at God's Fiesta

Chapter 49: Theresa Franklin, Journey to Fulfillment, From Stumbling Blocks to Stepping Stones

Chapter 50: Sally Franz, Scrambled Leggs...A Snarky Tale of Hospital Hooey

Chapter 51: Kimberly J. James, Running on G: What's Filling Your Tank?

Chapter 52: Deborah McCarragher, Mission Possible – Spiritual Covering

Chapter 53: Anita Mellot, School Is Where the Home Is

Chapter 54: Mogama, Refugee Was My Name

Chapter 55: Debra A. Newell, A Strand of Pearls

Chapter 56: Lorilyn Roberts, Children of Dreams

Chapter 57: Alberta Sequeira, Someone Stop This Merry-Go-Round: An Alcoholic Family in Crisis

Chapter 58: Jessica Zondervan, Breathing on Purpose: Surviving the Death of a Loved One

Section 5

Farewell Thoughts

Author Biographies

Forward by Bernard Boulton

God's Purpose For You Through The John 3:16 Marketing Network

"O taste and see that the LORD is good: blessed is the man that trusts in Him" (Psalm 34:8).

Dear Reader,

I am glad that you have decided to enjoy the stories in this book. The writers who have collaborated on this project share a common desire: To use their gifts to communicate with you the purpose of God for your life.

You may be asking the question, what do reading stories have to do with the purpose of God for my life? The John 3:16 Marketing Network authors believe that God is creative and uses many different expressions to get people's attention.

Words are very important to God and the way those words are used is equally important to Him. In everything God does, He uses words. When He created the universe, He used words. Before He formed mankind, He talked about the kind of man and woman that He would create. Not only does God use words, but He gives words to writers, and then He gives the desire to writers to pen stories that will show the reader an aspect of who He is.

God is so awesome that He is revealed in many ways through the Bible, a written book, but the foundational way that God is revealed is through His love. God loves every human being who He created in His image, and it is His greatest desire to have a personal relationship with you and me. God had such a powerful longing to connect with every human being that He sent His Son Jesus Christ to reconnect us with Him.

Here is an interesting fact: We were disconnected from God by words spoken to the first man and woman by our common enemy: the devil. Jesus Christ came to undo what had been done. He came as the Son of God. He came as the Light of the world. But He also demonstrated the uniqueness of God by telling stories. He told many stories to capture people's minds and turn their hearts to God. After Jesus would tell a story, some of those who heard Him would follow Him to ask Him what the story meant, and Jesus would give them further explanation.

What we, the writers of the John3:16 Marketing Network, hope is that the stories we offer in this book will encourage you to seek God about His purpose for your life. The plans of God for your life are many, but all of His desires for you start with this:

God loves you: "For God so loved the world."

God gave His Son for you: "That He gave His only begotten Son."

The Son gives you a life-changing opportunity: "That whosoever believes on Him should not perish but have everlasting life."

God's purpose for your life is to have eternal life which is abundant and incredible. God has given us the gift of writing to pen stories that show His love, grace, and man's opportunity to live the way God always intended for him to live. Thank you for letting us share our stories to help you find your way to God. I pray that your best days are ahead as you see God in the pages of _Taste and See, First Chapters and Other Samplings_ from the John 3:16 Marketing Network.

PEACE, PURPOSE, PROSPERITY

Bernard Boulton, author and pastor

Danville, Virginia

Section 1

Poetry

Chapter 1: Janalyn Voigt, DawnSinger

What We Didn't Know

You were crowned in glory

Though we thought it less.

You were clothed in honor.

We mocked your nakedness.

Blood and tears flowed together

Down your battered, gentle face.

We thought of it as defeat:

Your sacrifice and grace.

" _Father, forgive them!"_

Was your heartfelt plea.

Your love was greater

Than our enmity.

We told the truth

When we called you "king,"

Though we didn't know

What your death would bring.

We didn't know

When we raised you up

That you were drinking

Our own death cup.

We didn't know

When we pierced your side

That for three days only

Would you abide

In the darkness of the tomb

To pay our fee.

Now cross, tomb, and cup

Each stand empty.

By Janalyn Voigt

Website: Janalyn Voigt

Section 2

Fiction

Adult

Chapter 2: Bernard Boulton, Do You Wanna Be Made Whole?

Reprinted from **Do You Wanna Be Made Whole?** AA Christian Fiction, by Bernard Boulton. Copyrighted. Used by permission of author.

Pastor James Maxwell sat at his desk. He was nervous as he awaited his ten o'clock appointment. At a few minutes before ten his intercom buzzed.

"Yes?"

"Pastor, your ten o' clock appointment is here."

"Thank you, Doris. Send them in."

Pastor Maxwell observed the couple as they walked through the door, into his office. The man was Theo Dexter. He was six-foot-one and dark complexioned. His wife, Aretha, was five-foot-nine and brown skinned. She bore a strong resemblance to Queen Latifah.

They took off their coats and placed them in the closet. "Please have a seat." Theo took a chair and moved it away from where he assumed Aretha was going to sit. Aretha rolled her eyes as she watched Theo put some distance between the two of them. Pastor Maxwell observed their faces to guess where they were emotionally. Theo's face registered resignation and Aretha's face showed hostility.

Pastor Maxwell sighed. "How was everyone's week?"

"It has been the same old thing, Pastor. He's been ignoring me as usual. He only speaks when it's necessary. He's civil around the children, but that's it." Aretha's voice trembled as she spoke.

"She's not sorry, Pastor." His voice revealed his emotional exhaustion. He spoke as a man who had been in an intense battle and was on the verge of giving up the fight. "She doesn't care that she betrayed me. She wants to move on. She wants me to forget. I can't forget what she's done to me, to us, to our family. "

Aretha turned her head toward Theo with her jaws clenched. "I'm tired of you. Your behavior is juvenile. You could move on if you wanted to." She stared intently at him, but he wouldn't return her penetrating look.

Pastor Maxwell frowned. He had been counseling them for five months and nothing had changed. It seemed as if Theo wasn't going to speak to Aretha no matter how hard Pastor Maxwell encouraged him.

"Theo, don't you have anything to say to your wife?"

Theo looked around the office. His eyes rested on the paperweight that sat on Pastor Maxwell's desk. The words on it read, _With God all things are possible_. He glanced over at Aretha and then looked at Pastor Maxwell. "Pastor, I've been looking at that paperweight for the last five months. When we first came here I believed those words. I believed that God could repair our marriage and I wanted Him to." He sighed and shook his head. "But now I'm just tired. I'm tired of Aretha. I'm tired of her playing the victim. She's the one who cheated on me."

Aretha shook her finger at Theo. "I'm not playing the victim, Theo. But you act as if you haven't done anything wrong. It was your neglect that pushed me into the arms of another man."

"You are the most self-centered woman I know. You have the nerve to cheat on me and then blame me for your affair."

Aretha's mouth trembled. "You just can't admit that you don't care about me. You

* * *

Aretha's mouth trembled. "You just can't admit that you don't care about me. You stopped being my prince, you stopped loving me. You gave up on me, Theo, you gave up on us."

Pastor Maxwell frowned. He rubbed his forehead as he saw the anguished look on Aretha's face. He could hear the pain and rejection in her voice. He waited for Theo to respond. When he didn't, Pastor Maxwell asked him, "Theo, don't you have anything to say?"

Theo's head was bowed and then he looked up at Aretha for the first time since they entered Pastor Maxwell's office. "I never stopped loving you, Aretha. And I'm sorry for hurting you now. But I need you to understand that you hurt me. You hurt me bad and you're not the least bit sorry. And that's what I can't deal with. Why can't you be sorry for what you did?"

Pastor Maxwell had hoped this would be the breakthrough that the embattled couple needed.

_Come on, Aretha, and tell him that you are sorry_ , Pastor Maxwell thought as he awaited Aretha's reply.

Aretha stood up and yelled at Theo, "Are you sorry? What about your mistress? You put your business before our marriage. You loved your business more than you loved me."

Theo jumped out of his chair and got in Aretha's face. "I'm tired of hearing that same old excuse, and your same old complaint. You knew when you married me that I was going to one day have my own business. In the beginning you shared that dream with me. You knew how much time I would have to put into the business until it was successful. All I ever needed from you was patience and support." He spoke so loudly that his voice reverberated through the room.

There was so much tension between them that Pastor Maxwell got up and walked over to where the two were standing. He was afraid blows were about to be exchanged between the two as they stood staring at each other like two fighters in the ring.

"I wanted you to succeed, but not at the expense of us."

Theo looked away for a moment. And then he looked at Aretha and took a deep breath before he said, "I want a divorce, Aretha. I'm moving out."

Pastor Maxwell's face fell as he thought, _No, Theo, don't give up yet, son. Fight for your marriage._

Aretha raised her hand to slap Theo, but he caught her hand before she delivered the blow to his face. She started to cry as she yanked her hand out of his. She backed away when she realized she had tried to hit Theo. The look of pure anger and rage in his face scared her. In sixteen years of marriage, she had never raised her hand to her husband. She breathed a little easier when she saw Pastor Maxwell looking intently at Theo. Pastor Maxwell at six-foot-three was more than strong enough to stop Theo if he had any thoughts of retaliation.

"You're going to leave me and your sons?"

Theo was resolved and his mind was made up. He interacted with Aretha as if she was a business associate and he was closing a deal. "I'm leaving you. I'll never leave my sons."

"I'll take that precious business of yours if you leave me. You'll be broke."

* * *

"Do you really think you can take my business from me? You don't get it, do you, woman? You can't take what's in my heart. You can't have my dreams, Aretha."

Aretha's eyes blazed. "That used to be me in your heart."

Walking to the closet to retrieve her coat, Aretha said to Pastor Maxwell, "Thank you, Pastor Maxwell, for your time. I'm leaving." She put on her coat, looked at Theo as if she wanted to kill him and walked out of the office.

Theo dropped down in the chair and put his head in his hands. Pastor Maxwell pulled up a chair next to him and waited for Theo to compose himself. Although the seasoned pastor was surprised by Theo's decision, he was confident that the two could heal from this and go on in their marriage. Even if Theo or Aretha didn't believe it today, Pastor Maxwell believed it was very possible for God to repair what had been torn down. When Theo looked up, Pastor Maxwell asked him, "Theo, are you sure about divorce. Do you really want to leave your family?"

"I'm not leaving my boys. I'm leaving Aretha."

"Listen, son, I know what you're saying, but it won't be the same when you are no longer living in the same house with them. How old are your sons?"

"T.J. is thirteen and Shad is eight."

Pastor Maxwell placed his hand lovingly on Theo's shoulder. "Be careful, Theo. If you made this decision because of what happened today then reconsider it. If you can't think about Aretha, think about your sons. You and I both know what it means to grow up without a father."

Theo placed his head in his hands again. He then looked up at Pastor Maxwell. "Pastor, I can't do this anymore. I love Aretha. The Lord knows I do, but for five years we've been going back and forth. She said I loved the business more than I loved her and the boys. But it wasn't true. I was building a business for us. It was our shared vision. When she married me she supported my dream of having my own construction business. And then we started the business and she changed. I had to spend time on those jobs to make the business work."

"Theo, I know you believed that, but whenever you become engaged in any activity that takes you away from your family you are endangering your family. You needed to find a medium between your business and your family. If anything, you should've learned that from me. I lost my family because I put them behind the ministry."

"But, Pastor, it was only for a season. I'll admit, it was a long season, four years is a long time to sacrifice, but I thought it was worth it for us." Theo laughed nervously, rubbing his forehead. "The ironic thing is she had the affair last year when I was starting to cut back my hours at work. For four years she fought me about being away from home so much and then when the business started to succeed and I hired other men to take over for me then she goes out and has an affair. Well, it doesn't matter, I don't want her anymore."

Pastor Maxwell thought about his relationship with Theo as he listened to Theo speak. He remembered the first time he saw Theo. He was a baby when his grandparents brought him to the church. Pastor Maxwell watched Theo grow up under the spiritual supervision of Theodore and Annie Dexter. When Theo turned thirteen he confessed Jesus as his savior and was baptized by Pastor Maxwell. Sixteen years ago, Pastor Maxwell officiated at the wedding of Theo and Aretha and he dedicated both their sons to the Lord. Just a few months ago Pastor Maxwell baptized Theo Jr.

"Let's pray, Theo." Theo bowed his head as Pastor Maxwell prayed.

* * *

"Father, give Theo Your mind on the decision he made today. Father, guide him to do what pleases You. Father, I declare that Your will be done between Theo and Aretha. I bring the two of them to Your throne of grace and I ask You, Father, to help them do what You have already ordained for them to do."

Pastor Maxwell walked Theo out of the office and walked with him to his car. As he watched Theo pull off he declared that he was going to stay at the throne of God's grace until God brought Theo and Aretha back together again.

TO READ MORE, you can purchase **Do You Wanna Be Made Whole?** by Bernard Boulton at:

http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/53768 (ebook)

http://amzn.to/v1loGf (paperback).

Chapter 3: Elaine Marie Cooper, The Promise of Deer Run

Reprinted from **The Promise of Deer Run** , a Christian historical romance by Elaine Marie Cooper. Copyright 2010 by iUniverse. Prologue reprinted with permission of author

"Huzzah! It's over! The treaty's been signed! Huzzah!"

The news the troops had been awaiting for months was now a reality: the Americans had won the war against England. The United States of America was free and independent that spring of 1783. Eight long years of battle had proven victorious for the colonists.

Nineteen-year-old Nathaniel Stearns emerged from the small wooden barracks at West Point, New York. He had slept fitfully all night, finally falling into a deep slumber just before dawn. He abruptly awoke when the cheers reached his ears. He rubbed his eyes and squinted at the early morning sun.

"It's really over?" he said, shading his eyes as he spoke to the jubilant private.

"Over and done, once for all! Johnny Bull is going back where he belongs!" shouted the soldier. "Come! Let's share a gill of the good creature to celebrate!"

"You go on. I'll be there in a bit."

Nathaniel stood by himself as the others ran toward the hogshead of rum that the officers brought out for celebration.

But the elation of this moment was blighted for young Corporal Stearns. The last three years of war had brought more than their share of personal losses, overshadowing the joy of victory. Nathaniel had borne the death of a close comrade, as well as the betrayal of his childhood sweetheart. He would never be the same after seeing his best friend's face blown away by enemy fire. That memory visited Nathaniel's sleep on a regular basis, like an unwelcome visitor you wish you had never met.

As he turned back toward the barracks, Nathaniel caught a glimpse of his father approaching. Sergeant Benjamin Stearns had been away from home for the duration of the war, with an occasional furlough to visit his family in Deer Run. The years away from home had deepened the lines around the older man's eyes and mouth. The jovial man of Nathaniel's youthful memories had been replaced by a more somber gentleman with a slight stoop about his shoulders.

The younger soldier immediately noticed the change that the news of victory brought to his father's countenance. He was smiling.

"Father." Nathaniel stood at attention.

"At ease." The older man grinned from ear to ear. "Nathaniel, I'm certain you want to celebrate with the lads." His grin slowly faded as he grew more serious. "But I'm asking you to consider heading back home as soon as you can. Here are your discharge papers. I asked the captain to prepare yours first. I want you to go home and stay at the farm. Check on your mother and brother and sisters." The older man's voice caught in his throat. "My heart weighs heavy with worry. Please..."

Nathaniel interrupted him. "I'll pack immediately, sir. You can count on me." The young man saluted his father.

Benjamin Stearns looked fondly at his oldest child. "I've always been able to count on you, son. You've always made me proud."

Tears began to well in both men's eyes. The older man cleared his throat and forced his shoulders to attention.

"Well then. Be on your way, lad," Sergeant Stearns commanded quietly.

"Yes, sir." Nathaniel sniffed sharply and wiped off his face. "Father, when will you return home? What shall I tell Mother?"

"Tell her... I'll be home forthwith. Tell her to look through her golden curtains and watch me arrive with the sun." He smiled. "I know how much your mother delights in seeing the sunrise through her only window."

Nathaniel couldn't help but smile at the thought. The two men embraced and his father turned away to join the celebration.

Returning to the barracks, Nathaniel gathered his few belongings. When he stepped out the door to begin the long walk to Deer Run, he searched the crowd of joyous troops for a glimpse of his father, but he could see him nowhere. Nathaniel approached the group, grabbed the half cup of rum allotted to each soldier, and downed the drink in two quick gulps. He threw his satchel over his shoulder and started the journey home.

It took nearly a week to walk from the encampment in New York to the outskirts of Deer Run. Nearing the family farm, he desperately hoped that his mother or brother or sisters—someone—would burst out the front door to greet him. It had been three years since Nathaniel was home and until this moment he did not realize just how homesick he was.

Approaching the log cabin, he only heard the wind as a hollow, haunting sound stirring the trees in the woods. Chilled air swept against his neck and he pulled his collar up higher. The smell of rain infused his nostrils.

"Mother?" he said, his voice filled with apprehension.

He slowly opened the heavy wooden door, crafted years ago by his father. "Ethan? Sadie? Hello?"

His heart almost stopped as he saw that the cabin was deserted. He looked slowly around the room. There were no linens, no dishes, no food cooking in the hearth. Even the yellow curtains that his mother was so fond of were gone.

What has happened? Where is everyone?

He noticed a letter nailed to the wall above the chest of drawers. He walked across the room with unsteady legs and removed the old parchment.

His hands trembled as he began to read the note, dated September 30, 1780:

Dearest Benjamin and Nathaniel,

It is with great sadness that I have been forced to leave our home. Ethan took ill some months after Nathaniel left. Despite our greatest efforts to treat his terrible fever, dearest Ethan went home to heaven. My heart is still breaking.

As I am unable to keep up the farm, my sister Abigail in Boston has kindly offered to take in the three girls and me. I am in despair that I may never see either of you again.

lease send word of your safekeeping and come to Boston as soon as you are able. I await word of my brave men.

With loving regard,

Your Wife and Mother

The paper dropped to the floor without Nathaniel taking notice. He stood there silently for a moment before racing out the door to the burial ground up near the woods.

Tears stung at his eyes. Strands of his long blond hair whipped his face, clinging to the moisture on his cheeks. Frantic, the young man almost tripped more than once on the mass of weeds growing in the old cornfield.

"This cannot be!" he cried, but his voice was lost in the howling wind.

Arriving at the gravesite, the cold letters on the tombstone told the tragic truth:

"Ethan Stearns, born January 19, 1766, died September 2, 1780."

Nathaniel's fingers slowly etched the chiseled letters. He outlined them repeatedly with trembling hands encrusted with mud.

Ethan was indeed dead.

The young veteran fell to his knees and shook his head slowly back and forth.

"No. No. _No_!"

Sobs wracked his body with rhythmic waves. He would have raised a fist toward heaven... if he only had the strength.

TO READ MORE, you can purchase **The Promise of Deer Run** by Elaine Marie Cooper at:

http://amzn.to/vhtHAl (Kindle format)

http://amzn.to/tov1ml (paperback).

Chapter 4: Laura J. Davis, Come to Me

Reprinted from Come to Me, historical fiction, by Laura J. Davis. Copyright 2010 Laura J. Davis. Used by permission of the author.

Jerusalem 44 A.D.

She sat outside for over an hour meditating, praying and remembering. The rising sun wrapped her in a warm cocoon that threatened to lull her back to sleep. Mary arched her back and stretched. She ran her hands over the cream-coloured pillow covering her precious bench and yawned. Joseph had surprised her with the bench the first year they were married. They would often sit together in the early morning hours, when the rest of the world was still asleep and the sun was waking up.

How she longed for those times again, when Joseph would take her hand and they would begin the day in prayer and dedication to Yahweh. My sweet Joseph, how I long to hear your voice and feel your embrace once more.

She had known Joseph for most of her life. In a village as small as Nazareth, it would have been unusual if their paths had never crossed. Older than her by twelve years, Joseph had watched Mary grow from a child into a beautiful young woman. With careful planning, he had placed himself in her life with the purpose of marrying her when she came of age. He had called her 'Little Mary' and she had called him her 'Gentle Giant,' names said with an affection that had grown into a deep and lasting love.

"You're such a long way up, Joseph!" she would laugh. "I get a sore neck just looking at you, much less kissing you."

Then one day he had come into the house and said, "Little Mary, I have a surprise for you, but first, you must close your eyes!" Mary obeyed and felt Joseph sweep her up in his muscular arms and place her on something soft and luxurious.

"Open your eyes now," Joseph said, his brown eyes twinkling with excitement.

"Oh, Joseph!" For the first time in their marriage, she was able to look straight into his eyes.

"What is this?" She looked at her bare feet and wiggled her toes into the cream-coloured pillow that stretched across a new oak bench. A small gasp of surprise escaped her lips. "It is beautiful." She sighed as she ran her hands along the back of the bench. "Hear O Israel...Oh, Joseph! You have carved the Shema into it. Oh, how precious." She clasped her hands together and turned toward her husband. "You made me a prayer bench." Her almond shaped eyes shone with delight.

"Ah, well... my motives are not that pure I am afraid."

She tilted her head. "Oh?"

"Yes, I was thinking we could use it so you wouldn't get a sore neck kissing me." He wrapped his arms around her tiny waist pulling her close. "Or you could use it for praying." He shrugged and smiled. "Your choice."

She laughed and wrapped her arms around his neck. "I think for now I shall use it for kissing you and later I will use it for prayer."

Mary sighed, a sleepy smile lingering on her face. They had dubbed it the kissing bench. They had thought it was something their children would laugh and giggle over in the years to come. What a wonderful life we made together!

It was a good marriage, despite its uncertain beginnings. So many events had happened in those early days that Mary could not imagine which memory she cherished most—the angelic visitation, the birth of Jesus, or his resurrection. The enormity of what had transpired in her life had humbled her more than she realized.

Of course, she would never cherish the memories of what they had done to her firstborn son. Forgiving them was easier than forgetting. She could never forget. How long had it been since that horrible day? She could still smell the blood and hear Jesus' screams mingled with her own. Her chest grew tight with grief as she closed her eyes to dispel the images that had haunted her for the last eleven years.

She was fifty-eight years old and until six months ago had been with her nephew, the Apostle John, on a brief visit to Rome to strengthen the churches there. When the Emperor Claudius began expelling Jews from Rome, John had decided that she should return to his home in Jerusalem for her own safety.

"Poor John," she muttered as she recalled the argument she had had with him over returning.

"It's too dangerous for you in Rome now, woman!" He had pleaded with her all day and finally in anger and frustration gathered up her belongings and started stuffing them into a satchel. "As the mother of our Lord and a Jew, your life is in more danger than mine right now. This discussion is over. You will leave without any more arguments."

Mary remembered folding her arms across her chest and swallowing the angry words that had threatened to spill from her lips. No one had ever talked to her in such a manner.

"John, if it is dangerous, why are you staying? Should I, the mother of the Messiah, become a coward and run to save my life when others are dying? It is not right. Your brother James was beheaded for proclaiming Jesus as the Messiah. I should do no less."

"Jesus charged me with your safety, Aunt Mary. Would you have me dishonour my Lord by shirking my responsibilities?"

That was when she had seen the pain and anguish on his weathered face. She had finally understood. He could not bear losing her as he had his brother and so she submitted to his wishes.

He took her to Jerusalem, stayed for a while to help her adjust and then returned to Rome to minister to the churches there. She now spent her days with the other believers in Jerusalem, meeting together regularly for prayer and fellowship. Today she was expecting Luke, a Greek physician led to salvation through the Apostle Paul.

As she waited for his arrival, she kicked off her sandals and wiggled her toes. Although it had rained the night before, it was now a beautiful spring day. Mary loved the earthy smell in the air after a rainfall. It was a combination of mud, water and worms that oddly reminded her of the seaside. Breathing deeply, she leaned her head against the rough stone of John's home, stretched out her bare feet and plopped them in the nearest puddle.

From the time she was a child, she had often gone barefoot through the hills of Galilee after it had rained, for she loved to squish her toes in the mud and feel the cool blades of grass on her feet. In Jerusalem a plot of grass was hard to come by, which made her miss her home in Nazareth all the more. Joseph had always worried that she might cut her feet on the sharp rocks, or sting them on the nettles hidden throughout the Galilean countryside.

She sighed and closed her eyes. Oh Joseph, my darling, there is no fear of that here

"He is risen!"

Startled, Mary shielded her eyes from the sun and looked up to see a blonde, blue-eyed man, with a clean-shaven face and strong jaw line.

"He is risen indeed! You must be Luke. John has told me so much about you. Come to check up on me have you?" She smiled, grabbed the bowl of olives that sat beside her and put it on her lap.

Luke chuckled, his dimples showing off his chiselled features. "Actually, I just wanted the chance to meet my Lord's mother - but don't tell John. He thinks I'm here to inquire after your health."

She laughed, her brown eyes sparkling. "You don't fool me—either of you. John sends so many different people to check on my welfare that it's a wonder I can remember all their names."

She patted the bench inviting Luke to sit. Taking some olives from the bowl, Mary proceeded to pit them. Luke watched in fascination at how quickly her slender fingers worked.

"May I help?" He asked.

Raising her eyebrows, Mary stared at Luke for a moment, then nodded and placed the bowl between them. "Jesus used to like pitting olives too. He said he found it calming." She giggled. "Unfortunately, he ate more than he pitted."

Luke chuckled as he popped an olive into his mouth.

"I'll tell you what I told Jesus," she said, shaking her finger at him. "If you eat more than you pit, then you've just had your supper."

"Well then, I'd best stop eating them, as I'm used to eating more than olives at my meals."

"Get to work then and I might feed you more than olives!"

Content in an affable silence, they settled into their work. Luke immediately felt welcome, as if he had known Mary his whole life and he told her so. Mary blushed and thanked him.

"Oh, my goodness!" She suddenly jumped up from the bench and ran into the house.

Luke, perplexed at her sudden disappearance, continued pitting olives. He was about to follow her into the house when she returned with a basin of water to wash the dust off his feet. She knelt on the ground and removed his sandals. Embarrassed that the mother of the Lord was washing his feet, Luke swallowed his discomfort and allowed her to minister to him, remembering the lesson Jesus had taught his disciples the last night they were together.

When she finished, she proceeded to wash her own feet and then put her sandals back on. This led her to tell him about Joseph and his fear of her running barefoot.

"He was such a wonderful man," she said. "He was a man who feared the Almighty, a good man—especially when I found myself with child." She poured the dirty water from the basin onto the ground and then sat beside him. "You cannot begin to imagine what it was like during those days! I was fourteen years old, betrothed to a man much older than I and with child –but not with his child."

She grew still and stared off into the distance. Luke gazed at her in silence, revelling in the fact that he was with the woman who had given birth to the Saviour of the world. He wondered how she had handled that night. Where was she when the labour had begun? Who had delivered the baby? Had there been any complications? Luke had so many questions, he hardly knew where to begin.

Mary's eyelids dropped as she let her mind wander back to the night of Jesus' birth. She had been surprised at the pain. In fact, she had never realized it would hurt so badly. Afterwards, oh afterwards, the reward of her son was so great that she had thought her heart would split wide open with love. The King of the world had been born to her!

"Happy thoughts?"

Mary's eyes flew open. Blushing, she smiled and said, "His birth—it amazes me still."

"If you don't mind my asking, what was it like back then? When you found out you were... um with child?"

"It's been over forty-four years since Jesus' birth." She shrugged. "Aside from my immediate family, I've never really talked to anyone about it before." Mary sighed and pitted more olives as she contemplated how much she should tell the young doctor.

TO READ MORE, you can purchase Come to Me by Laura J. Davis at:

http://tinyurl.com/3hazhff (Kindle format)

http://tinyurl.com/66j2czw (paperback)

Chapter 5: Ashley Dawn, Shadows From the Past

Reprinted from **Shadows From the Past** by Ashley Dawn. Copyright 2011 by Ashley Dawn. Used by permission of Suspense Publishing.

Aurora stood there—frozen in fear. A man had _her_ gun pointed directly at her brother, Lance. Time stood still. "Please, just let us go." Her voice shook slightly. Not enough to convey how truly terrified she was. She was trying not to anger the man, but getting more worried as each moment passed. Aurora was praying with all her heart. He was just a crook, this was a random robbery, but she knew that wasn't the case. The attack was too well planned and executed. The man stood in the shadows...silently watching them. His silence was unnerving—terrifying!

"Who are you?" Lance's voice was tight with worry. The man had been silent the whole time. No demands. No requests. Nothing. Only silence.

Aurora's thoughts ran wild. _Who was this man? Did this have anything to do with her undercover operation? Why involve Lance? He should have made some kind of demands by now shouldn't he?_ She felt frantic. She just had to know the answers to her questions. It could mean the difference between life and death...hers and her brother's.

This man obviously wanted something, and she silently prayed it wasn't their lives. She didn't want either of them to be killed, but if one of them died tonight, she hoped it was her. Aurora didn't think she could bear life without Lance. He was the only family she had left in the world...the only person who completely understood her.

"Please, let him go. He knows nothing." She decided to try the route that would answer some of her questions. Lance, obviously startled by her words looked at her strangely. She couldn't explain to him now, she had to try and save his life.

"You should have thought about your family before you became a cop, Miss Kavvan." The shadowy figure finally spoke, but his voice was only a frozen, harsh whisper. Even at a whisper, the voice sounded oddly familiar to Aurora's ears, yet she just couldn't place it. Her mind was reeling. Whoever this man was, he knew she was a cop! No one around here should know that. She was undercover.

The man had almost knocked her out when he'd hit her on the back of the head, and now the pain was beginning to make her lose focus. She couldn't think clearly. Couldn't concentrate. All Aurora could think, "This is all _my_ fault!"

"What's this about?" Lance's voice sounded almost foreign to Aurora. It was a tone she'd seldom heard. In fact, it was a voice she'd only heard once before in her life...the night their parents were killed. Lance was scared. But Lance doesn't get scared! His work was more dangerous than hers. She was the one who worried if she would ever see her brother alive again whenever he got a page and went on another assignment! He couldn't be scared. He was Lance—her big brother—her protector.

Aurora knew Lance wasn't scared for himself; he was worried about her. He was terrified he couldn't protect her. He had always been able to protect her. She loved him for being so protective, and right now they were both still alive. That is the way it had to stay. She reached over and slid her hand into Lance's. He gave her trembling fingers a gentle, reassuring squeeze.

"Well, you are going to die, and your sister is going to watch. It's that simple." The words were said in such an evil and emotionless voice that Aurora's blood turned to ice in her veins. This man was serious. She was right he had planned this! He was using Lance, _her brother_ , as an example for her. A warning, she thought bitterly _._ He couldn't kill Lance! He'd said this was because she was a cop. It had nothing to do with Lance. Aurora fought through her hysterical thoughts and concentrated on what the man was saying to her.

"Now, say goodbye to your brother, Aurora, and know that he was killed because of you and with your gun. It is the price you pay for choosing to be a cop. Your brother's life...," with that he raised the gun. She heard a shot and watched Lance crumple to the ground at her feet, his hand sliding from hers.

"No, Lance....No!!!"

" _Aurora_ , wake up!" Joe hollered as loud as he dared, trying to get through to her. He had to get her out of this dream! She was drenched with sweat and sobbing uncontrollably. He'd been trying to wake her since she started saying Lance's name. When she screamed her brother's name in sheer terror, a chill ran up his spine. She started thrashing, wanting to kill someone. Her fiery red hair was flying everywhere and it wasn't easy for him to pin her so she wouldn't hurt either of them. She might be petite, but she packed quite a punch. It was difficult to avoid all the kicks and jabs she threw, but somehow he managed.

"It's a dream, Roar. Only a dream. Shhhh." Her emerald eyes flew open, but he could tell she wasn't seeing reality. All she saw were the horrifying images from that night at the lake. She was still in her dream. He knew she was fighting the demons of her dream and not him, but she was a lot stronger than she looked. She was trying to attack him. Luckily he was a lot bigger and had her pinned well.

"Aurora, it's Joe! Come on, honey, wake up. It's only a dream." Finally, he saw the realization in her eyes. She slowly focused her tear-swollen eyes on him... and crumbled in his arms.

"Joe...it's you," her choked whisper almost broke his heart.

Aurora sobbed as she looked up into her partner's kind baby blue eyes. "Oh, Joe, I was at the lake again...Lance. He's dead and it's all my fault..."

"Shhhh...you know better than that Rorie." Joe soothed. Shutting his eyes, he felt the tears prick the back of his eyelids. It tore him apart to see her like this. She was the strongest, most independent woman he knew, and she was falling apart right before his eyes. He had been her partner for a little over six years and this was the first time he had ever seen her break down. Even after Lance's death she hadn't crumbled like this...at least not in front of him. She'd always been strong. She handled everything that was thrown at her on her own. She took it all in stride, never asking anyone for help, even though there were many people that would willingly help her. And he was at the top of that list.

Aurora had been fresh out of the academy when he'd met her. He was her first and only partner. They had been partnered to go on an undercover assignment the first day they met. They'd been the perfect pair for the operation. No one in Los Angeles knew Joe was an officer because he'd just moved from Chicago, and Aurora had just gotten out of the academy. No one would ever suspect the two of them to be undercover. At least, that's what they thought.

The first eight months, they had gotten to know each other really well. It was hard not to when you were completely trusting each other to stay alive. It was easy to get to know and like Aurora then; they shared the same faith and when they discovered that, it made everything easier to talk about. They had talked about everything from their childhood memories, to family, to what their future dreams were. They thought their assignment was going great, and that they would finally be able to bring charges on Charles Deveraux to put him away for life. All they needed was the hard evidence to back up the rumors they knew were true. They were close to finding what they needed when the whole operation had blown up in their faces. He would neither forget the day nor what had happened to his partner on that awful night.

Aurora had gotten a call from her brother, Lance, and gone to meet him at the lake. What neither of them had known was that Aurora and Joe's cover had already been blown, and there was someone waiting at the lake for her and Lance. Lance was murdered in cold blood right in front of his baby sister. He had raised her since their parents had been killed in a car accident when she was twelve and he was a senior in high school. Aurora and Lance had been closer than normal siblings, and Joe knew that Lance's death tore at her heart and made her the person she was today. He had been her only family and her best friend.

That night was when she stopped believing that God was good, just, sovereign, and that He knew what was best for everyone. In her mind, God had taken her brother away from her when she had needed him here on earth. She buried herself in work to get rid of the pain, and Joe had thought she was finding her own way of coping with it. He prayed for her every day. He had hoped everything would work itself out in time. But he now knew the truth; she was hurting worse every day because she was torturing herself with guilt about something she had no control over. The whole time she wore a mask of false bravado to hide the fact she was torturing herself with grief. He should have known. He was with her more than anyone. She felt like family to him, and yet he hadn't realized the pain she was putting herself through.

Now, Joe prayed for her like he had never prayed before. She couldn't handle this on her own, and she knew this even if she wouldn't admit it. She needed to let God help her through her pain and she was pushing Him away as well as everyone else.

Aurora concentrated on breathing deeply and controlling her sobs. Her head was starting to clear now. The dream was over. She was on a stake out with Joe, in an apartment building across from Charles' main drug lab...not at that awful lake. She never wanted to go back to that place again, she thought as a shiver shook her body. It was just the dream, actually nightmare, but it wasn't really happening. It was only her memory of what had happened—such a horrible, vivid memory. She still felt helpless because she couldn't change the past. She was alive, and Lance was dead. That was the fact she couldn't change no matter how much she wanted. It was this fact that she had wanted to change for the past five years. She momentarily shut her eyes only to reopen them immediately. It was Lance's face, pale and lifeless staring up at her.

"Thanks for waking me Joe." She sighed and tried to get up, only to realize Joe was still pinning her. She looked up into his kind face and saw the friend she loved like family staring down at her...worried. "Don't worry. I'm completely awake now. I won't hit you if you let go."

"Promise?" Joe was smiling, but his baby blue eyes still held concern. He was trying to lighten the mood and she appreciated it, but her mind was still at the lake. She was somewhat embarrassed that Joe was seeing her fall apart like this, but knew she could trust him to keep it to himself. Now she needed to stop his questions before he got really worried. He was a great friend...the best friend she could possibly ask for but Aurora didn't know if she could handle that kind of discussion right now. She was too close to breaking down and telling him everything. That was something she just couldn't do.

"You'll just have to take your chances." Aurora forced a smile that she knew looked strained, but it was the best she could do. Joe let go, then grinned when she pushed him and he toppled to the floor. He stood and dusted himself off. "I guess I should be grateful you only pushed and didn't hit me."

Aurora's effort at a smile was half hearted at best. She needed to get some space and regain her composure. Right now, she was still more shaken than she was willing to admit. The dreams were coming more often and were so vivid. It was like reliving that horrible night over and over—like loosing her brother again and again. She remembered everything as if it were yesterday, the clothes, the pain, and the blood. She swallowed convulsively, trying to stop the vision from invading her thoughts. Her head hurt like crazy, but her heart hurt even more. Every time she had the dream, she was paralyzed, telling Lance to run in her mind, but never able to open her mouth. She knew telling him in her dream wouldn't change reality, but she didn't like the feelings and memories the dream always brought back. It was her fault that Lance was dead. Her fault! She felt like hitting something in frustration, but was too exhausted to move. Her brother was dead because of her recklessness.

She couldn't get over that fact. Never would. If only she hadn't let her guard down, her brother would still be alive and she wouldn't be living in torment every day of her life. She had known better. It was her job to prevent horrible things like what happened at the lake that night, not to walk blindly into them!

"Is it because it is near the anniversary of Lance's death that the dreams are back?" Joe's quiet question snapped her back to the present, and for that she was grateful. No matter how many people tried to convince her that it wasn't her fault, no matter how many different ways she looked at the facts in the case, she always came to the same conclusion. It _was_ her fault. When she closed her eyes all she could see was Lance's lifeless body lying on the ground in a pool of blood, and she could still hear the shadow's evil laugh. She hated that laugh! And she still felt the total helplessness and rage she had always felt. She hated feeling helpless. It made her vulnerable. She'd tried to catch Lance as he fell, but couldn't support his weight and had fallen with him. When she looked up, the man was gone and the investigators hadn't been able to find a trace of where he'd gone. He'd left her gun in the shadows where he stood and disappeared into the night.

"Yes." She lied.

In all reality the nightmares had been coming almost every night for a month and getting more intense. Exactly the time she had been on this stake out. Only three days left she thought with relief. She'd been mentally ticking off the days until this was over, hoping her dreams would end with the stakeout. It was getting unbearable and impossible to hide the effects from Joe. No other stakeout had bothered her so much. It didn't make any sense! This was a routine she had done a hundred times before. Why this one? What made it so different from any of the others?

"I think I'm gonna call J.D. and Daniel and have them come a little early to relieve us." Joe motioned towards the phone. He was still worried and she wasn't helping that fact by reliving the past in front of him!

"No, I can handle my job, Joe," Aurora snapped. Annoyed that he was trying to protect her like the big brother she'd lost. Seeing the worry in Joe's eyes reminded her of how often she'd seen the same look in Lance's eyes when he had worried about her. She still missed him terribly. "When I can't handle it, I'll let you know. Okay?" She stormed to the door before realizing she had nowhere to go. She was stuck! She was on the job, and couldn't leave just because she didn't like what her partner had said. Still, she kept her back to him as she fumed.

She knew she was acting childish, but at the moment Aurora didn't care. She stood trying to stop the tears that threatened to fall, shaking with pain and anger.

"Do you want to talk about it, Rorie?" Joe's always-too-kind voice enfolded her, making her feel like a heel.

She hated the fact he could make her feel two inches tall after she'd lost her temper. He wouldn't say a word about her outburst, but the way he immediately forgave her made Aurora feel terrible. It never mattered what she did, Joe would always forgive her. She wanted to be mad! She turned and looked at Joe and knew it was a mistake. She couldn't stay mad at him. His concern for her was too evident in the expression on his face. Still, she could avoid his questions. He couldn't invade her privacy if she didn't let him. And she'd made up her mind, she wouldn't let him!

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to snap at you but these dreams are making me edgy." She sat down on the couch and stared out the window toward the drug lab. _Nothing's going on over there!_ She thought angrily. They'd been watching and listening for weeks and had absolutely nothing! It was as if Charles knew they were here and he was waiting until they left to conduct his business. None of the known men from his organization had shown their faces at the lab. Not even any of his thugs. She had hoped they would get lucky and nab either Charles's son, Chris, or his second in command, Jim. No such luck. She hadn't even thought of catching Charles himself over there. He always managed to keep the appearance of being a clean businessman. They had cameras and listening devices hidden all over the lab and it was as if all illegal activity had been stopped for the past few weeks. It was very suspicious.

She wished they could hurry and catch Charles in the act of making or selling drugs and put him away for good. It had been so long since they had last been this close to catching him. Almost five years. She didn't have to calculate anything. It was the same day her brother had been killed that they had lost their evidence against Charles Deveraux. It had just disappeared into thin air. No one knew where it had gone and there was no possible way they could win a case without it. That fact was not lost to her. She knew in her heart that somehow those two events were connected. She just needed to find the evidence to prove it.

She looked over at Joe and he was staring at her as if he'd like to throttle her. What had she said to upset him now? Her anger was draining and she felt extremely exhausted. She rubbed her eyes trying to clear her mind.

Trying to concentrate on anything but her partner's angry face, Aurora surveyed the apartment where they were staying. The L.A.P.D. had really outdone themselves on this place. The apartment was nicer than any of the others she had stayed in while on stake out. Why hadn't she noticed that before?

Joe finally voiced what was on his mind. "Dreams? You didn't tell me that they were recurring. How long has this been going on?" Oops. Had she really just admitted to having _dreams_? Leave it to Joe to pick up on the one word she'd let slip. She must be more tired than she thought. She mentally kicked herself. _Remember to watch the words you use, your partner is no dunce._

"Not too long." She lied and hoped Joe bought it. But he was a pit bull with a piece of meat when he latched onto a piece of information and wanted answers. He wouldn't give up until he found out what he wanted. He didn't believe her lie, but she had known that he wouldn't. He read her too easily. Sometimes that was a good thing, but right now Aurora wished he didn't know her quite so well. He gave new meaning to the word stubborn.

"And exactly how long would that be? Don't lie to me Roar. I know you better than you're willing to admit anyone knows you." Aurora knew that was true but still didn't want to talk about it. Talking just made her remember that it was her fault that Lance was dead. But then, everything made her remember that. Her headache was getting worse, and it was really close to unbearable. She needed to take something before she became completely useless. Aurora really didn't feel like this discussion and wished Joe would drop the subject. She knew he wouldn't, but maybe she could avoid it for a while.

"Between you and Alex, you two know me better than I know myself." She tried to divert his attention to his beautiful blonde wife...her best friend.

Alex had been Aurora's best friend in high school and college. In fact, Aurora was the one who set Alex and Joe up on their first date. That was one thing she was proud of. She had known from the minute she met her partner that he and Alex were made for each other. In the first two months of their first undercover assignment Aurora had shown him pictures and talked a lot about Alex. Telling him all her good points and making sure he noticed how pretty she was. Not that he could miss that. Even in her worst pictures, Alex could have passed for a model. Even though, to her dismay, she was way too short to be a model in reality.

Aurora fondly remembered the discussions she and Joe had then. Their assignment was to infiltrate Charles' "gang" and get enough information to arrest him for drug dealing. They had posed as accountants, business associates, which had been perfect. They could still live in their own apartments and date anyone they'd wanted because their cover had been complete. Or at least that's what they'd thought! Joe had even allowed Aurora to set him up with Alex six months into the assignment. Aurora had been so pleased with herself because she knew that she'd just set up a couple who would be together for life.

She glanced over at Joe. His jaw was set in that determined line she had grown to know only too well. Apparently Joe wasn't in a mood to talk about anything but her dreams, even though his eyes took on a special shine when he heard Alex's name. Aurora knew that Joe missed Alex and was ready to see her. A month was a long time to be away from home, especially when there was someone waiting for you...someone you were missing and love very much.

Seeing that look in his eyes made Aurora's heart ache. She yearned for someone to get that look in their eyes when her name was spoken. She wanted to be in love and be loved. That was an impossibility! She had a chance at love and it hadn't worked out.

_Just water under the bridge,_ she reminded herself tersely. Besides she was too busy to date anyway. At least that was what she would tell herself and everyone else. There was no way she would admit that maybe she still hadn't gotten over her first and only love. Her mind drifted to a man with dark brown hair, ocean blue eyes...

"The dreams?" Joe insisted. He was awfully stubborn when he set his mind to something. Aurora guessed that was one of those traits you have to over look in the people you love. Even though Joe infuriated her by intruding in her life, she loved him very much. They had a strong bond, formed over many years. They completely trusted each other with their lives, and were extremely close friends. He and Alex were people Aurora considered her family. Even if she didn't totally open up to them. Some things were just too personal, even for family.

Aurora finally gave in with a frustrated sigh after a few minutes of silence and gave Joe a look that said she wasn't happy about this. He really didn't seem to care.

"The dreams began the night we started this stake out." She admitted grudgingly, putting her head in her hands and beginning to massage her temples. If her headache got any worse she was just going to scream and get it over with.

"Why in the world didn't you tell me?" Joe looked really close to being mad, if he wasn't there already. If she wasn't the one he was mad at, Aurora would have thought it amusing to watch his reaction, but as it was, she was inwardly cringing. First his face turned red, then his baby blue eyes grew comically wide and you could practically see sparks flying out of them. The only problem was that the sparks were flying in her direction at the moment. "I knew you looked tired but I thought it was just the stress of being here." Joe stood up and started pacing. "Do you really not trust me, Roar?" He stopped and stared at her, waiting for her to answer.

"I trust you more than I trust anyone." She avoided directly answering the question, and looking into his eyes. She chose to look at a spot on the wall behind him, and Joe noticed. In truth, she trusted him completely, but there were some things she didn't want to worry him with. She wasn't sure how to fix the problem she'd just created. She wanted to tell him she was sorry and just hurting, but her throat closed and the words stuck there.

His eyes narrowed and he studied her in silence for a moment. "You don't trust anyone anymore do you? You're afraid if you trust someone and admit you need their help that you can't hold on to your anger over Lance's death. Or is it that if you trust someone else you might lose them too?" When she just looked away he plunged ahead. "I'm right aren't I? You know it wasn't your fault that Lance died. He was the one who wanted to meet you. He called and set up the meeting at the park. Come on Aurora think! Be reasonable for heaven's sake!"

All thoughts of apologizing flew out of her mind at his words. "Be reasonable? My brother was killed with _my_ gun, Joe! I'm a police officer, it should never have happened."

Joe didn't even flinch at her harsh tone. "How long are you going to torture yourself?" He shot back. "It's been five years, Roar. You stopped going to church. You work yourself ragged on your regular job, and your off time is spent looking for the man that killed your brother." She started to interrupt but he wouldn't let her. "I don't blame you for wanting this guy caught, but you could ask for help instead of relying only on yourself. You take too many chances following leads in Lance's murder case. Take a little time for yourself. I know Lance wanted you to get married and be happy. You don't even date anymore."

"My brother is lying in a grave because of my carelessness and the man who killed him is loose somewhere probably happy and carefree and all you can think about is my social life?" Aurora bit out, but felt terrible saying those things to Joe when she had been thinking along the same lines just minutes before. She went on never the less. "When I figure out who killed Lance, I'll try to get the social life you seem to think I need. Does that work for you, Joe? Because that's all I'm gonna promise. That's all I can promise. It's my fault that Lance is dead! And as for church, I'm not really sure I want to serve a God who took my brother away." She really hadn't meant to be so sarcastic. She knew that she'd just made Joe think that she thought of him as completely insensitive. Which wasn't the case. She just wanted him to leave her alone. Plus she was getting mad. Any intelligent human being knew to leave her alone when she got mad, but then again who had ever called Joe intelligent?

"Rorie, listen to me." He'd used the nickname that he'd given her the first time they met. She liked that nickname and it always made her remember that he was her friend as well as her partner. He knew it and used that to his advantage. He knelt in front of her, putting him at eye level. "I know you feel responsible for Lance's death, but it really wasn't your fault." He waited until she looked him in the eye to continue. "Lance was an FBI agent. He knew that you were a cop and that both your jobs were dangerous."

Aurora knew if she listened to anymore she would break down and start crying again. She stood abruptly, "Just drop the subject. All Right? I'm tired."

"Let me just say one more thing. God still loves you. He wants you to come back to Him. It's the only way you will ever find real peace. Alex and I still love you and only push you to date because we want to see you with the glow in your eyes that we've seen once before." He stopped for a minute squinting at her, unsure of her reaction to what he had just said. Then he went on softly. "We only want you happy. And please, the next time you have a lead on Lance's case, ask for my help, ok?"

"I'll think about it." That was all she could say. She didn't want to bother Joe, he'd done so much for her, and besides he was a busy man. He had a family, church, friends, and a job. She just had the job. It was her life. Joe didn't like the answer and started to say something else, but she cut him off. "I'm gonna see if I can get a little more sleep now."

"Fine, but this conversation isn't over." From the look on his face Aurora knew Joe was extremely serious. She impulsively hugged him, "Don't worry so much about me Joe. I'll be fine, really."

"That's what I'm praying for." His comforting words followed her down the hall. She paused at his words but didn't turn around. Then she determinedly walked to the bedroom and shut the door. She really needed to take a nap.

She was still thinking about what he'd said about the glow in her eyes when she took some medicine for her headache and laid down. She smiled just thinking about the man that had put it there. She really missed him, but wouldn't admit that to anyone else. Besides it didn't matter. He had loved her a long time ago, it seemed like an eternity to her. Too exhausted to think anymore, she dropped off to sleep.

TO READ MORE, you can purchase Shadows From The Past by Ashley Dawn at http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/42323 (ebook)

http://tinyurl.com/3f7rbsk (Kindle)

Chapter 6: Sidney W. Frost, The Vengeance Squad

Reprinted from **The Vengeance Squad** by Sidney W. Frost. Christian Fiction. Copyright 2011. Used by permission of the author.

Sometimes it worried me because I thought I must be wrong, but there were times I could read her mind. I'd heard stories about couples who had been married for years who experienced a level of silent communication, but Sarah and I had known each other for only two years. Perhaps it was the intensity of love for one another rather than the length of time together that made the difference. Quite honestly, the love we shared was stronger than I believed possible. It was as if God brought us together and blessed the joining of two faithful servants of the Lord. I thanked Him daily for that.

That day, for example, as I sat across from Sarah at the coffee shop's outdoor table, I knew for a fact she was thinking about our wedding. I knew that didn't prove I could read her mind. Any bride would be thinking about her wedding if it were coming so soon. But I recognized a deeper expression of happiness than was usually there. Realizing what she was thinking and knowing for sure I was right made me shiver. I took a deep breath and swallowed for fear I would tear up.

I watched as her eyes twinkled, her cheeks puffed out, and her lips quivered ever so slightly. Her lips. I forgot about reading her mind and realized all I could see were her stunning lips. I had to kiss her right then, so I leaned across the table and placed my lips on hers. She didn't stop smiling as she kissed me back and just barely stopped talking. I couldn't believe how lucky I was as I thought about how we'd soon be Sarah and Christopher McCowan.

Sarah was a nurse at Georgetown Hospital, and I was a professor of computer science at Austin Community College in Cedar Park. The outlet mall in Round Rock, Texas, was a convenient meeting place for us. We sat at one of the outdoor tables at the mall enjoying the mild October weather. I'd grown up in California and she on a farm near Bath, England, so we both had to adjust to the Texas weather at times.

She leaned back in her chair and looked at me, eyes still twinkling, as if she had a serious speech to make. "Do you realize we'll be husband and wife in two weeks and one day?"

Her English accent was delicious and more pronounced when she was excited. I loved it. I often tried to analyze what made her speech different from mine. Mostly, she pronounced each letter in a word, automatically adding ending consonants as if they were separate words, while I slurred my words around, often letting the listener fill in the gaps.

I couldn't take my eyes off her. An auburn lock swung playfully on her freckled forehead, distracting me as I tried to look into her green eyes. I wanted to kiss her again. Here she was bubbling over about marrying me, while it was I who was blessed to be with her. I squeezed her hand without saying a word. Surely, she could tell how I felt by looking at me. My face had to be glowing.

She stared at me for a few seconds. "What are you thinking? Are you as happy as I am?"

She didn't wait for my answer. "Andrew called today. He's coming to the wedding, you know. Uncle Roger and Aunt Ruth—they'll be here, too. It'll be super seeing them all again. With everyone flying in from England, we'll surely have to get married now." She smiled, glancing at me for a reaction.

Andrew was her brother. He hadn't joined Sarah and their mother and dad when the family moved to Texas. Andrew worked in London, but they were close and talked to each other on the phone at least once a week.

Paul and Ann Eason, Sarah's parents, were part of an American European farm exchange program. They had visited Central Texas only once when they saw the potential for farming just north of Georgetown, Texas. They jumped at the chance to move to Texas, especially after the government had taken much of their Hemington farm for a new motorway interchange. Having the opportunity to be near their daughter probably influenced their decision as well.

She continued to look into my eyes with the same smile that melted my heart every time I saw it. I knew she wanted to hear me say how happy I was, too. And I was. I straightened my coffee cup so the handle was parallel with the edge of the table in front of me. I don't know why; it's just one of the things I do. I started to straighten hers, too, but was afraid she'd question why once more.

"Yes, I'm happy! Can't you tell by the way I look? I'm happy, happy, happy and, quite honestly, a little proud you are happy, too. I'm the happiest man on earth."

I saw her lips moving, but the roar of an engine covered up whatever she said. Seconds later, a whirlwind of debris spread over the area where we sat. Our coffee cups splattered to the concrete as I tilted the table in my haste to get to my feet.

"What?" I yelled. For a fleeting moment, I thought I might have overreacted and ruined some especially good coffee, not to mention the two ceramic cups now in pieces around our feet.

"It's a helicopter," Sarah said, blocking the sun with a hand as she gazed at the sky. "It nearly hit the top of the building. Something's wrong."

I could tell the nurse in her had taken over, and she was concerned about the safety of those in the helicopter. We were near the center of the mall, and the helicopter had flown over us heading south and slightly east. It was out of sight now, but the sound of its engine still roared. We walked toward the noise without discussing why. Others did, too.

Rat-a-tat-tat. Machine gun fire sounded repeatedly in short bursts. I couldn't see the guns from where we were, but I knew the sound from televised wartime reports. Sarah looked at me with concern, but she kept moving toward where the helicopter had gone down. I thought we should be going the other way, but I stayed by her side, knowing she had a professional need to help. As we made the turn around the building, I saw the helicopter on the ground, not as loud now, its rotors turning slowly. More gunshots sounded. A woman screamed. Off to our right, fifty yards or so from the helicopter, a man in what looked like a security guard uniform was lying facedown on the ground with one arm under his body and the other behind him. The woman who had screamed and others were running toward us, away from the security guard sprawled awkwardly on the ground.

Sarah walked through the retreating figures toward the downed man.

I grabbed her arm and dug my feet in to stop her.

She turned to me, eyes pleading for me to free her arm. "Chris, I have to help."

I didn't want to let go of her, but I knew I had to. As soon as I released her arm, she raced toward the wounded man. Another guard joined her, and they knelt next to the wounded man.

I walked cautiously toward her and the two guards as I scanned the area trying to see what was happening. Then I understood. The back doors of an armored vehicle stood ajar. Two or three men in military uniforms passed bags from an armored vehicle to the helicopter. Several others stood guard with machine guns at the ready. They all had long, black beards that, along with the khaki uniforms they wore, reminded me of the way Fidel Castro looked.

With military precision, the men moved together toward the waiting helicopter, some carrying the booty from the armored vehicle and the others guarding them. The ones with the guns walked backward, looking left and right as they did.

I felt relieved to see they had what they wanted and were leaving. A robbery. That's all. Too bad the security guard was shot, but this bunch of thugs would be off the ground in a matter minutes. They got what they came for.

But before the last one climbed aboard the helicopter, I saw him point his gun toward Sarah. I jerked my head toward her and saw why. The unwounded security guard beside her was aiming his pistol at the helicopter.

"No!" I yelled as loud as I could. "Don't shoot! Let them go! Get down, Sarah!" I ran toward her as fast as I could move.

I heard the gunshot and saw Sarah's body jerk in sync. The guard's pistol leaped into the air as his body bounced and fell on top of Sarah. I kept running toward her. The helicopter's engine was louder as it lifted off the ground.

_Please, God, let her be okay_. I knew the bullets had hit her, but I hoped the guard had taken the brunt of the blasts, saving her from serious harm. I stood over him surveying the situation when the machine gun fired again, this time from a distance, and I felt a hard slap to my right leg and knew immediately what it was. I moved the guard off Sarah and cradled her in my arms.

There was blood everywhere, but she looked at me and smiled.

"Thank God," I said. "I thought..." I couldn't say what I had thought.

Her lips quivered, and I saw blood come out of her mouth. I pulled her closer, unable to look at her pain. When she spoke I could barely hear her.

"At least you're okay." She smiled.

"You'll be okay, too." I looked around for EMS. People were coming out of hiding places. I looked at one group of spectators and yelled, "We need help over here. Get EMS here now."

Sarah whispered again.

I moved my ear to her mouth. "What?"

"I'm not going to make it."

I leaned back to see her. "Don't say that. Just tell me what to do. Do you need a tourniquet? What can I do? Teach me. I can do it."

She pulled me closer so I could hear her weakened voice. "This is God's will. I'll see you again when it's your time. Until then, be happy. Find someone to love you as much as I do."

"No!" I screamed. I looked around. "Help us, please." I relaxed my grip to look into her face once more. She was always beautiful, but I saw something beyond beauty.

She smiled at me even though I knew she must be in extreme pain. "Thank you for loving me," she said.

I was the one who should be thanking her for loving me. I couldn't think about that right now. There was too much blood. I had to help her. "Tell me how to fix this."

She coughed and cleared her throat. "Your love has fulfilled me."

"No, please," I said, "don't talk like that. You're in shock. That's all. We'll get help soon."

"Chris," Sarah said. "You have to let me go. I love..."

She sank into my arms as her life left her body.

"No! Please, God, no."

* * *

I was awake—just barely. Drifting...drifting...in...out. At some point I knew I wasn't dreaming, but I didn't move. Instead, I peeked through my eyelashes to see where I was: _dimly lit room...antiseptic smells...hospital...different...not like the last room I woke up in with all the bright lights and people rushing about in gowns and masks. That's where I saw Sarah's parents standing over me in the midst of it all. Was that a dream? Oh no!_

I sat up in bed, now fully awake. "SARAH!"

A nurse ran into the room.

I pleaded with her. "Where's Sarah? Is she okay?"

The nurse cried and left the room without saying a word. I was stunned. Nurses aren't supposed to cry. I began to get out of bed and found myself in midair falling toward the floor when I saw my right leg was in a cast. Funny thing was I didn't care. Two people appeared from somewhere and helped me back into bed.

One of them straightened the wires and tubes I'd pulled down with me when I fell, and she patted me on the shoulder. "Chris, you've got to stay in bed a while longer."

She looked familiar, but I didn't know her name. I stared at her name tag, but couldn't read it. They must have drugged me. Everything was blurry; however, I could see enough to know the name tag was the same as Sarah's.

I grabbed the woman's arm. "This is Sarah's hospital, isn't it?" It would make sense to send us to the nearest hospital, the one in Georgetown, a short distance on Interstate 35 from where the shooting took place.

This woman had tears in her eyes now, same as the other had. I pleaded her with my eyes, but she was mute.

A man with a stethoscope hanging around his neck moved closer to me, leaning into the bed to look at me eye to eye. "Yes." He said it clearly and without emotion. "This is Sarah's hospital, and that's why it is so hard for us to tell you she didn't make it. We all loved her, and she will be missed. Right now, the whole staff is grieving. Let us take care of you."

I didn't think anyone would be insensitive enough to tell me Sarah had died unless it was the truth, but still, I didn't believe it. Everyone thought she hadn't made it, but she'd probably been taken to another hospital because of her injuries. After all, she'd been shot multiple times. And it was like a battlefield out there. Not everyone who had been injured would be taken to the same hospital. I stared at the man for an eternity trying to look into his eyes. I didn't reply, just nodded—no use confusing everyone with the facts. That's when I felt the needle prick in my arm.

* * *

The next time I woke up I was in the same room, but it wasn't dimly lit this time. A sunbeam warmed my face. There was a window I hadn't notice before, and the curtains were wide open, allowing the bright light to fill the room. I realized I didn't know what day it was. I sat up to see my right leg was in a cast. _Oh yeah_. The events leading up to my injury came back to me rapidly. My concern for Sarah grew to near panic. I looked around for a call button. _Surely there is one here somewhere_.

"Sarah!" I screamed.

The sound of a toilet flushing in the bathroom gave me hope. _She's here. She was using the toilet. She's coming now_. I turned toward the door, and out walked my mother.

"Mom?"

She ran to the bed and held me in her arms. "Chris, you must have had a bad dream. You know Sarah's gone to heaven, don't you?"

I couldn't remember. _Did I know that?_ I wasn't sure.

"Mom?"

"Yes, dear. I'm here."

"Sarah's gone." It wasn't a question. If Mother said it, I had to accept it.

"Yes, dear. I'm so sorry." She held me tighter. I was thirty-one years old and had been on my own for more than ten years, but when she held me this way, I felt I would survive.

"How did you know I was here? I thought you and Dad were in Scotland."

"Sarah's mother had our itinerary. We've been talking about the wedding for months." Her eyes moistened. "I'm so sorry, dear. Such a terrible, terrible loss. I loved that young lady." She hugged me again. The knit sweater she wore felt comforting.

"Where's Dad?" I needed both my parents. Mom always knew just what to do and say in unusual situations, but only Dad understood how I felt deep down.

"He's parking the car. He dropped me off at the lobby because I couldn't wait to see you. Then, since you were asleep, I popped into your bathroom. Sarah's mother said you would recover, but we got here as soon as possible. Are you really okay?" She brushed her blond hair off her forehead in a familiar way.

"I don't know." I showed her my leg. "Every time I wake up they give me a shot to knock me out again. So far, this time I don't feel so groggy."

"Oh, you poor dear. We'll get a doctor in here and find out what's going on. I'm afraid I may be responsible for them sedating you. I said something to Ann about your having to grieve at the same time you're trying to recover from the gunshot wound. She probably said something to the doctor."

Grieving. I have to grieve. I will now grieve. Sarah is...Sarah is...

Mom dabbed eyes I didn't know needed dabbing. "Chris, I'm sorry. Let it out, Son. It's okay."

But I didn't let it out. I took a deep breath and held it all in.

"It's a natural reaction to death."

"But, Mom, you don't understand. I let her die."

She moved away to look into my face. "No you didn't. Ann and the news accounts said you did everything you could to save her. You ran into the gunfire to protect her. You could have been killed." She hugged me again as she patted my back.

Some stray tears tried to get out, but I stopped them. "I shouldn't have let her go where there was danger. When she pleaded with me to let her go because she was a nurse and had to help, I let her. I could've stopped her. I'm strong enough; I could have held her in my arms so that she couldn't go to that wounded man. I caused her death because I didn't stop her." I could hardly breathe.

She rocked me as if I were a child. It passed through my mind how silly it might look if someone walked in, but I didn't care. It was comforting, and I didn't want her to stop.

"You did the right thing. You didn't know what would happen. You did what she wanted."

"I'd rather have her alive and hating me than this."

"I know, dear," Mom said as she let go of me and sat on the edge of my bed, "but we don't get to make those decisions—God does."

I sat up with my arms crossed. "God sure messed up this time."

"Now, dear, don't talk like that."

"Why would God let Sarah die so young? She is...was...the sweetest person I've ever known."

"We will never understand why these things happen. We have to trust God."

"I don't." I always had trusted God, but suddenly, it was clear. _God shouldn't have let this happen. Therefore_... Still, I couldn't say the words I was thinking.

"That's normal. It is part of the grieving process. You'll get past it with time." She patted me as if I were a child who didn't understand the mysteries of life.

I knew better, but the words came out anyway. "I'm going to get revenge, you know." I said it looking squarely into her eyes. I wanted her to know I meant what I said.

She gulped before she responded. I didn't know if she was trying to figure out if I was serious or trying to think of what to say. Either way, there was a long pause in the conversation as I continued to keep my eyes locked on hers, daring her to speak.

After what seemed like minutes, but was more likely seconds, she laughed. That wasn't the response I expected.

"Of course you are, dear. You'll get your revenge by not letting this change the way you live your life. I'm sure Sarah would want you to be happy." She walked over to the door and looked out. "Your father was supposed to be here by now. How long does it take to park a car?"

"Mom, I'm serious. They're going to pay for what they did." I tried to get out of bed, but the pain in my leg flared and kept me down. "I'm going to track them down and make them wish they'd never messed with Sarah." My voice was louder and steadier than it had been since I woke up. It felt good.

Dad walked in wearing the same slacks and polo shirt I'd seen him in back home in California. He looked me over as if to see if I was okay, then gave me a quick hug. I knew he was glad to see me, but I saw the pain in his eyes.

"I'm sorry, Son."

Mom grabbed Dad's arm. "Jason, dear, Chris must have been hit in the head. He's talking crazy." She was talking to Dad as if I weren't there. That reminded me of California, too.

"What do you mean?" Dad looked me over again while gripping my arm before he turned to Mom.

"He wants to go after the killers." She was wringing her hands.

"So? I'll help him." He looked at me with a slight smile that could mean he agreed with me or didn't believe me.

Mom put her hands on her hips. "Help him? Oh, you're both crazy." She turned to me, pleading, "Let the police take care of it. That's their job."

I almost laughed out loud because of the way she said it slowly and loudly as if I had a hearing problem, but I didn't. "I bet the cops won't tell me anything about the investigation because I'm not family. I'm just the fiancé." If this had happened two weeks later, I'd have legal standing.

Dad sat on the bed beside me. "There's not much the police can do anyway. This is a big story now, but it'll be forgotten in a week or so."

Mom turned her back to us and walked toward the door before she twirled around and pointed a finger at Dad. "Maybe so, but Chris doesn't know how to catch a killer."

"What about that, Son? You're a computer science professor same as me. What do we know about law enforcement?" He asked the question as if he hoped I had an answer.

I hadn't worked out the _how_ part yet; the _what_ part had just come to me while I was talking to Mom. I knew what I had to do. It was impossible for me to live my life until I found the goons who killed Sarah. Even then, it may not be possible.

I looked at Dad and tried to tell him what I thought he wanted to hear. "I don't know how to do it, but I'm a researcher. You know what it takes to get a PhD. If I can do that, I can learn what I need to know. I'll use the computer to find them. It may take years, but I have to do this."

Dad winked at me before turning to Mom. "See, dear, there's nothing to worry about. He sounds rational to me. Chris isn't doing anything dangerous. He's just planning. Nothing to worry about."

"Are you sure?" She looked at me and pleaded.

"Yes, ma'am," I said to her. Dad understood I was serious about my desire to find and wipe out the killers. I think he just wanted to ease Mom's fears. That's why I went along with him.

She smiled. "You know, dear, Jesus tells us to love our enemies."

"Yes, ma'am, I know." I was going to find and kill my enemies. Only thing was I'd have to be careful whom I told.

"That's a sweet boy." She turned toward the door. "I'm going to track down the doctor and find out how you're doing."

"Good idea, dear. I'll visit with Chris some. There's something he needs to know."

She stared at Dad in a way I hadn't seen. "Now, don't you go putting ideas into his head. You think you know more about law enforcement than you do. Chris doesn't need any encouragement from you."

Dad stayed calm even though I could tell Mom was threatening him. "It'll be okay." He turned his back to her and winked again, the way he always did.

"Jason, please don't tell him what I think you're going to." She paused before making a sound of frustration. "If you do, I don't want to know about it." She walked out of the room.

Dad sat on the bed next to me, grinning. "That's what I do, too."

"What?" Maybe it was the medication, but I was having trouble following the conversation. I have a photographic memory, or what most folks think of as one. I have an excellent memory for anything. I can look at a page in a book, a list of numbers, whatever, and know exactly what I saw days later. I liked being able to do that and hoped the medicine hadn't changed that.

I also have this thing about neatness. Not the kind of neatness most people think about. I mean symmetry and parallelism. I feel better in an environment where everything makes sense. Why have some objects turned one way and others turned another? I wouldn't mind if the medication changed some of that, but it hadn't. I had a terrific urge to get out of bed and line up all the medical devices in the room. Even the tissue box on my crooked table was askew.

"Tell her what she wants to hear." He laughed. "You've got that 'Yes, ma'am' down pat."

I smiled without responding while reaching toward the tissue box.

Dad lined up the edge of the tissue box with the edge of the table. "You're going after those killers, aren't you, Son?"

"Maybe." After Mom's reaction, I didn't know if I could talk about this with him.

"I thought so. Okay, there's something I need to tell you."

"Is this thing you're going to tell me why Mom's so angry?" Dad and I had been close for as long as I could remember. I couldn't think of anything I didn't know about him.

"Yes, so don't mention this to her. She doesn't like me to talk about it. Okay?" Dad's voice was almost a whisper, and he looked around the room as if checking to see that we were alone.

"I won't say anything." I sat up on one elbow to hear him better.

"Around the time you left home, I took a second job doing research work for the federal government. It's secret work." He looked around the room again.

"Mom knows, right? Is this what she didn't want you to tell me?"

"Sure. Otherwise, how would I explain the income? She doesn't know exactly what I do, and she doesn't want to know."

I looked at him in a new way. "What do you do, exactly?"

He ruffled my hair in a way that took me back to grade school. "Nothing you couldn't do. I help the government track down criminals—white-collar crime mostly. It's desk work."

I smoothed my hair back into place. "Really? What else?"

"I'm a hacker, too."

"You? A hacker?" He had all the same training I did, but to think he'd break into a computer went against everything I'd ever believed about him. It was a little scary but, at the same time, made me proud. To find Sarah's killers I would do more than just break into someone's computer.

"You know, a white-hat hacker." Dad rubbed his hands together the way I do just before I reach for a keyboard. "Criminals have computers, too. What I do is look at their computers from time to time. If I find anything interesting, I pass the information on. I don't disturb their computer. They never know I was there."

My arm ached from sitting up so long. I lay back on the pillow to rest. "Why didn't you tell me before now?"

"Why? It's no big deal. It's not the type of thing to talk about in an email or a telephone call."

"I was home last Christmas." _With Sarah...our last Christmas together...the last time my parents saw her_ , I thought, trying to focus on what Dad was saying.

"I know, Son, but it wasn't the time to talk about my work. Everyone was having fun, and we were getting to know Sarah." His smile suddenly disappeared. "If you remember, you and Sarah were busy doing things together. You wanted to show her where you grew up, introduce her to your friends, and all that."

I must have looked distant to him.

"I'm sorry," he said, "I shouldn't have reminded you of that."

"That's okay. I'm glad you met her before...you know." Every time Sarah came into my thoughts she took over and made it difficult to think about anything else.

Dad nodded, his eyes moist.

"The secret work doesn't interfere with teaching at Long Beach?" I asked.

"No one there knows about my research work, and I never let one job interfere with the other."

"And your trip to Scotland? Was that for the university or the feds?"

Dad laughed. "Neither. That was for fun."

"Thanks for telling me about your so-called research. But why now?"

"So I can help you catch those killers." He looked at me the same way he did one Christmas morning long ago when I saw the bicycle with all the latest gadgets on it. I wanted a dirt bike, not the fancy one, but he was so excited about the more expensive one he'd picked out that I never told him. This time he had a gift I could use.

"What? Are you serious?" I sat up as straight as my bum leg would allow.

His pleasure was evident in his eyes as he stood next to the bed. "Of course I'm serious."

"Great." I had no idea how to get started, but with Dad's help, it might be possible.

"I can't promise you we'll find them. It's not my area of expertise, but I know people. I'll get the information you need if it's available. That's all I can promise."

"That's more than I had ten minutes ago." My body relaxed some. Sarah was gone. All I could do now was settle the score.

"Are you still teaching in that little junior college, Son?"

"Austin Community College—we don't say 'junior' college anymore. Yes, and I'm proud of it. We're not so small, either." We had this conversation every time I saw him.

"When are you going to get a real teaching position?"

"I've got a great job."

"With your credentials and a few high-ranking recommendations, you could get a position anywhere in the country." He looked serious. "Maybe this is the time to move...you know, get away from the memories here."

I loved my memories. I realized at that moment that memories were all I had—all I would ever have.

"I do okay here. I'm making a difference here. They let me plan the curriculum, select textbooks, and counsel students. I'm writing a textbook based on my classroom experiences."

Dad hugged me before he walked toward the door. "You could do better. Well, I better go find out what happened to your mother."

What a surprise to learn Dad could help me find the killers. Now all I had to do was to learn how to shoot a gun.

Before Mother and Dad went home to California, Mother must have had a stern word or two with my doctor because she stopped by at least twice a day to give me progress reports. I learned the bullet had messed up some muscle and cracked a bone. The doctor told me I'd need to use crutches for a while and that I may limp after that. I didn't care. I would trade both legs for Sarah's life. I would die for her. I should've died for her. There was also a nasty-looking scar on the side of my right leg slightly above the knee. Even after leaving the hospital, she'd said, I'd have to continue the physical therapy they'd started once the cast came off.

I was sitting in one of the visitor chairs looking at, but not reading, a textbook. I was going home, that is if the doctor was pleased with her latest look at me. That's why I was nervous as she came into the room.

"I guess you're getting sick of us poking and prodding you," she said.

"I'm ready to go home," I said in reply.

She looked at the chart book she'd carried in with her and didn't say a word for the longest time. I hoped she wouldn't find a need to keep me there longer. I longed for my apartment, even if it would be a lonely place. All I could think of was my time with Sarah and how we had planned our wedding. Now it would never be. I wasn't a widower; I was someone who had been engaged to the most wonderful woman in the world. Her parents had talked to me about the funeral, but I could tell they had already made all the decisions without me. It was to be on the same day we had planned to get married. And, in a way, it made sense to do so, as Sarah's family members from England had made arrangements to be here at that time, but oh how much it hurt to think of burying her instead of marrying her. Same church. Same guests. _How cruel could God be?_

"Okay," the doctor said as she signed a form and tucked the chart under her arm, "I'll take care of the paperwork, and you can leave as soon as it is done."

I stood. "Thank you." I was excited inside, but I know it didn't show. I'd been that way lately, that is not wanting to show any feelings to another person.

She took my hand as if to shake it, but instead, she pulled me into a hug. An unknown mixture of smells arose from her body as I got closer—medical stuff, I guessed. Dr. Joyce Johnson was probably my mother's age, and she reminded me more of a mother than a doctor. While she certainly couldn't be considered obese, she didn't quite have the body you would expect for someone trained to take care of the human body.

"Listen," she said as she backed away while still holding onto my hand.

I waited while she brushed away a tear.

"You know, all of us here at the hospital know how you feel. We loved Sarah, too. We're all grieving with you." She patted my hand and then turned to leave before suddenly twisting around to face me again. "I guess what I'm trying to say is that if you need someone to talk to...someone who understands...then we're here. Come in or call anytime."

"Thank you. I will." I knew, even then, I would never see her again. I didn't want a constant reminder of Sarah's death. _And how could anyone know how I feel?_ No one would ever understand how deeply I loved her.

Dr. Johnson pulled out a card and wrote on it before thrusting it toward me. "Here, this is my home phone number. Call me anytime." With that, she was gone.

As I stood there staring at the door, in walked Father Jesse Williams. He'd been to see me almost daily during the past week, and I had never told him how I felt about his God. Here he was again, probably wanting to pray with me, and I didn't know if God existed. If there was a god who'd let Sarah die the way she did, I wasn't sure I wanted to worship that god.

"Hello, Chris," he said. "I hear you're going home today. How do you feel about that?"

_What a stupid question_. "Fine," I said.

He walked on in as I tried to think of a way to not talk to him that day. I couldn't keep acting as if nothing had changed. Everything was different now, but people kept doing the same old things they did before Sarah was shot and killed.

"Yes," I said, "I'm going home today. In fact, I was just getting ready to pack for the trip home. My friend Tony will be here soon to give me a lift home."

Father Jesse had his well-worn Bible in his hand and was about to open it.

"So I don't think I better take time to talk today. You understand?" I asked.

"Yes, of course," he said. "How about a short prayer to get you safely home then?"

"I already did that," I said. "I went to the chapel earlier today with the hospital chaplain, and we prayed there." I had never lied to a priest before, and it felt weird. I couldn't look him in the face, instead busying myself with pulling clothes out of a drawer.

"Okay then," he said, "I guess I'll see you at the funeral service." He hugged me before leaving.

I felt so guilty for lying to Father Jesse I decided right then I should at least find the hospital chapel and see what it looked like.

I found the Brightwell Chapel on my own by reading signs. For some reason, I didn't want anyone to know I didn't know where it was. It was still difficult getting around on the crutches, so as soon as I entered the dimly lit room, I sat in the first chair I came to. It was a peaceful place, and I'm sure it brought comfort for those seeking such. That wasn't why I was there.

I straightened the books sitting near me and asked myself why I came to the chapel, not the fake reason. I had loved God all my life and attended church almost every Sunday for as long as I could remember. I met Sarah at the church, and we talked about how God had brought us together. "How else," she asked once, "could such a perfect union be orchestrated?" I loved her for saying that, and now I wished she hadn't.

Maybe she was right. Even as she lay dying in my arms at the shopping mall, she knew something that I didn't. There wasn't sadness in her eyes. She knew she was going to see her Lord.

_Was there something I was missing? My life is in shambles because of a bunch of low-life bastards with no regard for human life. Am I supposed to let them get away with that? Turn the other cheek?_ "Vengeance is mine," saith the Lord. _What does that mean?_

I looked at the cross on the wall and stared at it for a few minutes, hoping I might hear something in response to my question.

Nothing.

I knew what it meant. It meant I wasn't supposed to take the law into my own hands to extract justice. It didn't mean God would settle the score for Sarah's death; he'd just try to save their souls.

No way I was going to let them get away without punishment.

I used to go to a place like this chapel and pray. It was quiet, with a soothing ambience. But I couldn't bring myself to believe that prayer would work. I looked around the room and saw an Episcopal prayer book. Perhaps that would help. I had parts of the book memorized from years of worship in an Episcopal church and my strange memory capabilities.

I leafed through the book looking for something to help me accept what had happened. The only thing that came to me was the prayer said after communion:

Almighty and everlasting God, we most heartily thank thee for that thou dost feed us, in these holy mysteries, with the spiritual food of the most precious Body and Blood of thy Son our Savior Jesus Christ; and dost assure us thereby of thy favor and goodness towards us; and that we are very members incorporate in the mystical body of thy Son, the blessed company of all faithful people; and are also heirs through hope, of thy everlasting kingdom. And we humbly beseech thee, O heavenly Father, so to assist us with thy grace, that we may continue in that holy fellowship, and do all such good works as thou hast prepared for us to walk in; through Jesus Christ our Lord, to whom, with thee and the Holy Ghost, be all honor and glory, world without end. Amen.

How many times over the years had I said this prayer? I stared at the words, waiting for them to make sense. Now it sounded like black magic or brainwashing material. It didn't mean anything. I was alone in the world now because there wasn't a God after all.

I stood and held the prayer book up toward the cross. "SARAAAAAAH! I PROMISE I WILL AVENGE YOUR DEATH."

A candy striper looked into the chapel. "Are you okay, sir?"

I threw the prayer book against the wall as hard as I could, knocking the cross to the floor and eliminating the serenity and silence of the chapel in a matter of seconds. When I turned around, the candy striper was nowhere to be seen. I went back to my room and checked out of the hospital.

TO READ MORE, you can purchase **The Vengeance Squad** by Sidney W. Frost at:

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Chapter 7: April W. Gardner, Wounded Spirits

Reprinted from **Wounded Spirits** , historical romance by April Gardner, by Vinspire Inspirations, A Division of Vinspire Publishing, Ladson, South Carolina, used by permission of author.

Copyright 2010 April Gardner

Cover illustration copyright 2010 April Gardner

Cover formatting by BG Designs

Printed and bound in the United States of America. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by an information storage and retrieval system-except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be printed in a magazine, newspaper, or on the Web-without permission in writing from the publisher. For information, please contact Vinspire Publishing, LLC, P.O. Box 1165, Ladson, SC 29456-1165.

All characters in this work are purely fictional and have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.

PUBLISHED BY VINSPIRE INSPIRATIONS, A DIVISION OF VINSPIRE PUBLISHING, LLC

* * * *

Today, Southeastern United States is a known for cotton, peanuts, country music, and NASCAR. Wind the clock back two hundred years, and you'll find massive long leaf pine forests teeming with wildlife. Among them, along the creeks and rivers, lives a thriving, independent nation.

The Muscogee, named "Creek" by the French and English, once owned the land we now call Alabama and Georgia. The Creek were many tribes joined by a confederacy consisting of a complex yet efficient government.

Because they adopted many of the colonists' customs, they were considered "civilized." They traded for tools, plows, kettles, woolen and cotton goods, and weapons. This noble and proud people grew in strength and power, yet lived peaceably alongside those settlers with whom they generously shared their land.

But it was not to last. Greed turned to theft. Generosity to hate. Tension rose and patience dwindled.

Before long, the once friendly neighbors no longer trusted one another, and the inevitable was set into motion.

War.

* * *

McGirth Plantation, Tensaw Settlement

June 1813

Adela shifted her body to allow blood flow to her legs. The mossy ground had long grown hard against her tailbone, and the rough tree trunk dug into her back.

A refreshing breeze blew through the pines lining the northwestern border of her father's land. It rustled the needles and created a comforting, familiar whistle.

A small meadow lay vacant before her. On the opposite side, the evening sun cast its last rays through the treetops. Squinting, she thought for an instant she saw the form of a man. No, it was just a bush moving with the current of the wind.

Surely, she had been waiting nigh on two hours. Her family would be worrying. Just north, civil war raged among the Creeks and threatened to involve the vulnerable Americans in the Tensaw and Bigby settlements. Her parents' constant fear of danger was well placed.

Soon Mama would call Adela's father in from the barn and send one of the servants looking for her. Worry was never good for Mama.

Mama's attacks were rare these days, but Adela never knew what might set her to wheezing and coughing.

Adela's stomach twittered and flipped. She stood then rubbed her lower back. "Please, hurry, Phillip. Please," she murmured, not sure she could stay much longer.

Unheeding, the sun's beams continued down the length of the trees then dissolved, leaving only their orange and purple reflection in the sky.

Not wanting to create undue stress on her parents, she gave up waiting and set out toward home. She lifted her skirt to avoid the prickly blackberry bushes and berated herself for not having thought to bring a lantern. _How foolish of me!_

"Adela...Adela..." Her name rode on the breeze.

Her heart seized and then leapt as she recognized the voice. Haste sped her back through the underbrush.

"Phillip! I waited so long."

He enveloped her in his work-hardened arms. Phillip was becoming more intimate with her. She wondered if it was too soon.

"I knew you'd wait." Resting his hands on her shoulders, he stepped back so he could see her. "I couldn't get away any sooner. Dixon had a list as long as my arm of things for me to do before I leave tomorrow. He hovered like a hawk to see I got them done."

She pulled his hands from her shoulders and held them between her own instead. "You're here now, and that's all that matters."

"How will I ever last three months without you?"

"What kind of nonsense is that? You'll do just fine. The adventure of your life is just around the corner. I hardly think you'll be pining for boring, old Tensaw. You just see that Savannah society treats you well while you're busy getting your commission, Second Lieutenant Phillip Bailey."

A stray lock of ash blond hair fell over his eye, and Adela brushed it away. He caught her hand and pulled it to his lips, his coffee brown eyes sparkling in the waning daylight. The warmth of his lips on her fingertips sent tingles of excitement rushing through her but not without a warning.

_I shouldn't be encouraging him this way. Not while I'm still so unsure_. She dropped her eyes, but he mistook her guilt for something else.

"That's what I love about you, Adela. You're all innocence and piety."

He cradled the back of her neck with his hand, and her insides fluttered in a dangerous way. She knew she should move away, but she felt drawn to him, like a mouse to a trap.

Adela cleared her throat, "You speak of love when we've only been courting a month. And, I might add, quite unofficially." His deep affection seemed premature.

"Maybe, but I've known I'd marry you from the day we met."

She'd known him since she was just a girl. A grown woman now, had she not noticed he cared? She opened her mouth to ask, but he placed a finger on her lips.

"Are you sure you won't come with me? It's not too late. We can marry tomorrow, first thing and—"

"Marry? Tomorrow? You know I can't. You haven't spoken to my father about courting me, much less marriage. And there's Ellie...did you forget? You know how she adores you."

Phillip gave her a placating smile. "She might hurt for a while, but she'll see reason. She's not foolish, simply a bit of a romantic...albeit misplaced."

Adela chuckled. "Elizabeth, romantic? Determined more likely. She decided years ago to love you, and it would take a direct message from God to persuade her otherwise." She propped her hands on her hips, noticing the first chirps of the crickets. "Did you know she just rejected an offer of marriage from Mr. Pierce?"

"The school teacher and Ellie? Married?"

"Well, _he_ would have liked as much."

Phillip tipped his square chin and laughed outright.

The sound brought a smile to Adela's face, but she chided him nonetheless. "Come now, it was a perfectly decent offer."

Phillip wiped his eyes. "But the man is twice her age and desperate to be married. Have you seen his cabin? Chaos!"

Adela dismissed his objections with a wave of her hand. "All that aside, I am not prepared to be at odds with my sister. So she must _not_ find out about us...for the time being, anyway. We'll address the issue when you return."

"She has to find out eventually. Why not now?" Phillip crossed his arms and gave her the back of his shoulder.

He'd never been one for patience, and at the moment, he reminded Adela of a spoiled child denied a piece of pie. She chuckled.

"What are you laughing about?"

"Just now, you reminded me of Mrs. Haverty's youngest."

His eyes darkened as he took a step closer. His stiff form towered above her. "You're comparing me to that little monster?"

Adela sobered at the intensity of his gaze. "It was a silly thought. Please forgive me."

He studied her in silence.

Warning bells clanged in her mind. Just as another apology formed on her tongue, he let out a puff of air and relaxed his stance. "I just want to take care of you, Adela. I want to build a home for you and provide for you, give you beautiful things and walk with you through town on my arm. Let me talk to your father tonight."

He could be quite persuasive. Still, she refused to allow him to push her into something for which she wasn't fully prepared.

She gave a tentative shake of the head. True to form, her hesitance produced a huff of frustration. "If not now, then when? When will that dear sister of yours _ever_ take the news well?"

"Why would I tell her something I'm uncertain of myself?"

He scowled then spoke as if she hadn't mentioned her ambiguity. "You need to know the moment my feet touch Tensaw soil in August, I plan on asking your father for permission to court you properly." He grasped her chin in his hand and pressed a hard kiss to her lips. "So you'd best prepare her."

She took a step back and smoothed out her skirt. "Aren't you the bold one tonight, Mr. Bailey?"

He merely grinned and removed the bear claw pendant that always hung around his neck. "Wear this to remember me by." He held it out.

"Phillip, it was your grandfather's! I can't. It's too important to you."

"Of course you can. You're to be my wife. It means what's mine is yours. I love you, Adela McGirth, and there's no one else I'd give it to." His voice rang with longing as he ran his eyes over the length of her, pausing in all the wrong places.

She resisted the urge to cross her arms over her chest. At least the dark of the night covered the blush on her cheeks. Never had a man appreciated her body the way Phillip did, and never had one assumed so much. "You're being a bit presumptuous. Aren't you?"

"Not at all. I'm a man who knows what he wants and doesn't stop until he gets it." Playfulness tinkled his tone, but Adela heard the truth behind his words. "Take the pendant. If it helps, see it as a gift from a friend. Not as a token of betrothal."

Seen in such a way, what could it hurt?

She slipped it about her neck then gasped as he pulled her into a fierce kiss. His moist lips moved confidently against hers. Warm hands stroked her back and almost melted her resolve to remain chaste.

"I love you," he murmured against her mouth.

She knew he wanted a similar reply, but she couldn't give it. The words caught in her throat, as if uncertainty held them from escaping.

She split apart from his searching mouth and sought retreat. "Please, be careful in Savannah," she managed. "I have to go." She dropped her arms and ran for home, the claw thumping against her chest.

* * *

Adela climbed the ladder to the loft, careful not to wake her sisters. She hung her dress on a peg and slipped into her nightgown. Phillip's bear claw thudded against her. She clutched it through her gown as panic seized her. Had she hid it from Mama? So intent on getting home, she hadn't thought of it until now.

Her shoulders dropped in relief when she realized Mama would have questioned her about it if she'd seen.

The wooden timbers of the bed squeaked as Adela climbed in next to Lillian. They had always shared a bed. Even when given the option of each having their own in their more spacious, newly built house, they had both refused, preferring the warmth and closeness the other afforded.

Although the two were completely opposite one another in every way, they held a special bond. Maybe it was Adela's quiet dependence on God which supported the more flighty Lillian, or maybe it was Lillian's carefree spirit which drew Adela to her sister's side. Perhaps, it was the need for an ally against Ellie's domineering onslaughts.

Regardless, with just a year separating them, she and Lillian understood each other and thrived on their friendship.

Lillian turned over to face her. "Where have you been?" she whispered, her anger barely concealed. "I've been worried sick. We all have."

"Shh! You'll wake Ellie." Adela glanced at Elizabeth but their older sister's breathing remained deep and even.

"Well?" Lillian demanded.

"In the woods."

"In the woods? That's all you're going to say? I hope Mama believed you more than I do."

The fearful look on Mama's face and the way she'd clung to Adela when she'd walked through the door flashed across her mind. She tasted guilt and couldn't swallow. "Me, too. But I didn't lie, if that's what you're getting at."

Lillian practically snorted. "That would be something _I_ would do. No, silence would be more your style." She thumped Adela on the shoulder. "Am I not getting any more details, like where you got that—that—whatever it is hanging around your neck?"

Adela grasped the pendant. "You saw it?"

"Of course. When you got undressed. If you don't want anyone else to find out about it, you should be more careful. So out with it. What have you got there?"

"It's nothing. I shouldn't have accepted it."

"Nothing? I saw the way you were holding it," she rasped.

"Shh! That's not what I—" Would Lillian understand? "Oh, never mind."

"Well, give me all the details. Who is he?"

"How did you know it was from a man?"

"Adela, Adela, ever so naive and oblivious. You and I don't think the same at all. So tell me already."

"If I tell you, you _have_ to promise to keep it to yourself! At least for a while. Promise?"

"Fine, I promise...just tell me."

Adela took a deep breath and said his name on less than a whisper.

"What? No! It's—it's not as if he has no reason to love you, but _you_? Lover of all things peaceable and non-confrontational, I never imagined you to be so audacious as to set your bonnet for Ellie's man!"

"Shh! See why it's a secret? No one would understand. Besides, he's not Ellie's man. And I'm not even sure I feel anything for him."

"You've got to be half mad. You do realize Elizabeth will practically disown you?"

Adela inhaled sharply. "Do you think so?" The tears she fought overpowered her and spilled out the sides of her eyes and into her hair. .

"Come on. Don't cry. I exaggerated. It won't be so bad. She'll forgive you...eventually. She's never really had a claim to him and will see it in time. But you _have_ to tell her. You can't keep it from her forever, and if she finds out from someone else, it'll be worse."

"Lilly, I've tried a dozen times to tell her, but I just can't."

Adela moaned and Lillian put a comforting hand on her shoulder.

"It'll humiliate her, if it doesn't kill her first," Adela said. "I should have put an end to it before he left, especially since I'm not sure I even love him. But he's so..."

"Handsome? Daring? Everything a woman could want in a man?"

Adela sighed and fiddled with the claw strung about her neck. "Yes, he's all that, but there's something missing...or maybe it's what he has too much of. A bit too brash, maybe? Too self-confident? He angers easily, and I don't see much of the Lord in his life."

"Is _that_ what's bothering you? Do yourself a favor and stop focusing on his faults. We all have them." She propped herself up on an elbow, then paused. After a moment of silence, soft snoring from the other side of the room confirmed Ellie still slept.

Moonlight from the small window washed Lillian's face in its glow. Their Mama's full Spanish blood showed itself most in Lillian. Even in the dim light, Adela noted her sister's small nose and delicate jaw. Everything about her features was petite, except for her eyes.

Doe eyes, Papa called them.

"It's simple," Lillian said. "You tell Ellie. She's hurt. When Phillip proposes, you accept, and in time, Ellie recovers."

Lillian tugged the pendant from Adela's grasp. "This was his grandfather's. I take it Phillip loves you."

"He claims he does."

"And you saw him tonight to tell him goodbye?"

Adela bobbed her head.

"Your secret is safe with me, but my advice is sooner is always better than later."

"I know. I know. I'm such a coward."

"Hardly." Lillian patted her hand.

It felt awkward to be the one consoled. The tables were usually turned.

"I didn't plan for it to happen and now...I'm risking Ellie disowning me for a man."

"That's the most ridiculous thing I've heard yet. Ellie isn't _that_ scary. Now why don't you get some sleep, and we'll talk about how to handle it tomorrow. I assume there will be a wedding when he returns. You can't prepare for a home of your own and still keep it a secret. We'll think of something."

"Thanks, Lilly. Love you," she said with a peck to her sister's cheek.

Lillian flipped over. Much later, her mind exhausted, she relaxed and followed her sister in sleep.

* * *

Kossati Village, Upper Creek Nation

The door to the summer house creaked on its leather hinges. Totka stepped inside careful not to wake the children. He left the door ajar allowing the moonlight to guide his steps. Its soft glow illuminated his sister's little ones piled like counting sticks on the bearskin mat. Four sets of arms and legs sprawled in every direction.

His youngest nephew stirred, flipped to his back, and wiped drool from his pudgy cheek.

Noiselessly, he removed his bow and quiver and propped them beside his own pallet. His blade he kept sheathed and strapped to his waist.

From her couch on the opposite wall of the cabin, his sister, Singing Grass, propped herself on her elbow. "You are home early." Her whisper was a shout in the stillness.

Running the gauntlet of little appendages, Totka stole across the room and lowered himself to sit beside her.

"Where is Nokose? Did he send you home to check on me?"

Totka rubbed his aching leg and decided to let her believe the lie. "You know your husband well."

She laid a warm hand on his knee. "I also know my brother and the pain he suffers."

Totka shifted and her hand dropped. "I did not mean to wake you. How are you feeling?"

"Hungry—all the time." Her voice gentled. "I am sorry you needed to come home early."

"It is no matter. There was little to hunt." He tried to keep the frustration from his voice. It was worrying enough to be forced to hunt during the summer months.

"Nothing? You caught nothing?"

"Three rabbits and a squirrel, as if I were just a boy. No one else had done any better when I left. I doubt one more day would have mattered much." He glanced at the floor. "I would rather be home with the children than listening to the men's talk of war, death, and starv—" he cut his words short.

"You do not have to hide things from me, Brother. I am pregnant--not blind and deaf. I know what happens around me."

"We will be fine."

"My husband is joining the Red Sticks. I hardly think it is fine."

Just before leaving with the hunting party one week earlier, Nokose had revealed to Singing Grass his intention to join the warring party.

She had not been pleased, and she still didn't know Totka planned to join as well.

Civil War had raged in the Creek Nation since the 1811 Grand Council. For over a year, Totka had publically remained neutral, along with Chief Red Eagle.

Now, he found himself forced to choose sides.

A _taskigyalgi_ , a warrior without rank, Totka did not face the same decisions as Nokose. Still, he aligned himself with his sister's household and would suffer whatever fate befell her.

According to the Red Sticks, if the Long Knives were not stopped, the Muscogee would eventually be lead to starvation or worse...slavery.

With the purpose of protecting their nation and keeping its traditions pure, the Red Sticks were executing those displaying American sympathies.

Most in Kossati knew Singing Grass' household was partial to the Americans. Nokose spoke their language, understood their ways, and welcomed their inventions. Against Red Stick policies, Singing Grass traded for cotton, and Totka advocated fencing their communal garden.

Yes, the settlers' cattle encroached on Creek land, and no, the white farmers did not ask permission to run their iron plows through Creek soil. All of that aside, Totka found it difficult to justify fighting them.

Totka agreed with Singing Grass. The whites were powerful and well studied in war, and the Red Sticks would eventually be slaughtered.

But unless they pledged their allegiance to the Red Stick cause and soon, they would all find themselves taken unawares by a band of warriors.

Singing Grass shook her head in despair. "The Red Sticks will kill themselves in vain. Must Nokose?"

"Yes, we must."

"We? What is this? Will you fight as well?" The unbelief in her voice stabbed him to the core. He swallowed his anger. Only his sister could say such a thing and not incur his resentment.

Silence surrounded them as Totka bit back offense to keep his voice low and even. "I am a warrior without rank, a man of twenty-two winters dependent on his sister. Would you deny me the chance to rise in the nation?"

"Of course not. But you can barely..." Her voice trailed off on an irritated huff.

Wishing to ease the tension, Totka poked her in the arm. "Fear not, Sister. The prophets say we will not be harmed. They say the White man's bullets will bounce off our chests like pebbles."

"The prophets are insane! Surely you have not succumbed to their--" She quieted when she heard his soft chuckle. "You tease."

A month after the Grand Council, the sighting of a star with a fiery tail traveling across the sky had frenzied the Creeks. It was the "sign." It was the "arm of fire" Tecumseh had claimed would prove his prophecies were from the Great Spirit. The sighting had driven the Creeks into the Red Stick faction by the thousands.

"Madness has overcome our people. They are being led to the slaughter." Singing Grass's voice filled with grief. "We shame ourselves, Brother, and our children will pay.

"Pushmatahaw is a wise chief. He was right to force Tecumseh from his nation. Because he did, the Choctaw were spared this insanity. If only our chiefs had done the same..."

"Lower your voice," Totka cautioned. "Do you want the children to hear and repeat your words? We are already at risk. Careless words could be our destruction."

She sat up. Her single braid slipped from her shoulder and landed on the bearskin with a soft thud. "What do you mean we are already at risk?"

"Our leanings toward White ways will not be forgiven. We must clearly oppose the Americans."

"And what of our leanings? Does it make us a threat? Will my husband join with their soldiers? No!"

"Red Eagle has joined the war party."

"I care not what Red Eagle does. You should go to Big Warrior. Join his White ranks in Tuckabatchee. I hear all who desire peace with the Americans are flocking to his protection."

Totka cradled his head in his palms and massaged his scalp. "I agree with Big Warrior, but sooner or later, Tuckabatchee will be under siege, and his White warriors will be forced to surrender to the Red Sticks. We either submit now or later."

"Bah! Again with this talk of _we_. I need you here, Brother, to protect the children."

Totka's eyes wandered to the shadows on the floor. Being the children's maternal uncle, he was more responsible for their upbringing than Nokose. He cared for them and loved them as his own. Who would protect them when he went away?

He shook his head. "After we embrace the Red Stick cause, there will be no need to protect the children. My brother will do as he vowed and join the Red Sticks. Red Eagle is their chief now. He is clever and a good warrior. He will lead well."

Singing Grass picked at the end of her braid. "And you are certain my husband has no choice in the matter? That harm will come to us should he not join?"

"If Red Eagle, as influential and powerful as he is, has been forced at the threat of his family's life to join the Red Sticks, how will Nokose avoid it?"

"And you will fight?"

He stood and stretched his leg. Placing his weight on it, he cringed. Maybe his sister was right.

_No_. It was time. "I must bring home hair. I will go with Nokose Fixico."

Singing Grass grabbed his fingers and squeezed. "Wipe the worry from your face, Brother." Resolve strengthened her voice. "All will be well. Do what you must." She eased herself to the couch and pulled the blanket across her legs. "I ask one thing of you."

"Yes?"

"My husband, he can be..."

Totka smiled into the dark. "Yes, I know. I will do my best. Rest well. Morning comes soon."

He returned to his pallet, lightness in his step. He hadn't realized how much her approval meant to him until he obtained it.

He prayed to whatever god would listen that his family be spared the sufferings and hardships that were the sister of war.

TO READ MORE, you can purchase **Wounded Spirits** by April Gardner at:

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http://tinyurl.com/3e8nqkh (paperback).

Chapter 8: Tracy Krauss, And the Beat Goes On

Reprinted from **AND THE BEAT GOES ON** by Tracy Krauss. Copyright 2009 by Strategic Book Group. Fiction. Used with permission by Strategic Book Group.

The African sun beat down on his head in the open jeep as Dr. Mark Graham and his companion bumped along what could hardly be called a road. A local man from the Nbedele tribe, hired on as part of the archeological team, drove the jeep along the hazardous path up the mountain. Hair raising switch backs and steep inclines didn't seem to faze the driver as he maneuvered the vehicle with one hand. Some pebbles cascaded off the trail's edge to the ravine below. Good thing he was used to it, Mark decided, or he might have been tempted to bail.

As he braced himself for the next jarring pothole, Mark thought about yesterday's meeting with the Zimbabwean government officials. Everything had gone well – on the surface, at least. They had agreed to continue their sponsorship, and renewed their pledge of faith in his abilities as a leader in his field. Yet there was this nagging sense at the back of his mind that something rippled beneath the surface – something hidden either by neglect or design of which he was not aware. It was an uncomfortable feeling. Probably just his general distaste for dealing with administrators. As meticulous as he was himself, it rankled when unnecessary red tape seemed to get in the way of real progress. Added to that, it was not a trip he relished, unless absolutely necessary.

His crew had been meticulously digging under the site of an ancient temple – a sacred site stringently protected by the government of Zimbabwe. The temple site itself had been unearthed decades before, but legend had led to speculation that an even older civilization had once used the spot. Mark had been honored when asked to assemble a team of specialists to investigate the possibilities without compromising the original excavations. It was painstaking work. But already, after only five months, the team was rewarded with signs that the legends were indeed rooted in fact. Under the temple mount they had discovered an even more ancient burial ground with an intricate system of tombs that seemed oddly more advanced technologically than the layer of simple graves directly above it. This was not entirely unexpected; history often bespoke of a more barbarous people supplanting a superior civilization. But there was more . . . so much more. There was a sense that they were on the verge of something big – monumental, even.

And then the authorities had the audacity to question whether there was any use continuing! They said they were running out of budget and it was taking too long. Fools! Didn't they know there was no way to unearth secrets that had been buried for millennium in just a few short months? These things took time and care. And money. That was the bottom line. Always was. Mark wished he had the benefit of some nice multi-trillionaire benefactor right about now, instead of a crumbling third world dictatorship. Oh well. For now he had managed to secure another four months contract, having convinced them of the importance of the find to the economic development of the region. But in the end, he doubted it would be enough time and he was a scientist, not a politician.

As the jeep rounded the last corner, Mark spotted one of the tents that had been set up on site as a lab. The archeological site extended over a fairly large area. Several tents and simple wooden structures had been erected to house the necessary work stations and accommodate the crew. Various roped off areas were meticulously squared off for the painstaking process of uncovering tidbits of information, one grain of sand at a time. Mark jumped from the jeep into the cloud of gathering dust and strode directly to the quarters where he expected to find his coworker, Laura Sawchuk. He left his bags for his Nbedelian assistant.

He had left Laura in charge during his brief absence. Laura Sawchuk, Doctor of Anthropology, was very knowledgeable in a wide field and was also very capable at giving direction and leadership. She had been his colleague on more than one job before and he trusted her judgment and skill for the task at hand. She was also, at present, his girlfriend.

Girlfriend had a somewhat adolescent ring to it, Mark decided. His 'partner' would be a more appropriate phrase – it was the terminology Laura used, anyway. Mark wasn't quite sure how their relationship had advanced to more than just colleagues. Close proximity did that to people sometimes. And loneliness.

He found Laura sitting at a corner along one wall, examining a fragment under a microscope. She didn't look up when he entered. At 36 she was a couple of years older than Mark himself. Her career always came first; a fact that suited Mark, since he shared her passion for work.

"Laura," he greeted her, "What have we here?" He tried to get a glimpse over her shoulder at the tiny fragment she was scrutinizing. She ignored the question. "I thought you were going to be back yesterday," she said, still not taking her eyes from the eye pieces.

"I was delayed an extra day in Harare," Mark explained as he pulled up a stool and sat down beside her.

"Oh? That good news or bad?" she asked.

"Good. I managed to convince them to give us another four months."

"Four months?!" Laura asked sharply, straightening and looking at Mark for the first time since he had arrived. There was a powdering of dust on his skin and hair which almost made him look like he had stepped out of one of those old fashioned sepia photographs – all monochromatic brown. "We can't possibly be finished in four months." She reached over and flicked a stray twig from his unruly mass of dark curls.

"I know that," Mark shrugged, running a hand through his hair, creating a small cloud of dust. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. Two days growth of stubble had begun to form. "But for now I had to take it or leave it."

Laura leaned forward and placed a quick kiss on Mark's nose, her streaked brown and blonde ponytail bobbing. "Good to have you back, in any case. Mnanga didn't kill you, I see, with his reckless driving."

"Still in one piece, miracle as that is," Mark nodded with a grin. "What you looking at, anyway?"

"A fragment from some of the plaster leading into the antechamber I told you about," Laura replied, turning back to the microscope. "It seems to have some kind of metal alloy embedded right in it."

"Plaster?" Mark asked uncertainly, his brows furrowing.

Laura nodded. "I'm not sure what else to call it. A coating of some kind. Unusual, I know."

"Very," Mark agreed. "Most tombs are simply hewn from the rock, not plastered over. Mind if I take a look?" Laura relinquished her seat and Mark took his turn peering into the microscope. "Hm. I see what you mean. I've never seen anything like it." He couldn't help keeping the disappointment from his voice. He had wanted to be the first into the chamber himself.

Laura picked up on the tone in his voice, "Don't worry. We haven't made a breakthrough into the chamber itself yet. I knew you'd be disappointed not to be here, so we've held back a bit."

"Oh. Thanks. I appreciate it," Mark nodded, obvious relief in his voice as he continued to peruse the tiny fragment.

"Besides, there's been plenty of other excitement to keep us busy."

"Like...?"

"Like the bone fragments," Laura offered.

"Still no word from the lab?" he asked. He already knew the answer. He'd checked back in Harare.

"Nope. But we are starting to see a pattern emerging," Laura said.

Mark's curiosity was really pricked now. He looked up. "What kind of pattern?"

"Come and see," Laura said, leaving the plaster fragment behind for the time being. She led Mark to a computer station. She sat down in front of the screen and clicked several icons with the mouse. A large blueprint of the dig appeared on the screen. "The strange bone fragments we found first were located here," she pointed to the location with her finger, "alongside the human remains that appear to have been disturbed - either by some type of seismic activity, or by other humans."

"Mmhm," Mark nodded. It was nothing new to him. He had been present during that discovery. "Go on."

"The next grave we uncovered also contained unidentified bone fragments. Only this time," she paused for effect. She glanced over at him, ready to gage his reaction. He raised his brows in question. "I'll bring up a digital photo," she said, clicking the mouse deftly once again. Several windows opened. "Ah, here we are." She punched one more key and a color photo came up of a long curved bone. It was broken in two places, with part of the inner section missing. She hit another key and a second picture came up. This time it showed Laura and Rocco, one of the crew managers, holding the bone between them.

"That's one big chicken wing," Mark whistled.

"Then you do agree that it looks like part of a wing?" Laura asked, surveying him closely.

Mark blinked and peered at the image again. "Yes it does, doesn't it?"

"The humerus is almost entirely intact, with parts of the ulna attached. It looks to be from a very large winged creature. The parts that are left clearly seem to have been laced with the body, intentionally."

"Large," Mark mused. "How large?"

"Pretty damn big, that's all I have to say. Bigger than an albatross or any present species of bird that I know of."

"You know what this means, don't you?" Mark asked expectantly. He looked over at Laura, obvious excitement burning in his eyes. "We've discovered another Troy – an ancient legend thought to be nothing more than myth." He pounded the computer table and the monitor flickered momentarily. It was the most emotion he had displayed thus far.

"Watch it," Laura warned with a smile. "No hitting the furniture! You're forgetting our power supply isn't the most stable."

"What else you got?" Mark asked anxiously.

"Rocco's team has been continuing on those same graves. He may find the other "wing," so to speak, and by the look of the placement of those two graves, we're speculating that there could be a whole ring of graves surrounding the entrance to the antechamber providing you want to disturb them."

"Hmm. Like guards," Mark commented.

"Right. Here's another interesting find from the same grave," Laura said, referring to the next photo. "It appears to be some kind of head piece or mask, probably worn expressly for burial. It's pretty badly decayed and was in danger of disintegrating into dust if we tried to remove it."

Mark just stared at the screen.

"I know what you're thinking, okay?" Laura interrupted his thoughts. "About that legend – don't go spreading rumors until the lab has done a full analysis. I've had a hard enough time convincing Rocco to keep his feet on the ground. You know how he can be. We could all be discredited if we aren't careful. First we need solid lab work as to the type of bone, then solid dating on both the human and non human fragments."

"You don't need to remind me about procedure, Doctor," Mark stated in a business like tone. "I am still chief archeologist on this dig."

"Of course," Laura agreed, giving Mark a sideways glance. "I wasn't trying to offend you. You seem awfully touchy."

Mark sighed and ran a hand through his thick, unruly hair. "My apologies. I guess I'm just tired after the trip."

"More like your nerves are shot after Mnanga's driving," Laura offered.

"Right," Mark agreed with a chuckle. "Plus, I hate being out of the loop. I feel like all the important discoveries are being made when I'm gone."

"You need to relax," Laura said, coming up behind him and kneading his neck with her fingers.

"Hm, that feels good," Mark said, closing his eyes.

"Of course. And I'll make it feel even better a little later on," Laura promised with a suggestive smile.

"Oh? That's definitely worth coming back for," Mark said with a smile of his own. He closed his eyes and allowed her fingers to do their magic on the stiff cords in his neck. Suddenly he opened his eyes. "I'd like to take a look, myself," he said, all business once again. "At that bone. It's been stored and numbered with the rest of the artifacts?"

"Of course," Laura shrugged, dropping her hands and walking away with a sigh. She turned back to the computer. "I expected you'd want to have a look at everything. I just thought you might want to wait and start fresh tomorrow."

"With only four months grace, I don't think we can spare the time. I better be off to inspect the rest of the work in progress," he said with obvious relish, rubbing his hands together. He rose and turned to leave.

"Mark," Laura stopped him.

"Hm?" Mark turned.

"I missed you."

His nod of acknowledgement was barely perceptible. He was already out the door.

Mark strode to where he hoped to find Rocco Cortez, one of the crew chiefs. He'd been talking to various other crew chiefs along the way and was brought up to date on most of the developments already, so it was just a matter of seeing it for himself. He was physically weary from his trek, but his mind was on high alert.

By far, the dominant feature of the entire site was the ancient temple ruins. It had been reconstructed in places and consisted of an outer and an inner courtyard, with the chambers of the temple itself in the center. Much of the building had been constructed of rock quarried from the surrounding area. Mostly what was left, after being uncovered, was the foundation, with only a few walls remaining intact. But the location of the altar and several other important features, could be clearly identified from what remained. The original archeological excavations had taken place over thirty years ago. What Mark and his team were interested in now was not the temple itself, but what lay hidden far beneath it.

This type of excavating was very painstaking and precise. In order to get at the layers beneath without disturbing the top layer, the team had to tunnel underneath using an elaborate system of braces, all the while ensuring that they did not destroy a potentially important find. They started well away from the temple mound itself, creating a crater like moat around one side of the site. From here they could open up the side of the hill underneath, exposing subsequent layers as they went. It was backbreaking work with an element of risk, but the thrill of discovery outweighed the drawbacks.

"Rocco," Mark greeted his colleague, pumping his hand vigorously. "I hear there have been some exciting discoveries in my absence." Rocco was a short, somewhat stocky man of Puerto Rican descent. He wore his graying hair in a haphazard ponytail, and sported a thick black mustache.

"Hey, my friend," Rocco responded enthusiastically. "She showed you the photos?"

"Yeah. Pretty amazing," Mark nodded.

"See the real thing yet?" Rocco asked, surveying his boss out of the corner of his eye.

"Just heading over there now," Mark informed. The two men started walking together toward the storage and cataloguing compound. "So what do you think?"

Rocco shrugged noncommittally. "You probably don't want to know."

"Come on, Rocco. I trust your judgment." Rocco looked skeptical and kept his mouth shut. Mark smiled encouragingly and slapped the older man across the back. "Don't let Laura scare you off. She even warned me about keeping the discovery under wraps until the final analysis report comes in."

Rocco considered his answer for a moment. "Seems obvious to me. In keeping with local legend, plus the size, shape and wing span"

Mark nodded. "I know. I just can't quite wrap my brain around it yet. It seems impossible."

"Wait until you see it," Rocco responded.

"So you seriously think we've unearthed the remains of a long extinct variety of flying dinosaur?"

Rocco nodded. "Very Pterodactyl like. I've seen them before."

Mark grunted and let out a small disbelieving laugh. "No wonder Laura is so paranoid. The sooner we get a positive ID, the better. I just wish I'd been around personally to document the whole thing."

"You don't trust us?" Rocco asked.

"I didn't say that," Mark explained. "It's just that this could either be the biggest scientific discovery of the century or the biggest hoax. We'll either be famous or made to look like laughing stocks. Any slip in procedure and we could be completely discredited."

"They'll try it, don't even fool yourself into thinking they won't."

Mark glanced sideways at his long time friend and trusted colleague. "You sound pretty skeptical. And who are 'they?"

"The establishment."

"The establishment," Mark repeated sardonically.

"In this case, the scientific community," Rocco clarified.

"Oh?"

"Sure. They accept only what fits into their own preconceived theories. Anything outside the box gets tossed."

"That's hardly fair," Mark laughed. "If that's the case then what's the use? We might as well pack up right now and go home. Discovery is what this is all about."

"There, my friend, is where you are sadly mistaken," Rocco replied knowingly. "It's really about the capitalist regime that rules us all. Money. Profit. Bottom line. That's where the real power is. We're all just pawns in a big game of chess, fed whatever information the powers-that-be think we can swallow. Just enough to keep us quiet and satisfied. It's a conspiracy."

"Someone definitely put something nasty in your cereal this morning," Mark said with a laugh.

"I'm serious," Rocco responded.

"I know," Mark said, sobering. "That's what worries me."

They had reached the compound, a large canvas walled structure. Mark greeted the guard with a perfunctory nod and entered without comment. Rocco followed closely on his heels.

"It's numbered and documented right along with everything else from my quadrant. I did it myself," Rocco said, leading the way now in the dim interior of the make shift compound. It consisted of rows of metal shelving lined with labeled trays and clear plastic bags of artifacts. "Right here." He searched the area with his eyes, squinting.

"What the . . . it was here yesterday. I knew you'd want to do the preliminary lab work yourself. What did she do with it?!" he blurted, letting out a string of expletives in Spanish.

"Whoa, whoa! Who do you mean?" Mark asked. "Laura?"

"Has anything been crated for transport to the States yet?" Rocco demanded, ignoring the initial question.

"Is that what she suggested?"

"Yep. I told her to wait until you got back. I told her you'd want to see it for yourself," Rocco spat, shaking his head in frustration.

"I take it you two had some disagreements on the subject," Mark noted.

"You could say that," Rocco admitted.

"So just what else has been going on in my absence?" Mark wanted to know. He wasn't feeling too happy at the moment. Laura had just finished telling him she had saved the bone for him to look at. Why would she lie to him about it?

"Go ask your second in command," Rocco directed with a wave. "She'll tell you whatever you want to hear, I'm sure."

"I don't like the sound of this. The last thing I need are my two most valuable crew members at loggerheads with one another."

Rocco just shrugged, "Talk to her about it. I just did my job. Numbered and documented, just like it's supposed to be."

"I intend to talk to her about it," Mark said, in no uncertain terms. He turned and strode from the compound.

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Chapter 9: Ken Kuhlken, Midheaven

Reprinted from **Midheaven** , Christian Literary Crime Fiction, by Ken Kuhlken. Copyright 1979 by Ken Kuhlken, First Published by Viking Press. Used by permission of author.

My name is Jodi. I live alone on the western slope of the Carson Range, five miles up the mountain from the highway between Incline and South Tahoe. Each morning I climb the hill and watch the tour boat make its turn toward Emerald Bay. It cuts a wake through the choppy water, surrounds itself in foam and sets a straight course southwest toward the peaks called Desolation. There the snow has stayed all summer, a dozen shades of red when sunset meets the fog from the lake. It will be there in the last days, when the earth is scorched and the rivers boil. And halfway up Mount Tallac is a cross of snow all through the year.

Charley's dad built this cabin where I'm hiding. It lies pinched between the hill, two mossy boulders and a row of second growth fir. Vines and Manzanita from the hillside cover the roof and drape the southern window, which looks out on the meadow, and take second root between the granite stones in the path around the cabin.

The cabin is split pine and fir logs and scrap boards and windows Charley's dad salvaged and dragged up the mountain. It has a loft in one end where I sleep. The land is Toiyabe National Forest, but loggers have been here; the big trees were cut down years ago all the way up to Marlette Lake, and the road has washes and fallen stumps that only hikers can cross. In daylight I draw a tarp over the window so no one who might pass on the creek road can see its reflection. No one besides Charley will find me here.

A cast-iron stove and a maton crates and plywood fill the end of the cabin near the door, opposite the loft. It's a small cabin, fifteen feet long and ten feet wide. The floor is bare split pine with splinters, and the cracks in the wall have never been caulked. I fill them with rags and socks and cardboard, but the wind always finds more. Charley brought me a little girl's mirror with a pink frame and handle. Sometimes at nights I sit by the fire and stare at myself. Once boys thought I was pretty. My legs are long and my eyes are large and nearly black, so people used to notice them and not see that my nose is too thin and curls up too much at the end and, that my lips are flat and wide and there is a gap between my two front teeth, which always made me slow to smile. I used to be tan but now I'm just dark; my skin is cracked and dirty and I never comb my hair. I should cut it off. I'm very ugly, but I don't care. No one will come up to see me but Charley, unless it's to capture me and lock me away wherever they put killers.

* * *

The day I came here, in June, I hitched a ride out of King's Beach with a man who said I seemed disturbed because I couldn't sit still or keep my hands from eyes. He offered to take me home with him. I screamed and he dropped me at Sand Harbor.

On the first ridge I stopped because I thought I heard Charley calling. But when I looked, he was nowhere. I hid behind a cedar and stared across the road at the campground and watched children hopping from camper vans and dashing to the beach and I cried. Because I was grown up, and because I had no family anymore, and no faith, and because of all the evil I had done.

Up the logging road I busied myself with remembering other days I had made the same climb, but whenever a deer or fox rustled a bush, I wondered if the rustling might be Charley. I cursed him and threw stones till I felt foolish, as if a crowd were watching.

It was one of those times I first heard a screech from far up the mountain, then a whine like the wind through a tunnel only quivery, like a person's falsetto. I watched for a squirrel to perk up its ears or for birds to stop flying and look back, but only I seemed to hear it. I scrambled up toward the voice as if it came from the end of a rainbow, so I tripped in ruts and scraped my arms and hands and wiped the blood and sweat into my eyes. A motor sputtered. I slid down a bank to hide. A trail bike skidded around a bend, spun then righted and blasted back down the road.

At the edge of a stream where I stopped to drink was a bird with one wing unhinged in the water. I had never seen such a bird before, the size of a large hawk, with white wings and a golden belly. A bloody groove parted its head, its eyes were crossed and its beak spread as if in a gasp. I horrified me so, I ran and buried myself in high grass and pounded my fists in the mud. 'Charley,' I screamed, 'please kill me.'

I waited, so tensed and silent I heard insects splash in the stream, but Charley wasn't there. No Charley, no Philip, no Jesus. Only horror and evil that circled above me like vultures and turned the dirt beneath me to stone, so I prayed to the God I didn't believe in anymore, for hours, till the sun was straight above. Then I climbed, dizzy and giddy, and by instinct I made the right turns. I dashed into the cabin, powered by a deep relief because I was alone, really alone for the first time. And I promised myself to cast everyone out of my life forever. Feeling heartless and proud, I swept the floor and shook out the blankets, dragged the mattress outside to air, and scraped the windows and washed them with a bucket of water from the creek. Then Charley came. Just before dark.

He found me in a corner of the loft, curled up and facing the wall. 'Go away, go away,' I whispered.

He climbed up and reached for my hand but I jerked it back. 'I looked all over for you,' he said. 'Down at the pier, your folks' place, Hidden Beach, the hot springs, at your church. I knew you'd be up here but I hoped you wouldn't. It's not good for you. Too much happened here.'

'I knew you'd be right behind me, Charley. I can't ever get rid of you, or Geoff or my dad. Poor Jodi needs a man, you think, so you hang on like ticks but you can't change a thing.'

He sat and hung his legs off the loft, unlaced his boots and tossed them below. 'I can go back if that's what you want. I just brought food and some of your clothes.'

'Well you didn't have to. I can do all right by myself.'

'Sure you can,' he said. 'You can sit up here and think all summer. That's just what you need, lots of time to think. And you can run around in those same jeans, forage, and sneak up on deer, slit their throats. If that's what you want.'

Charley stayed on. He hung shelves, cleared brush for a path to the dam he built upstream. He gathered and chopped logs and kindling, transplanted wild bulbs to a garden by the door where he said they would bloom next spring. Every few days he went down the mountain, to Incline where he slipped into my folks' house when they were gone, snuck out with sweaters and jeans, pajamas and ski caps and warm socks. He sold things for money to buy me books and writing tablets and tubes of oil paints and canvases, and canned food, corn meal, peanut butter and dried everything. I didn't thank him. I snubbed and ignored him and pouted, moped in the cabin while he tried to talk me into climbing trees so we could sit on branches like we used to do, squealing noises we pretended would call bears or elephants or whatever I wanted. Some days I walked off alone, but never far from the cabin, not to explore or think, not even to cry, just to remember Philip, so I could keep on hating.

Charley built a platform in a fir on the ridge from where we could see the lake. He sat there at dusk picking off pinecones with a sling shot and inviting me to come up, but I never would.

He said he told my folks I had gone to Mexico with the Children of God. When he asked me to write a letter to tell them I was okay, I screamed like a crazy person.

* * *

Now the aspens in the grove upstream have begun to turn, and the last wildflowers, mouse-ears and monks-hood, have wilted. The hummingbirds left the creek in the meadow a few days ago and only a few butterflies stay on. A chipmunk with a broken and dragging tail, who used to follow behind and nibble while I picked wild mint, left or died. The flies and mosquitoes are dying, the crickets sing softer and farther down the mountain and the wind wakes me in the mornings. Nightfall comes earlier, I sleep later, the mountain prepares for winter and I get lonelier every day.

I drop the tarp over the window each morning, then I make oatmeal or millet and coffee and sit on the bank to eat before I go down to the creek. I wash my face in the creek and clean dishes or draw faces in the mud, then I turn back to the cabin and try to read books but the words jump out and dive away and nothing means anything. I make tea and climb the hill past the outhouse, sit on a rock or log and watch sailboats tack along the shore around Dollar's Point, leaning toward the public beach and the pier. If I could stand to, I might stare at it from dawn to dark till memory drove me crazy.

In the afternoons I stay in the cabin and sketch landscapes in charcoals, always of the lake and the south shore hotels and the far peaks shaded by faces in the clouds. Or I hike up the mountain and shout for echoes. At night I sweat by the stove and read my journals, if the words will stay still, till memories exhaust me. In my sleep I'm plagued by nightmares, and sometimes I wake up in the meadow.

Charley lives in King's Beach again. All week he works with Pancho building block walls for rich Incline people, and on Saturdays he always comes up, brings what I need and asks what I've been doing. I tell him what I can remember, which isn't much, because most every day is the same. I'm not angry with him anymore. I've decided to forgive the one person who has proven that he cares for me, no matter what I have done. But whenever he asks me to go back down the mountain, I scream at him to leave and call him names.

I'm only eighteen years old. Six months ago I was still a girl. If I could turn time around, I would run back home before the snows come. My dad would pet my hair and hold me so tight I'd cry till the pain stopped, till I believed he loved me again and had hurt enough to be almost as sorry as I am. Then I'd dress up warm and run down to the beach by the marina, skip stones on the lake and dig channels for the wavelets to go up. At dark I'd climb the road and my dad, my brothers and I would play cards while my mom painted. At bedtime I'd kiss my folks and my brothers good night, and Charley too, if he was over, then curl up in clean sheets with flowers on them, watch the moon shadows of branches on the ceiling and wait for tomorrow when I could take my dog Sherlock on a picnic by a fishing stream above Emerald Bay.

When I wake up at nights I try to remember my dreams so I can guess what they mean and decide what to do, how and what to think about to keep myself from turning to stone. But usually all I can remember is the feelings of revulsion and nausea, when the nights are cold. Winter is coming. I don't believe I'll live through the winter.

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Chapter 10: Marcia Lee Laycock, One Smooth Stone

Reprinted from **One Smooth Stone,** a contemporary novel by Marcia Lee Laycock. Copyright 2007, Castle Quay Books. Used by permission of author.

Alex Donnelly was alone. That's how he wanted it. He told himself that's how he liked it. That was a lie.

He twisted the throttle on the boat motor to the off position, leaned back, pulled his floppy-brimmed river hat off his head and turned his face toward the sun. The silted water hissed against the bottom and sides of the boat. A breeze tussled his thick black hair. He heard a hawk whistle from a high cliff and squinted to watch it plummet from its perch.

Closing his eyes, he slumped low. He would let the current take him home. He had all day and there wasn't anyone waiting for him, except his dogs. At least they'd welcome him, if only in anticipation of food.

The hawk whistled again and Alex opened his eyes, letting them fill with the sweeping green hills and wide brown Yukon River. As the boat caught and circled in a whirlpool he dipped his hand into the cold flow. Two minutes, he'd been told. If he fell in – or jumped – it would take two minutes for this river to kill him. He knew it was true because it had almost happened. He'd been looking for the cabin where he now lived, had beached at the mouth of the wrong creek and decided to wade to the other side to search for a trail. Half way across he realized he was in trouble. It was deeper than he'd thought and his legs were giving out. Then the bottom dropped off completely and he'd had to swim. He barely made it to the shore in time; he couldn't stand when he got there. His legs were useless for several minutes, even though the sun was high and hot that day. He remembered he'd shivered for two days.

His eyes caught the gray shifting of mist in the rift of a small valley far ahead as thick clouds spilled their burden of moisture down toward the river. He could smell it as the wind brought the fragrance of poplar toward him. The trees on the banks seemed to turn their leaves toward it. He pulled his hat back on and shrugged into an old slicker. As the rain came toward him he started the motor and steered the boat closer to shore. He knew a wind could come up strong enough to keep him at a stand-still. He snorted as he thought about that. It was the story of his life right now. Standing still. But at least he wasn't running anymore. He wondered how long it would last.

Just before the rain hit him a sudden shifting of light curved over the hills in a faint rainbow. God's promise. Funny how he always thought that when he saw a rainbow. Someone somewhere must have said it to him. He pulled his hat down and cut the motor again, to listen, as the first softness of rain touched him. Everything around him seemed to whisper. He breathed deeply and almost smiled. Out here a person could almost want to believe in God and promises. Almost.

August 19, 2003, Vancouver, British Columbia

Inspector Stan Sorensen slumped into the driver's seat of his unmarked car. Another case closed. It was a good feeling, but as his eyes absently scanned the neighborhood he knew it would not last. There was always another case, always more people who'd been hurt, more creeps to chase down. He sighed. There was a time when he'd thrived on it, but retirement was going to feel so good. He flipped open his notebook and wrote one more detail down, then reached for the ignition. His hand froze as his eyes rested on a small house across the street. Much like all the others, it had seen better days. What was it that made him... Sorensen's eyes narrowed as the memory surfaced. A young girl's face - dark eyes that held such longing it hurt him to even remember. He sat up straight. That case had never been closed. He reached for his notebook again and made another note. He hated loose ends.

August 20th, 2003, twenty miles downstream from Dawson City, on the Yukon River.

Alex heard the boat but couldn't see it. He took his binoculars down from a nail on the wall and walked to the bank. Making sure he was screened by the low slung branches of a spruce tree, he scanned upriver. He caught the long outboard, skimming with the current about a mile down. Adjusting the focus, he peered at the two people crouched in the back. He knew the one with his hand on the motor - the son of the mechanic in town. Alex couldn't remember his name. Probably hired himself out to the man in the suit.

The suit was hunched into himself, a large leather briefcase clutched in his arms, his knees drawn up, head down. His tie escaped now and then, flapping into the wind with sudden urgency until he caught it and tucked it in again. The sight of a man in a suit on the river was so out of context, Alex kept watching until the boat veered and headed directly toward him. He lowered the binoculars and squinted as it beached just below his cabin. Within seconds the men were out of sight but he knew they were scrambling up the embankment. They'd missed the trail. He considered slipping into the bush and pretending not to be there, but his curiosity got the better of him. He went back into the cabin and waited.

As the two men breached the top of the slope, Alex's dogs erupted into high-pitched howls. The suit hesitated, peered around and seeing the animals were chained, approached the cabin. Alex stepped back from the window and waited for the knock. When he opened the door, he took in several things at once: the man looked young, no older than Alex himself, but smaller in stature. He was wiping his face with a handkerchief, but wasn't breathing hard from the climb. His hair was the color of sand and short, spiked at the front, reminding Alex of a small porcupine he'd seen that week. The man's eyes weren't visible behind dark sunglasses but Alex had the feeling he was being sized up in return.

"Mr. Donnelly? Alexander Donnelly?"

Alex kept one hand on the door latch, shoved one hand into his jeans pocket and willed his heart to stop racing. "Who's asking?"

The man yelled over the barking. "I'm George Bronsky, of Adams, Ferrington, Lithgow and Bolt, attorneys at law, Seattle."

When Alex did not respond, the lawyer slipped his sunglasses off. "You're a hard man to track down, Mr. Donnelly."

The dogs continued their cacophony. Alex just stared. George Bronsky stared back. Alex blinked first. He stepped out, turned his head and hollered, "Lay down!" When the barking subsided, he turned back to the lawyer. "State your business, Mr. Bronsky."

"I have some good news for you." He glanced past Alex to the interior of the cabin and took a step. "If you'll allow me..."

Alex didn't move. "I said state your business."

Bronsky shifted the brief case and slipped the glasses into his pocket. His head turned slightly to the boy standing behind him. "I suggest we speak in private."

Alex tilted his head toward the mechanic's son. "Mind waiting in the boat? This won't take long."

The boy shrugged and turned away.

The lawyer cleared his throat again and lifted his chin. "I'm pleased to inform you that you are the recipient of an inheritance, Mr. Donnelly. Quite a substantial inheritance, in fact, and my law firm would very much like to."

"You've got the wrong guy." Alex turned his back on the man and stepped into the cabin.

The lawyer stepped forward. "You just turned twenty-one, isn't that right?"

Alex glanced back. "So?"

"So, this sum has been held in trust until your twenty-first birthday, which..."

"My parents died when I was a baby."

The lawyer nodded. "I know." Digging a sheet out of the briefcase, he kept his eyes on Alex. "You were born in Seattle. Your birthday was three weeks ago." He glanced at the paper. "July thirtieth, wasn't it?"

Alex hesitated for another moment, then turned and pushed the door wide. "That much I know," he said. "Watch your head."

Bronsky ducked under the doorframe and entered the dim room. Alex watched him take it in: the rough wood table, one chair and the small bed in the back corner; the large worn chair by the barrel stove in the other corner; the wall lined with shelves holding his few items of clothing and a number of books. Alex was suddenly aware of the smell – wood smoke with a strong overlay of tobacco, sweat and animal musk.

The lawyer placed the briefcase on the table, flipped it open and began removing papers. "I'll need to see a birth certificate, then we'll need your signature to certify that you've been notified. You'll have to come into our offices to sign the rest of the papers and be sure to bring a bank account number where the funds can be deposited." Alex felt his neck stiffen when Bronsky lifted his head and looked at him. "Uh... you do have a bank account?"

"Yeah, I have a bank account." He took a step toward the table. "This inheritance –where'd it come from?"

Bronsky blinked. "Your parents..."

Alex shook his head. "If my parents left me money, why didn't I know about it before now? You sure you've got the right guy?"

"Well," Bronsky read from the paper in his hand, "are you Alexander Gabriel Donnelly, born Alexander Gabriel Perrin, six forty-five a.m., July 30, 1982, at Virginia Mason Hospital, Seattle, Washington? Is that you?"

Alex cocked his head. "I know I was born in Seattle, but..."

"Mother's name, Janis Marie Perrin, father's name Thomas Allan Perrin?"

"I never knew their names." Alex's voice was so low, the lawyer leaned toward him, holding out the sheet of paper.

Alex took it, stared at it, scratched his dark beard. "This can't be me." He laid the page on the table.

Bronsky sighed. "Do you have a birth certificate here?"

Alex stared at him for a moment, then shook his head. "No."

The lawyer raised his eyebrows. "You were adopted in 1985?"

"Yeah, when I was three."

"Their names were Christopher and Anna Donnelly?"

Alex nodded. "They died when I was five."

"That fits. Do you have any documents from the adoption?"

"No."

Bronsky pursed his lips. "Child welfare in Vancouver must still have them. We'll have to verify everything, of course, but..." George smiled. "Congratulations, Mr. Donnelly. I think it's safe to say you're about to inherit one million U.S. dollars."

Alex's head jerked up. "What?"

Bronsky chuckled. "I thought that might get your attention. It appears your biological parents were rather wealthy. I believe the original amount was considerably less, but some good investments were made and interest does accumulate over twenty-one years."

Alex shook his head. A hank of black hair fell into his eyes. He pushed it away. "But that's,.. that doesn't make any sense."

"No, it doesn't." Bronsky chuckled again, and reached into his briefcase. "It makes dollars. Lots of them." He handed Alex another sheet of paper, then pointed to a line on the bottom. "Now, if you'll sign here, please, I'd like to get back to Dawson as soon as possible."

Alex stared at the paper. He took the pen the lawyer held out, but did not move to sign it.

Bronsky straightened. "Go ahead and read it for yourself. All it says is that you've been informed."

Alex picked it up and moved toward the window. He read it twice, then signed.

Bronsky handed him a business card. "Here's our office address, our phone number and my extension. Call if you need anything. We'll be glad to help." The lawyer shifted the flap of his briefcase until it closed with the soft click of the magnetic clasp. "Uh, it would be expedient if you could arrange to come to Seattle as soon as possible, Mr. Donnelly. We've been looking for you for over six months and we'd really like to close this file."

Alex stared at the card.

"Mr. Donnelly?"

He lifted his head, and frowned. "I've never been to Seattle. Been back, I mean."

"We'd be happy to make all the arrangements. How soon can you be ready to leave?"

"I don't know." Alex looked down at the paper again. "Maybe tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?"

Alex shrugged off the surprise in the lawyer's voice. "Maybe."

"Oh. Well, fine, that would be fine. I'll see if I can make the arrangements this afternoon, then. I guess that means we could travel together, at least to Whitehorse, if there's a seat on the plane. It leaves at 1:15, so we should meet somewhere, say at eleven o'clock? I'm staying at the Downtown Hotel."

"I'll have to arrange something for my dogs. If I can go, I'll be at the Downtown at eleven."

"Good. I'll see you then."

Alex heard the boat motor roar as it pulled away from the shore, and fought the current upstream. He looked around him. For a moment nothing seemed familiar, nothing seemed real. He picked up the papers the lawyer had left, scanned them, then tried to read more carefully. The legalese got in the way. Tossing them down, he ran a hand through his tangle of black hair and sighed. The last thing he wanted was to go anywhere near a city, but... He pulled the papers toward him again and slid a callused finger over the smooth words. Janis Marie Perrin. Thomas Allan Perrin.

Slumped in the chair, Alex let his mind search into corners he had closed off long ago. He was a small boy sitting on a bench, his thin fingers outlining initials carved into the wooden arm. Swinging his legs over the edge, he made sure they didn't bump and make noise as he listened to the voices of strangers coming through the half open door.

"This one must have a black cloud. Twice in five years! Who'd wanna be number three?" The man's voice sounded tired.

"He's a cute little guy, though." The woman's softer voice was hopeful. "Maybe they'll find somebody willing to take him."

"A five year old? Not very likely." The man sighed. "Well, he's off to Clareshome for now. They can hold him and deal with the paperwork while he goes into the system. I'm swamped. There's some legal stuff here, from his biological parents. Perkins. That's the name, right?"

"Something like that. His legal name is Donnelly now. Wonder how many more times it'll change before he grows up?"

Alex saw himself, a small boy being led down a long hallway by the clutching hand of a stranger.

He stood, hunched his shoulders against the memories that slipped like slivers of ice through his veins, and turned away from the table. That was then, he thought. Stay in today, Donnelly. Stay in today. He took a long-handled axe down from beside the door and went outside. The cold bite of late August air hit him like a slap but he breathed it in and deliberately turned his thoughts toward preparations for winter. His wood supply was getting low. There wasn't much left to split, but he fell into it with an easy, familiar rhythm. It was the kind of work he loved \- physical and mindless.

But now his mind would not stop. Questions swirled one upon another like small whirlwinds stirring up everything in their path. And in the midst of them, two names glowed like red-hot brands. Two names he had always wondered about.

He stopped, pulled his T-shirt off and used it to wipe the sweat from his face and the back of his neck. His hand brushed the scar that ran down his neck from the base of his right ear. He tilted his head as though to hide it and dropped the hand quickly.

Resting the axe against the chopping block, Alex left the wood where it lay and went back into the cabin. He stared again at the legal papers. He was tempted to toss them into the stove. He didn't need this. He didn't want it. It was too dangerous to go back. But what if ...

He picked up the documents. It was then he realized his hands had started to shake.

TO READ MORE, you can purchase **One Smooth Stone** by Marcia Lee Laycock at:

http://bit.ly/t4I18F (paperback)

http://tinyurl.com/3usag62 (paperback)

Chapter 11: Lisa J. Lickel, Meander Scar

Reprinted from **Meander Scar** , a novel by Lisa J Lickel. Copyright 2010 by BlackLyon Publishing. Used by permission of BlackLyon.

Meander Scar is healed earth alongside a waterway that skewed from the boundaries of its naturally straight course. Whether rushing or dribbling, waterways want to flow straight. When a river runs into a barrier, such as a large rock, its course begins to bend. The river circles until it meets up with its original boundary. The reunited waters abandon the circular path to run true again. The abandoned meander is first a small lake, then a swamp, then a scar.

" _Place me like a seal over your heart, like a seal on your arm; for love is as strong as death, its ardor unyielding at the grave. It burns like blazing fire, like a mighty flame. Many waters cannot quench love; rivers cannot wash it away. If one were to give all the wealth of his house for love, it would be utterly scorned" Song of Songs 8:6-7._

* * *

Ann Ballard jerked awake, shaken by a rumble she felt clear to her bones. A dazzling flash of light burned her retinas when she glanced through the living room window. She jumped and felt her heart stutter at the resulting roll of thunder that rattled the panes of glass.

At least she'd been saved from sinking into the nightmare again. Three times in a row, whenever she had closed her eyes, she dreamed of being trapped in a swampy pool on the banks of the winding Black Earth Creek, helplessly watching her son Ritchie and Trey struggle against a current. The fact that the creek was not that big in real life didn't seem to matter in her dream.
Ann tossed aside the afghan that had been covering her feet and stood. Only little old ladies took naps in the afternoon. What was the matter with her? The magazine she'd been reading slipped to the floor, sending the photograph she used as a bookmark spilling out. She snatched up the picture before it bent. She knew what sleeping during the day would lead to: wandering her big empty house at night, wide awake and scaring herself silly at every creak. Probably another headache, too. One that would take two days of head-banging and nausea to get over.

Another crack of lightning sent her scurrying to the kitchen. Dinner. Make dinner. Anything to distract herself from the storm.

Speaking of which...Ann stopped in front of the cupboard and rubbed her arms. Where had she stored the battery-operated lantern? Were the power cells charged and ready? She had not swept the basement all summer and hoped she would not have to wade through curtains of cobwebs if the severe weather forced her to take shelter down there.

Long ago, her first thoughts in inclement weather went to protecting her family. Since she had been alone, wondering who would come to her rescue if she became trapped like those Chinese earthquake victims was turning into a sour hobby—especially on weekends when her niece Maeve was gone. One thing she knew for sure: Her mother-in-law wouldn't be the first in line to save her. Maybe Ritchie would care. After a few days, anyway, when she was due for supper at his and Colleen's house in Portage and did not show up with the casserole.

The doorbell rang. Ann walked down the hall, grinning at the thought of Donna, her mother-in-law who hadn't liked being a grandmother, becoming a great-grandmother. She fingered the colored square of paper in her hand while she pushed aside the filmy panel covering the sidelights to check out her visitor.

Bonus. A beautiful, dark-haired man stood on her step. Almost any company would be a welcome interruption. Ann opened the door to a gust of chilled wet breeze. Goose bumps rose at the sudden drop of temperature the coming storm brought. A scurrying rustle of dried leaves swirled on the unswept deck of her pillared front porch. Rain slashed at his little car on the brick drive.

Did she recognize him? Something about the nose, the photograph! Ann resisted the urge to compare her picture with her guest.

The man's lips tilted into a practiced smile as he held out a hand. "Mrs. Ballard...Ann? Do you remember me? Mark? I'm Mark Roth. Trey's brother? We lived next door."

Yes, yes. That was it. He squatted at the edge of the frame in her photograph of Ritchie and Trey in fifth grade with a catch of bluegills. How could she have forgotten Mark's eyes? Even when he had been a high-schooler, those eyes had been the talk of the neighborhood ladies. Arresting blue, the iridescent color of bluebird feathers, Patricia from across the way used to say. Patricia always had been a bit of a nature freak.

Ann put a hand to her mouth and held up the picture with the other. "Well, this is amazing. I was just cleaning Ritchie's closet and thinking about the boys and their fishing and found this photograph." What on earth made her say such a ridiculous thing? "Oh, you don't care about that. Please, come in."

Ann pulled the door wide and gestured. He had filled out from the wiry athlete who took the basketball team to a regional championship. How many years had passed since she last saw him? Ritchie's high school graduation. Mark had gone east to college and stayed except for an occasional visit. After Trey's accident a few years later, the Roths moved away from Wisconsin.

When Mark's broad back was turned, Ann smoothed her hair and tugged her blouse straight, took a deep breath and prayed her deodorant was still working.

Mark preceded her into the living room and, with sweet attentiveness in enchanting smile and raised brows, waited until she had taken her own seat before he settled into a place of his own. Wow—no one had manners like that anymore. She perched on the edge of one of the oxblood club chairs on either side of the formal brocade sofa. "Well, how are you? It's been a long time. Are you visiting friends?"

"I'm fine, thank you. I've moved back to town. Just a week ago, as a matter of fact."

"You moved from Virginia? So, you quit your job? I'm afraid your parents and I haven't kept up much, just a note once in a while, since their...retirement."

Out of the corner of her eye, Ann saw the rumpled stack of newspapers she had left on the end table and a cobweb hanging from the lampshade. Unexpected company rarely happened. Shame! How could have let the place go? She looked back at her guest before he answered. "I've accepted a position with Jung and Royce."

A tingle of surprise made her raise her eyebrows at the name of the well-known private law firm here in Clayton. Unfortunately, she and Gene had required their services more than once to yank Ritchie out of some scrape. That, besides their general legal business. "Todd Royce was a golfing partner of my husband Gene's. I hope it works out for you. They must think highly of your abilities."

Mark turned his head toward the cold gas fireplace. He shrugged and faced her again. "I've had a few successes. I hoped to catch up on news from the old neighborhood. I heard Ritchie and Colleen are expecting a baby. And I wondered how you were doing."

Ann nodded and smiled. "I'm well. It's nice of you ask. And excited for Ritchie, even though that will make me a grandmother." Ann jumped back to her feet like some excitable rabbit. "Forgive me. Why don't I find us a something to snack on?" She started down the hall only to hear him follow her.

Her kitchen, with its seldom used gleaming copper-bottomed pots and dark flecked granite countertops, felt small and cold. She flipped a switch to light the sink area and the swag over the breakfast table set in front of the patio doors. She and Gene used to do a lot of entertaining. In fact, Ann used to do a lot of things, but it seemed that no one wanted half a couple in the spotlight. Maybe they thought her circumstances were contagious.

Snacks. Right. Ann checked the chrome refrigerator, although she knew exactly what she had in there: a quart of skim milk three days past the due date, some yogurt, old tortillas, and leftovers from the church guild lunch meeting a week ago. Drat. The refrigerator fairy had not visited. Cooking for one didn't call for a stockpile of food. Maeve, her niece, always ate on campus. Ann closed the door with a grimace. Stalling for time she asked, "How do you like being a lawyer?"

Mark settled back against the counter and folded his arms.

Ann let her eyelids half close as she studied him. She tried to keep her breathing even, to direct her heartbeats to remain steady. Mark was definitely no longer the sweet polite young man from next door, but an adult in his...let's see...thirties? He was nine years older than Ritchie and Trey; which made him nearly thirty-five. Eleven years younger than she. And he did not resemble any of the staid lawyers she did business with at Ballard, Gorman and Wicht, Gene's company, where she worked as a CPA two days a week.

Eleven years...not so many. Men married much younger women all the time. In fact, just last year...stop it. Where did that come from? Ann watched Mark's lips move, answering her question, while she stood there like a smitten idiot. Thinking ridiculous dreamy scenarios. Watching him like a lusty lonely widow—which she was not. A widow, anyway.

But he was pleasant to look at. His smooth face showed more character lines than her son's. His deep chest and flat stomach under the soft gray dress shirt and dark pleated slacks hinted at regular workouts, something the swimmer in her appreciated. She tuned back in to his words.

"I love helping people solve their problems, especially the folks who've been victimized. You know, the easy targets. I worked for a grass-roots group last year who represented landowners over an Abandoned Mine Land property dispute with a reclamation company."

Ann tore her gaze away and hunted for clean glasses in the cupboard to his right. "So, you sound like you're settling in." He wasn't likely to find too many victims to help at Todd Jung's prestigious firm, but she kept her mouth shut. "Is it hard to change firms? Or does everyone do business pretty much the same way?"

Mark took the two tumblers she grabbed and turned on the tap. "The work I do, estate planning and business law, has to work across multiple states, but every firm has its own way of handling clients."

Ann looked for ice cubes, hoping they had not evaporated since the Fourth of July, the last time she knew she had any. They took their glasses to the kitchen table. Lightning crackled outside her patio. She gasped at the immediate report of thunder.

Mark pulled her chair out for her. "Close one."

Ann focused on his calm expression then relaxed. "Seems like this has been going on for long enough already."

"I listened to the radio on the way over here. Sounds like a quick-moving storm. Should be out of here soon."

They watched the play of cloud-to-cloud lightning for a few minutes. Like Mark said, the clouds scudded along. He told her about some of the spectacular storms he had witnessed in the hills around Lynchburg. Ann circled the rim of her glass with her finger, trying to think of something witty and mature to say. It had been years since she'd had a personal conversation with a man to whom she was not related. "You must have liked it there in Virginia to have stayed so long."

"I always planned to return to Wisconsin. I consider it home."

"And now you're moving up the ladder."

"Mr. Jung knows I want to spend a certain amount of my time doing pro bono work. He thinks it will be good for the firm's image. Plenty of folks need help around the Madison area."

Ann read the tautness of her guest's expression. Touchy. Okay, time to change the subject. "So, you're back in Clayton. It's really good to see you. I'm sure Ritchie and Colleen will be happy to know you're nearby. And, um, your other friends. I thought you were engaged?" Ann looked for a wedding ring. Nope. Well, not all men wore one. "Did you get married? Is she with you?" Ann tried to recall the name Tiffany Roth linked him with in one of her cards of Christmas past.

"We'll have time to catch up. I hoped you were available to celebrate my new job with me. You were one of few people from my past who always believed in me, supported me."

Ann's back went straight with surprise. "Me?" She shook her head, brow furrowed. "I didn't do anything special."

Mark smiled. "More than you know. How about we talk over dinner? I'm hungry."

One of the few people from his past...in her opinion, Mark's father and stepmother had shamefully neglected both Trey and Mark while they spent all their time on their Internet business. All Ann had done was attend a few of Mark's games and make sure he had been welcome in her home.

This grown man was different from the boy next door. Ann knew Mark Roth, and yet she didn't. Exciting? What was the matter with her? This nice young man simply wanted to be polite and touch bases with people he used to know. And maybe he was lonely if his wife had stayed in Virginia to wrap things up. The least she could do was eat a meal with him, for old times' sake. She knew better than anyone that eating alone was not much fun. And he was obviously proud of his new job. "Of course I'll celebrate with you. There's a new buffet place we could try."

Ann did not protest when Mark ushered her to his newer model metallic blue Mazda. Not that she embarrassed easily, but the little Ford she had traded for her Beemer showed its age.

She knew she had chosen wrong when they entered the crowded lobby of the restaurant. The place was a madhouse decorated in fake Wild West. Had the storm made everyone crazy to get out? Mark smiled grimly as he folded his wallet back in his pocket after paying the cashier. He picked up a cafeteria tray with their soft drinks in chipped plastic cups and flatware wrapped in a paper napkin.

Mark led the way into the main dining room and indicated a far corner with his elbow. "I think I see a free table." They seated themselves. Ann wished the place would wash away and take her along. At least she wasn't trying to make some kind of impression on him, as if he were a prospective client. Or a candidate for a romance. She looked at him, hoping he could see how sorry she was for choosing such a raunchy restaurant. Mark mouthed something she could not quite hear.

"I'm sorry, what did you say?"

A young waitress with a nose ring arrived, setting a basket of greasy-looking rolls on the table. She lingered, eyeing Mark as she might the dessert table while reminding them to take a clean plate whenever they visited the buffet. Ann wondered how Mark's wife would have treated the girl and sat up straight, squinting with what she hoped was a disapproving frown. Now she felt more like a mother protecting her naïve son. She lost the frown when he spoke.

"You must enjoy the food here," Mark said after the young woman left.

"I've never been here. Ritchie and Colleen said they liked it." Ann took a deep breath and risked a sip of the cloudy iced tea she had ordered. She couldn't see Mark bringing his wife here. What kind of person was he married to, anyway? "So, um, Allison," That was her name! "Isn't she here with you? Did you leave her to settle things in Virginia before she comes?"

"I'm sorry, I can't hear you."

Ann was pretty sure he had heard, but no way was she going to ask again. She already sounded like a busybody grandma. "Do you...do you—"

Mark cut in. "Let's see what they have to eat."

Ann scavenged without much success through the commingled aromas of steaming platters and bins of canned and diced and fried-looking bits. Mark did not appear to have fared much better, she noted, when they returned to their table. Mark looked around, as if waiting for something.

Ann turned her head, too, but did not see anyone she knew. When she faced him again, his eyes were closed. Ah. Praying. That church youth group he had attended in high school must have left a lasting impression. She briefly copied him. When he looked up at her again with a peaceful expression, she picked up her fork. Dare she ask about Allison again? Ann decided on a safer topic. "How are your parents?"

"Parents?" He cocked an ear toward her. "Dad and Tiffany are well as ever, if that's what you asked. Golfing every day."

They gave up conversation after that. She could not think of anything to say to him on the way home. Since her ears were still ringing with the noisy chatter and clank of dishes, she appreciated the quiet. Within an hour after they left Ann's, Mark drove back into her driveway. He stopped the car and went around to open the passenger door for her. Another of his quaint mannerisms few practiced anymore.

Ann hesitated after he closed the car door. "Thank you. I...I can't recall the last time...well, anyway, I apologize for tonight. You must let me make amends."

Mark accompanied her across the driveway to the dark front door. "Yes, I'd like that. Soon." They arrived on her front step. "But I think I'll choose the place."

"Would you like to come in?"

What made her ask that? She stopped mid-reach with her key. "I'm sorry, never mind me. You're trying to make connections with people you knew before. Not that I remember everyone, but maybe I can help if you're trying to track down someone in particular." She felt his long stare. Maybe he was just as embarrassed as she was, caught at trying to flirt. Flirt? Oh, goodness. A little old married lady chatting up a nice married young man. If there can't be a flood to swallow her, how about an earthquake? Can things get any worse?

"Thank you, that's kind of you," Mark said. "I'm slowly finding my way again. But I'd like to have some coffee, if the invitation's still open. We didn't get much of a chance to talk back there."

Ann clutched the key so hard she knew she'd bear the impression of it for hours. It squealed, metal on metal, as she tried to insert it into the lock with nerveless fingers. She opened the front door and turned on a light with a shaky, yet defiant, flip. She could have a harmless little talk with her former neighbor's son. Do something more exciting than her usual trip to the Y, the monthly guild meetings, and working at Ballard, Gorman and Wicht, reminding Gene's partners, Howie and Tim, that Gene could walk in the door any day now. As if he could. "Coffee?"

"Yes. Can I help?"

She led the way to the kitchen, and let him fill the carafe at the tap while she ground beans.

Mark flashed a smirk. "You like fresh ground, too?"

"Ah, don't tell me you're one of those coffee snobs," Ann teased back as she started to measure the grounds and promptly lost count. How many scoops was that?

"I have been contemplating how an espresso machine would fit in my apartment. That was four, by the way."

The heat of embarrassment crawled up the back of her neck. How had he known? She looked at him out of the corner of her eye.

He leaned against the countertop, arms folded the same as he had earlier. "Ann."

Other than when she had answered her door to him earlier, she had never heard him call her anything but "Mrs. Ballard." Did that make him a contemporary? Or her less formal? She looked up at him after ensuring a steady trickle of dark liquid entered the glass pot. "Yes?"

"There's never been any word, no new reports or information about him? About your...about Mr. Ballard?"

Ann blinked heavily and shook her head. "No. There's never been any more than false leads. Nothing at all now, for..."

Seven years. Sunday would mark the seventh anniversary of the disappearance of her husband.

TO READ MORE, you can purchase **Meander Scar** by Lisa J. Lickel at:

http://tinyurl.com/74ew4r8 (paperback).

Chapter 12: Patience Prence, SCARS: An Amazing End-Times Prophecy Novel

Reprinted from **Scars,** Thriller, Christian Fiction Bestseller, by Patience Prence. Copyright 2010 by Patience Prence. Used by permission of author.

The Dream

The primeval recesses of her soul clinch with terror.

Instinct screams at her, pushes her to get away, to survive before it is too late.

Becky's innocent gaze darts across the landscape. All she sees are the dark outline of mounds of dirt and massive oak trees in the distance.

Her small white hands clutch at her pink-flowered nightgown.

RUN! her mind screams over and over again.

She slowly inhales a trembling breath and wills her legs to move forward. She darts out of the line of prisoners that has just descended from the train. She sprints past the rusty boxcars and the three soldiers clad in black, grasping machine guns.

A whistle screeches, and large circles of bright lights dance with the shadows around the expansive train yard.

Cold air stings her lungs as they pump her panicked breath past her chapped lips. Her racing blood echoes in her ears. Beyond a final set of iron tracks, a dark field stretches out before her.

Her muscles burn as she pushes her legs to move faster and harder toward the safety of the trees on the other side of the field. Cold wind whips at her flushed face.

RUN! her mind screams as she obeys its command.

Sagebrush cuts into her legs. Jagged rocks puncture her bare feet. Her heart wants to explode in her chest.

A mustard-colored bulldozer with its broad hydraulic blade sits like a sleeping dinosaur in the darkness ahead.

She runs to the far side of the metal heap and braces her palms against the worn rusty tracks. The bloody soles of her feet throb with pain. Her legs tremble uncontrollably. She tries to quiet her stinging breath.

The glint of a flashlight beam ricochets against the cold, yellow steel of the bulldozer. Her eyes widen at the sound of heavy footsteps.

She buries her pain and hurries into the shadows.

Her ankle twists under her weight, and she falls on her hands and knees. A hill of fresh dirt looms before her. Impetuously she crawls to the mound.

A putrid stench rises from a large dark pit next to the mound. "UGH!" Her nose wrinkles in disgust.

Sharp gravel tears at her flimsy nightgown as she rolls down the side into the pit. Her body becomes light as it falls into the darkness below. Her back slams hard against the moist ground, knocking the wind out of her. Dazed, she stares up at the cold night sky blanketed with stars.

Loud sirens puncture the chill of the night air. Clutching her knees tight to her chest, she folds herself into the blackest corner of the pit trying to make herself invisible.

Long minutes pass as she strains to make sense of the noises above her. Deep, male voices call out to each other across the crisp sky; boots fall heavily against gravel; gun metal rattles sharply.

Without warning a diesel engine roars to life, smothering all the other sounds.

She feels a grip of fear in the core of her stomach.

All around her the ground begins to vibrate. The heavy machine groans and lumbers toward the pit. Small rocks and soil cascade from the stars above.

"OH, NO!" Becky screams under her breath as the wailing of the bulldozer grows louder and louder.

I've got to get out of here—or I'll be buried alive! Her fingernails claw at the steep earthen walls of the pit as she tries to exit her hiding place. The metal beast roars and shakes the ground. The walls of the pit crumble in. Becky falls backward as an ocean of dirt and rocks crashes on top of her. The weight of the rubble presses hard against her small chest.

Dirt fills her mouth and her eyes.

HELP ME! PLEASE HELP ME! she wants to scream at the top of her lungs, but only mud sputters from her mouth. Her arms flail against the raining debris.

I can't see... I can't breathe...

Her fingers brush the familiar shape of a human hand. Her heart speeds as she grabs hold like a drowning girl grasping for a life preserver. Through the suffocating grime and darkness she searches for the face belonging to the hand that would rescue her and pull her from the choking bowels of the earth.

The bulldozer growls again. The walls of the pit melt inward. The earth holds Becky's weak body in a paralyzing grip. She helplessly stops fighting against it and holds onto the hand with all her remaining strength. As the walls of the pit collapse, they release the body of a young man from his grave. He rolls with the heaving ground and settles next to Becky like a limp rag doll. His black, hollow eyes stare back at her.

Becky's eyelids fling open as she springs awake with a jolt.

The weight of the earth still presses down on her chest. She hears the pounding of her heart in her ears. She sits up and wipes the perspiration off her forehead with her clammy hands. Her blanket is damp with sweat. She realizes she has just had another horrible nightmare about that awful prison death camp.

Scarlet moonlight casts an eerie glow through the barred window.

"I wonder what time it is," she whispers under her breath.

No one answers.

A dry breeze moves the tree outside her window. Its shadow revolves along the bare walls.

Becky lays her head back down on her flat, soiled pillow. She visualizes the trains rolling by. She can see the faces, gaunt with hunger and fear, looking out at her from the boxcars. Even in the waking world those despondent eyes still plead with her.

The images move across her mind over and over like a movie she cannot turn off. She doesn't want to turn it off. Someone has to remember what the World Union has done to them.

The trains roll by again, slowly, one after another; their heavy loads creak against the steel tracks: click, clack, click, clack. Ashen, scared faces peer down at her as they pass by, one after another.

She hears Peter Roma's frantic voice boom from the loudspeakers and reverberate off the marble walls of Saint Peter's Square in Rome. "These resisters and intolerant fundamentalists are the cause of all the death and destruction of the earth, and because of their disobedience to the Christ they all must be eliminated."

In the back of her mind she agonizes over one inescapable question: When will they take me to my death?

She fills the long, hot days with memories. Memories are all that are left to her. The cell walls illuminate shades of gold and red as the morning sun peeks from the east.

Becky leans back on her pillow and closes her eyes. "Thank You, Lord Jesus," she whispers quietly. "Thank You for another day. I'm so happy to know You--the real Jesus! Amen."

Soon the guard will bring me my breakfast. Becky's empty stomach growls at the thought of food.

She flings back the cover and sits up. The cot squeaks loudly as she rolls off the lumpy mattress and plants both feet on the hard bare floor. Her thin hands flatten the wrinkled, baggy shirt that hangs on her like a dress.

When she arrived here she traded in her pink-flowered nightgown for the bright orange shirt and pants of a prisoner. The pants are too big, intended for a male, so she wears only the shirt.

The dirty floor thumps as she crosses the room to the small tiled bathroom.

The girl staring back at her from the large mirror over the sink looks so much older than sixteen. Dark circles lie under her baby-blue eyes. They're her mother's eyes. Looking into the reflection, she easily conjures the image of her mother. She can clearly see Momma walking through the front door of their home, returning from work, her purple scrubs clinging to her fake breasts and her long blond hair falling neatly in a French braid down the middle of her back. The thought of Momma pierces Becky's heart.

Men always liked Momma. She carried herself with confidence on a tall Nordic frame. Her dazzling blue eyes could smolder or tease at her will. Despite the wedding ring on her finger, men often hit up on her. The doctors at Orange Valley Community Hospital where she worked as a licensed vocational nurse were no exception.

"You are such a pretty girl," Momma would whisper in the quiet evenings as they sat on the edge of Becky's bed. Momma would run a round nylon brush down the length of her shiny blond hair.

"Oh, Momma." Becky would shake her head. "I'm not pretty! My nose is too big, and besides. you're just saying that because I'm your daughter!"

"Okay, Rebekah. . .then how did you become a cheerleader?" Momma asked. "Cheerleaders aren't ugly!"

Becky leans over, cups her hands and fills them with the warm, rusty liquid that streams from the faucet. She then splashes her face and rubs her teeth with her fingers to clean them.

She remembers standing before the panel of judges while nervously performing the routine she had practiced for weeks.

Her nose had almost kept her from trying out for the cheerleading squad. But, for as long as she could re-member, when she imagined her future, she saw herself on the sidelines at the Lotus Bowl: kicking, smiling and dancing alongside the other beautiful cheerleaders, wearing the same sexy uniforms, knowing the whole union watched and admired her beauty and style. And that one guy in particular, Blake Collins, would not only admire her, but he would love her.

If her dreams of the future had any chance of coming true, she would have to take the first step of joining the cheerleading squad at Valley High School.

T.J. helped her practice. Every day after school she coached Becky through her routines. "Kick high! Come on, Becky—you own it, girlfriend! You are going to kick butt!"

Even with her mother's assurances that she was pretty and her best friend's encouragement, Becky still thought she was clumsy and awkward as she performed her routine in front of five of her teachers who made up the panel of judges at the tryouts.

When she found her name on the list posted on the gym door, she was elated. That was one of her happiest memories. T.J. squealed and jumped up and down and gave Becky a big bear hug. When Becky told Momma she had made the squad, Momma kissed her cheek and said, "I knew you could do it! I am so proud of you, Rebekah!"

Becky reaches up and touches her nose.

"You got your nose from your grandma Silver. You should be very proud. She was a good strong woman, and she gave you a good strong nose." The memory of her father's voice was so intense she could almost feel him standing next to her. A smile creeps across her face.

"What girl wants to look like her grandma?" she had said with a pout.

"Now, Princess." His lips curled up to form a smile. "Beauty's only skin deep; love is to the bone. Beauty gradually fades away, but ugly holds its own!"

Becky can feel the aching void in her chest as she remembers her dad's silly sayings. Oh! How I miss Daddy.

When Daddy stood next to Momma they made the oddest couple. Momma was so tall and slender with a gorgeous figure and a very classy lady.

Daddy, he was short and stout. His big heart shone through his laughing brown eyes. His skin was dark from long, hard hours laboring in the sun as a building contractor. His T-shirt always needed pressing, and his tummy usually hung over his worn blue jeans concealing the top button that was always undone!

Becky's mind momentarily returns to her cell. As she stands in front of the mirror, she notices the contented smile on her reflection. She runs her fingers through her tangled hair. Despite her efforts at grooming, her long blond hair is still mussed and tangled.

She can hear her mom's soft voice. "Rebekah, you are so lucky to have such beautiful, long, blond hair. Other women pay a fortune to have their hair colored like yours!"

If Momma could only see it now, all matted and full of knots! I swear if I had scissors I would cut it all off!

Her smile fades as she yanks at the knots. She runs her fingers through her hair one last time. She grabs the drawstring from the orange pants she had left on the counter the night before and ties her hair back into a ponytail.

Somewhat satisfied with her look, she creeps back to her cot and eagerly waits for breakfast. Her meals are the only thing she looks forward to.

Soon the large metal door clangs, signaling the arrival of breakfast and the beginning of another daily cycle.

Outside her cell stands a guard at least six-foot tall. A white band with "W.U." in blue letters is wrapped around his bulging bicep on the arm of his khaki uniform.

Becky moves out of her cot and hurries toward the door. She notices a neatly wrapped white gauze bandage covers his right hand as he pushes the tray of food under the barred door.

"Thank you," she says, wondering if he understands English. She pitches her ponytail over her shoulder and reaches for the tray sitting on the floor.

The guard's light-blue beret bobs up and down as he acknowledges her with a silent nod and disappears down the dark, narrow hallway.

She crams a dry piece of burnt toast into her mouth and hurries back to her bed with the plastic yellow tray.

"Dear Jesus," she prays, eager for another bite of toast, "thanks again for another meal. Please bless this food, in Jesus' name, amen."

She consciously chews the black bread over and over again until it disappears in her mouth. She savors each and every bite of the bland, stale meal. She crunches down on the dry cereal and washes every last morsel down with a cup of watery orange juice.

She tries not to focus on the fact that her stomach is far from full as she shoves the empty, plastic tray back under the door. The guard will be back later to pick it up.

Following her routine, she returns to her cot and rests her head against her pillow. The sunlight bounces off the ground outside the window and plays on the water-stained, cottage-cheese ceiling of the small room.

The silence is unavoidable. Her mind works over-time to try to fill the emptiness.

She whispers prayers of hope that Jesus will return soon and destroy that imposter Peter Roma.

She recites Bible verses over and over in her mind as the sunlight moves steadily across the ceiling, marking minutes then hours. She finds comfort in the Scriptures and yet so many questions. How could millions of others not see the truth she had found in the Bible? Why couldn't they see that Peter Roma was not Jesus of Nazareth and that the Bible warned of the coming false prophet?

She was not so different from those who believed Peter Roma. She wasn't raised to be religious, and she hadn't known much about the rapture or Jesus of Nazareth.

Her parents were polar opposites even in their religious backgrounds. Her father, Joseph, was raised in a Jewish home, and her mother, Kirsten, was raised Catholic. But in their adulthood neither rigorously practiced their faith. A couple of times a year her father would take the family to synagogue services, and every year they celebrated the Passover. Whenever she heard a tragic story or passed a graveyard, her mother would make the sign of the cross. Her habit was so automatic that to Becky it resembled the practice of knocking on wood to ward off bad luck.

"We all worship the same God," her mother would explain whenever Becky questioned the difference in her parents' religions. "Some of us call him God; others call him Allah or Buddha. Knowing his name isn't as important as knowing he wants you to be a good little girl," she would say with a wry wink.

The shadows slowly move across the walls. Her isolation is punctuated by the absence of sound. The only noises to penetrate her being are the incessant wind moving outside her window and the low whispers of her desperate prayers. She squeezes her eyes shut as the dusty light streams through the bars of her window. Her memories take her back to a place that changed her life forever.

* * *

It was a sunny, warm afternoon. Becky descended from the school bus and started walking the half block to her home. The wide, tree-lined streets of her Southern California suburb were unusually empty and quiet. The familiar sounds of the neighbor boys' skateboards rolling on the rough asphalt and clacking against every curb and low concrete wall were noticeably absent. So, too, were the occasional minivan and hybrid cars that reluctantly slowed and swerved to avoid hitting the skateboarders. A leaf blower and lawn mower stood abandoned in her neighbor's meticulously manicured front yard. She noticed the three Mexican gardeners gathered in the driveway around their old pickup truck. She waved to them, but they did not notice her. They were intently focused on the frantic voice speaking through the Spanish language radio station.

Must be a big soccer game on today, she thought.

The scene that greeted her when she walked through the front door was equally disconcerting. Her mother, father and little brother, David, sat huddled on the tan leather couch transfixed.

"Hundreds of thousands, possibly millions, of people are dead. Many others are missing. It will be weeks before we know the full extent of the death and destruction that have just happened."

A look of distress in Momma's eyes startled Becky. "What's wrong?" she asked apprehensively.

"A big tsunami on the East Coast," her father said calmly without taking his eyes away from the television screen. "It hit a few hours ago. Looks like New York City and Miami were both hit pretty bad. They say the waves were over five hundred feet high."

Anchorwoman Suze Graham's familiar pretty green eyes were glazed with panic as she stared into the camera and robotically delivered the grim details.

"We have just now been able to establish contact with our reporter, Jose Ruiz, who is on the ground in Miami." She held her hand to her ear. "JOSE, CAN YOU HEAR ME?"

"YES, SUZE, I CAN HEAR YOU!" An image of Jose holding a black cordless microphone close to his mouth appeared on the television screen. "As you can see, I am standing in about three feet of water in downtown Miami. The scene is indescribable." His shaky voice crackled over the airwaves. "Bodies are floating everywhere, and the stench is unbearable. Sewage is obviously in this water. It is very dangerous to move around here. Debris is all over the place—broken glass, power lines. Oh, my..."

His words trailed off. "I don't believe it—there's a dead horse over there!" Jose shook his head as he pointed toward a large black mass in the brown polluted water. The camera flashed images of a black horse, his body bloated and his limbs paralyzed in a straight position.

"Everywhere you look is unbelievable destruction. Above me"—Jose pointed upward—"on the second story of this building is the tailgate of a pickup truck sticking out of the windows of JJ's Ice Cream Parlor!

"I can't explain it. It's surreal. I'm looking at a..."

Suze Graham squinted her eyes "Jose? Can you still hear me? Jose?"

Silence.

"We seem to have lost connection with Jose Ruiz in Miami. We will work on getting him back as soon as we can..."

Becky felt sorry for Suze Graham as she obviously struggled to maintain her composure. Becky had grown up watching Suze every evening. Her sparkling green eyes almost imperceptibly darted back and forth as she cheerfully read reports of rising crime rates, wars, government upheavals, famine, diseases, economic collapses and the occasional surfing bull dog.

Now she stared out blankly from the television screen. Tears welled up in her eyes, and her voice quivered.

A studio man with large black headphones quietly slipped Suze a piece of paper. An odd expression crossed her face as she read the note. Her face turned pale as if she'd seen a ghost. She hesitated then spoke into the camera.

"We have just received an unconfirmed report that New York City has been completely destroyed. Again this is unconfirmed. We are currently trying to establish communication with our sister station in New York City, and we will let you know the status of that situation just as soon as the information becomes available to us." Suze appeared to try hard to remain calm as she continued to deliver the news.

"A spokesman for the North American Union has said that emergency aid centers are being set up all along the Eastern seaboard. Survivors are being cared for, and search-and-rescue operations are currently underway in many locations."

As Suze read from the overhead monitor, shaky video of frightened victims flickered across the television screen. Some were crying hysterically as they searched for their lost loved ones through rows of the dead covered with white sheets waiting to be identified and claimed.

A wall covered with photographs and desperately scrawled notes came into view. The camera zoomed in on a picture of a smiling man sitting at a table with a birthday cake and candles caught on film in mid-snap. The photo was stuck to the wall with masking tape. Becky could barely read the uneven handwriting underneath: "Have you seen our dad? Brad Williams. AGE: 42. EYES: Brown. HAIR: Brown. 5'11", 185 lbs. Please call Nicole: (305) 555-7645."

The camera pulled back and panned along the wall revealing several homemade fliers, frantically plastered on top of one another.

"Relief organizations are bracing for unprecedented demands. The Red Cross just released a statement saying that the lack of drinking water, food and shelter will be their number one concern in the aftermath of this disaster. The World Union has pledged more than three hundred million Ameros in aid so far." Suze's feminine voice sounded dismal.

She continued. "Scientists have just confirmed there was an eruption of the Cumbre Vieja Volcano in the Canary Islands off the coast of Western Africa. Reports indicate the western flank of the mountain collapsed in the ocean, triggering the devastating five-hundred-foot waves which wreaked havoc throughout the Atlantic Ocean."

"Unbelievable!" Momma shook her head. It was the first word anyone had said in nearly an hour.

"More breaking news now: In response to concerns of looting, the president has announced martial law throughout the North American Union beginning immediately. Also, the World Union Food Program will review food supplies and adjust rations to compensate for the losses caused by the disaster. We can expect 'per-household' rations to be lowered in the coming days. The president reminds citizens that hoarding food is punishable by up to ten years in prison."

"All those poor people," Momma said as she hit the mute button on the remote control. Suze Graham's voice went silent, and closed captioning began to scroll beneath her bewildered stare. "I'm going to call the hospital. I'm sure we'll be involved in the rescue efforts in some way." Momma stood and walked to the kitchen, David in tow.

Becky wasn't listening; she was deep in her own thoughts. She heard her mother mumble something about the poor tsunami victims and how she wished she could help.

The news footage of the people searching through the rows of dead bodies sent a searing pain through her heart. She couldn't erase from her mind the lady screaming hysterically as she recognized her child's motionless body lying under the sheet.

Her father's words interrupted her thoughts. "This is all we needed." He sighed. "As if the economy wasn't bad enough already, there is no way the World Union can deal with something like this. Do you realize what it will cost to rebuild?" His voice climbed to a low roar. Becky could feel one of her father's tirades coming on. He often vented his frustrations with forces greater than himself through long, impassioned monologues in which he outlined all that the government had done wrong in the past twenty years.

Video continued to glow silently from the television. Suze Graham's voice crept along the bottom of the screen in the form of misspelled captions. A timestamp in the corner indicated the pictures had been shot earlier in the day. Becky's chest tightened as she watched a young, blond-haired woman clutch a lifeless toddler to her breast and rock back and forth in agony.

Sadness, fear and then anger swept over her. If there is a God—how could he allow this to happen? Why did he let so many innocent people die?

The images were unbearable. Becky realized the living room was now dark. Night had sneaked into the house while their attention was fixed on the pictures beamed to them from the east side of the union. She was depressed and wanted to be alone. She stood and left her father sitting on the couch staring blankly at the glowing screen. She brushed away a tear that had escaped her watery eyes as she climbed up the dark hardwood stairs to her bedroom. Becky closed the door quietly behind her. She sneered at the fresh coats of rosy pink paint she had picked out only a year ago. She and Momma had an awful fight over her choice of colors. The terrible words she had said to her momma echoed through her memory as she pulled her stuffed brown rabbit with its big blue bow from the top of her white bookcase. Blake Collins's muscles rippled beneath his football uniform as he smiled charmingly at her from the poster hung over her twin bed.

Hugging the soft animal, she lay on her bed and stared up as red-and-blue lights of a passing police car strobed across her ceiling. A flash of fear vibrated through her body as she instantly recalled the night of the big earthquake when her father was injured and so many people had died.

When she closed her eyes she could easily return to that terrifying morning: climbing over toppled furniture and broken glass, her home─everything that was ever familiar and comforting to her─suddenly unrecognizable.

First it was the earthquake and now this terrible tsunami. Why do so many people have to die?

She shook her head involuntarily as the image of the young, blond woman rocking her dead toddler flashed before her again. She fought back tears as those same desperate feelings resurged in her throat.

Why is this happening?

The stuffed rabbit rolled to its side as she released it and stood up. She crossed over to her desk and sat down at the white wooden chair in front of her computer monitor and flicked on the metal switch.

"Good evening, Rebekah!" a young sexy male voice said from the speakers. "Please enter your password."

She quickly typed "busterkitty" on the keyboard and waited. Soon a smiling Blake Collins clutching a football posing for the cover of Aquarius Sports magazine appeared on the screen.

Becky clicked on the icon that took her to her favorite search engine and then typed a series of words: tsunami, disaster, end of the world, apocalypse, prophecy, and who is God? She randomly clicked on a few of the thousands of websites and blogs and even watched a couple of videos. Each had its own theory as to what had caused the recent disasters. And each was absolutely sure they were right and everyone else was wrong. Some blamed global warming while others warned it was the "end of the world."

Loud rapping on her bedroom door startled her.

"BECKY!" yelled her brother. He was the spitting image of their father, with his brown hair and brown eyes. His young voice grated on her nerves. "T.J. IS ON THE PHONE!"

"I'm busy. Tell her I'll see her at school tomorrow."

"BECKY!" he persisted. "T.J.'S ON THE PHONE. SHE WANTS TO TALK TO YOU ABOUT CHEER-LEADING PRACTICE."

Becky couldn't tell if her little brother was honestly communicating her friend's urgent message or simply delighting in annoying her. "Go away and leave me alone!" she said calmly but loudly without taking her eyes off her computer monitor.

"BECKY." He continued pounding. "BECKY. . . BECKY! YOU'D BETTER ANSWER ME! MOMMA SAID THERE IS NO SCHOOL TOMORROW!"

"Then just tell T.J. I will call her back later."

Becky's brain tried to tune him out. Hmm. I wonder why there's no school tomorrow? Maybe it has something to do with that martial law thing.

She sighed when the pounding stopped and she heard the sound of padded footsteps running down the hardwood stairs.

She continued to focus on the information that glowed from her monitor. She found many Bible verses quoted in the blog entries she'd read. The words sounded tantalizingly foreign. As she read the lines with mounting curiosity they began to fit together like clues in an ancient riddle. She urgently clicked on one link after another, following the verses deeper into the blogs and the endless theories of signs missed, prophecies forgotten and warnings of what was to come. They appeared on her screen in fragments: frustrating bits and pieces of a grand story like previews of the summer blockbusters at the movie theater.

Finally Becky clicked onto a link that took her to an online bookstore. She typed in her shipping address and used Momma's credit card number to purchase a book.

Knowing she would face an inquisition when the credit card statement arrived, Becky volunteered that she had bought a book online. "Just a book I needed for school."

A week later Becky found the brown paper package in the mailbox with her name on it. She eagerly waited until after dinner to lock herself in her room away from her family's prying eyes and the incessant news of the disaster on the East Coast blaring nonstop on the living room television.

She hurried over to the nightstand next to her bed. Her fingers clicked on the pink lamp illuminating various shades of mauve all around her room.

She pulled open the top drawer and found the package she had stashed away earlier that afternoon out of Momma's sight. She used her fingernails to break the brown packing tape at the edges and easily pried open the flimsy cardboard box to reveal a book bound in black leather. The gold lettering glistened under her pink lamp: Holy Bible.

She plopped onto her tummy on her neatly made bed and stuffed a pillow under her chest. She fingered through the thin, delicate pages edged with gold. With every turn the crisp paper crackled like a shotgun blast in the soft, pink quiet of her room. The smell of the new leather reminded her of her grandfather.

Slowly she thumbed the pages, felt her lips form the sounds of the ancient words printed in bold black ink:

Genesis, Exodus, Leviticus, Numbers, Deuteronomy. She knew these names. They were the same as the names in her father's book, the Jewish Tanakh.

She flipped to the back of the Bible: Matthew, Mark, Luke, John. She paused and began to read the small, dense text in the book of John.

"In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God; the same was in the beginning with God" (John 1:1-2).

"And the Word was made flesh, and dwelt among us, and we beheld his glory, the glory as of the only begotten of the Father, full of grace and truth" (John 1:14).

Her eyes scanned the pages while her mind grasped the information.

"For God so loved the world that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life" (John 3:16).

"And we believe and are sure that thou art that Christ, the Son of the living God" (John 6:69).

She turned the crisp white pages back to Matthew 24.

"For nation shall rise against nation, and kingdom against kingdom: and there shall be famines, and pestilences, and earthquakes, in divers places. All these are the beginning of sorrows" (Matthew 24:7-8).

The beginning of sorrows? Again the image of the mother rocking her dead child flashed before her eyes. Maybe we are in the beginning of sorrows?

Becky didn't read in any particular order. She read a chapter for a while, and then she skipped to another book. She tried to store all the scriptures and footnotes in her head. She strained her eyes as she read into the wee hours of the morning. Her heavy eyes finally succumbed, and she fell into a deep sleep. A series of images, thoughts and emotions traveled through her mind.

Wearing red shorts and a white T-shirt, Becky flung the bulging white garbage bag over the fence. She listened as it landed with a clink and a thud in the overflowing dumpster concealed on the other side. Becky knitted her brow in disgust and grumbled quietly to herself. "Why does David never get told to take out the trash?"

The mid-morning sun parted the hazy, blue sky as she walked along the wide service road that separated a community park from her cluttered, walled-in backyard. The moist chill of night still hung in the air, but the warm sun on her bare legs told her she could expect a typical, comfortable Southern California spring day.

She thought of small projects that could help her pass the long, quiet hours that stretched out before her. School had been cancelled again─more shortages caused by the disaster on the East Coast.

Her muscles rebelled at the idea of practicing her cheerleading routine again. She had filled the previous day with hours of jumping and tumbling in her backyard.

She noticed people gathered around a large, white tent that had been erected near the baseball diamond.

Wednesday mornings were not the usual time for weddings or graduation celebrations to overtake the park and clog the few precious parking spaces in the neighbor-hood.

Her head burned with curiosity. She bounded down the small embankment, her flip-flops stained black with use, through overgrown weeds and onto the baseball field.

White rope and aluminum poles held up the heavy canvas that flapped in lazy protest against a soft breeze.

A short, plump lady stood outside the tent. She dabbed her eyes with tissue absorbing the tears streaming down her round, rosy cheeks.

Cautiously Becky approached the entrance. The bright morning sun was diluted to a dirty, yellow light as it poured through the canvas.

People were crowded near the center, gravitating toward a man robed in white. A long, unkempt black beard concealed the lower half of his face while a neatly wrapped turban covered a large cranial bump on the top of his head. He stood like a giant with his eyes closed, seemingly oblivious that the crowd focused intensely on him.

Becky looked around her. No one had noticed her. She slowly stepped inside and stood with her back against one of the aluminum poles.

A young boy kneeled before the bearded man. Becky felt nervous anticipation fill the tent as the crowd stood in reverent silence. Like all the others gathered, she focused her attention on the bearded man. He reached out and grabbed both sides of the boy's head. A grimace washed over the bearded man's face as he clinched his eyes tight. Becky struggled to understand what she was watching. She thought of leaving, afraid she had intruded on something private. She quickly scanned the people in the crowd, hoping no one had noticed her.

She moved her foot as she prepared to exit. She would turn and walk, quickly, quietly and be back in the familiar surroundings of her home within minutes.

Before she could command her legs into motion, her eyes fixed on something she could not turn away from. As the bearded man's hands held the young, blond boy's head, his own body flung backward in a dramatic display of motion. The people gathered around him collectively gasped in a mixture of fear and awe. Becky noticed the dingy, yellow light coming through the canvas had become extremely bright and white.

Then her knees buckled beneath her as her mind tried to conceive of all she was seeing. The bearded man, his face still contorted, his hands still wrapped around the young boy's skull, began to lift off the ground. Slowly in his bare feet he stood on his toes and then completely left the floor.

Becky's mouth dropped open, and she stared wide eyed in disbelief. OH, MY GOSH! THAT MAN IS FLOATING IN THIN AIR!

His body became elongated as he silently rose. The gold silk scarf tied neatly around his waist hung loosely. The young boy stood up from his kneeling position as the bearded man's arms stretched to maintain his grip on the boy's head. The bearded man hovered about two feet off the ground.

Becky's heart pounded wildly. She became aware that her mouth was hanging wide open. The people gathered around him knelt and stared adoringly, waiting, building to an expected crescendo.

"YOU ARE HEALED!" The bearded man's voice exploded like a loudspeaker through the thick canvas walls and echoed throughout the park. He released the boy with a flamboyant gesture. A woman who had been standing near the boy looked quizzically at the child. A low murmur of voices moved through the crowd.

The boy turned to the woman and smiled. "Mother, I can hear!"

"Johnny?!" The woman's voice cracked with tears as she bent down and embraced her son. "It is a miracle!"

A shock of energy moved through the tent, and the people suddenly contracted closer to the bearded man. The woman looked up at him, fighting to control her sobs of joy "Thank you, Jesus. Thank you! Thank you, Jesus!" Still clutching the boy to her chest she fell to her knees. With one hand she reached for the hem of the bearded man's robe and sobbed.

Others in the crowd began to weep. "JESUS! JESUS!" the people began to chant in unison. "PRAISE YE THE MESSIAH!"

Becky remembered the scenes of miracles she had read in her Bible. Was this what it was like for those who witnessed the work of Jesus of Nazareth?

She could not deny the hope that had leapt through her mind or the overwhelming excitement that pulsated through the tent.

Could it really be? She wrung her hands together as she watched the people reach for the bearded man, tears streaming down their faces, struggling against each other to touch him.

She felt her own eyes moisten with tears. Had he seen the tragedy on the East Coast? Had he seen the mother rocking her dead toddler in her arms? Had he heard her cry out in anguish? Had he come to save us?

She pulled herself away from the scene in the tent and hurried back through the weeds to her home.

She could still hear faint, jubilant chants of "PRAISE JESUS" and "HALLELUJAH" as she clicked the sliding glass door shut behind her.

David sat on the couch in the living room, a bowl of popcorn on his lap. He didn't acknowledge her when she entered the room. His eyes were on the line of survivors stretching through the rubble-strewn streets of Miami. Suze Graham's tired voice pleaded with viewers to donate as much food, clothing and money as they could.

The desperation on the faces on the television was completely incongruous with the hope and happiness she had brought with her from the tent in the park.

"David," she said as she plopped herself heavily down onto the couch cushion next to him in a deliberate effort to break his attention away from the television.

"What?" He begrudgingly acknowledged her presence.

Becky exhaled a long breath, uncertain of how to broach a subject she wasn't even sure she wanted to dis-cuss with her little brother.

"What?" David said impatiently again.

"Do you think Jesus would come to us? Here? Now?" Her voice was halting. She didn't look at David. Instead she focused on the scenes of devastation flashing on the television. Exhaustion stung the face of a white-haired black man in tattered clothes as he pushed an overweight woman through knee-deep sand and mud in a shopping cart.

Becky felt her brother's eyes on her. She swallowed nervously.

"What are you talking about?" he asked as he munched on a white puffed-out kernel.

"There is so much pain in the world. With the wars, the earthquake and now the tsunami, don't you think Jesus would want to do something? Don't you think he'd try to help, if even just a little?" Becky continued to stare at the television.

"What the heck has gotten you on this?" David was genuinely curious.

"There is some kind of revival or something going on in the park. I know it's crazy. . . ." She searched her mind for the right words to describe what she had seen. "This man did stuff. Amazing stuff! There were no wires or smoke and mirrors or anything. And if you had seen how people reacted; he really had an effect. I could feel it."

David's brow arched. Becky knew his look of sarcasm. "Becky, that magician made the entire Statue of Unity disappear. Was he Jesus too?"

Becky felt a twinge of embarrassment at her younger brother's stoic skepticism.

"'For as lightning comes from the East and flashes to the West, so shall the coming of the son of man be,'" he continued.

"What?" Becky was surprised to hear David quote Scripture.

"'If they say to you, 'Look, he is in the desert!' do not go out; or 'Look, he is in the inner rooms!' do not believe it!'"

"You're right," Becky conceded. "I mean, I didn't really think, it was just nice to think there was someone who could fix things."

Becky stood and left her brother on the couch.

Her curiosity led her back down the hill and through the field to where the crowd of people and the bearded floating man were still gathered beneath the tent. Again she stood unnoticed near the entrance as people shouted, "PRAISE JESUS!" Again Becky felt joy wrap around her. The energy of the tent was addictive.

She stared at the bearded man; his bare feet were planted back on the ground. She became aware of a longing to touch him. She wanted to reach out, like all those crowded around him, and touch his robes. Her legs began moving her toward the white light that seemed to radiate from him.

"Come, my child." The voice was muted, as if it was audible only in her own head. It was the bearded man. His deep, brown eyes locked with hers. "Come," he said again, softly in a deep mesmerizing tone.

All those who had been pressing close to him and praising him now backed away and cleared a path between Becky and the bearded man. They stared at her. Becky relived her fear standing before the judges at cheerleading tryouts.

"It's okay, dear." A lady's voice prodded her for-ward. "He's here to save us. Let him save you too, child."

Becky's flip-flop dangled as she slowly moved her foot forward. Her instincts screamed at her to turn and run, but she could not turn away from the bearded man. His gaze held her tight. She realized she was walking for-ward, closing the gap between them. As she neared him, she felt warmth cover her body as if she were sinking into a hot bath.

She stopped and looked up into his deep, black, radiant eyes.

His thick eyebrows pulled together as he smiled and examined her face.

A strange power was there that held Becky both fascinated and yet afraid. Her skin began to crawl with an indefinable sense of unease.

The bearded man leaned over her. She felt a cold, bony finger stroke her cheek.

"What is your name, my child?" he asked.

Becky remembered her brother's sarcastically arched brow, and she felt an arctic chill run down her spine.

She slowly inhaled the tent air into her lungs then blurted, "Jesus would know my name!"

The bearded man's thin lips tightened into a sneer, and his dark eyes locked into a frozen stare as if he was ready to devour his prey.

A sudden coldness hit Becky in the pit of her belly. Her body began to shake involuntarily with quick, short movements. She took a step backward.

The woman whose son was healed stared angrily at her and said, "How dare you mock Jesus!"

Becky could feel the people closing in around her, caging her like an animal. Her breath became panicked.

"Who are you to deny our lord?" someone from the crowd shouted, their words enraged.

A surge of adrenaline shot through Becky's veins. She pushed through the crowd, knocking an older man to the ground. "GET AWAY FROM ME!" she screamed as she pushed. "WHAT DO YOU WANT?" Cold hands grabbed at her arms and shoulders and legs. "LEAVE ME ALONE!"

She saw the inviting bright sunlight streaming through the tent opening and bounded toward it. A hand grabbed her lower leg. She tried to kick it free. It was pulling her back into the tent.

Her eyes suddenly jarred opened. Her red-and-green plastic hummingbird nightlight cast long, faded shadows against the walls. She was safe in her room, in her bed and not in that horrible tent in the park anymore. She held her pillow in a death grip. Her heart and breath mimicked each other. Moisture gathered on the back of her neck like condensation on a glass of iced tea. She looked at the clock on her nightstand, 4:34 A.M.

Her breathing began to calm. She closed her eyes and replayed the dream in her mind over and over again.

She tried to figure out what she had just seen and felt. The quiet of the wee hours fueled her thoughts. How was David able to quote Scripture verses from the Bible? she wondered. Maybe this dream was a message─or maybe a warning from God?

Her body tingled, and her muscles were still tightened, alert and ready for a fight. She rolled over in her bed and looked at her new Bible resting on the nightstand. The gold lettering shimmered even in the low light.

"Dear Jesus," she whispered softly. "I believe you are the Christ, the Son of the living God. I believe in you, and I want to be belong to you. Amen."

She closed her eyes. The stillness of the night enveloped her. She felt herself relax and her mind quiet. She drifted off into a peaceful slumber.

And then shall appear the sign of the Son of man in heaven: and then shall all the tribes of the earth mourn, and they shall see the Son of man coming in the clouds of heaven with power and great glory. And he shall send his angels with a great sound of a trumpet, and they shall gather together his elect from the four winds, from one end of heaven to the other.

Matthew 24:30-31

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Chapter 13: W.R. Pursche and Michael Gabriele, The Eternal Messiah

Excerpt from **The Eternal Messiah: Jesus of K'Turia** , by W. R. Pursche and Michael Gabriele. Copyright 2011 by Varzara House. Used by permission of the publisher.

_Who are they who would say that the truth of faith is any less than the truth of evidence?_ —The Teachings 14:10

He awoke at the insistent buzzing of his cabin intercom. For a moment he lay quiet, dazed from the sleep that had not yet left him.

He saw her face just as he did every time he awoke. _His beloved Sooni._ But the space next to him was empty.

He remained still, ignoring the noise that demanded his immediate attention. Unable to shake the memory, he reached over and flipped a switch, cutting the sound.

"Yes?"

"Captain, we have just received a Priority One message from Central Command."

"I'll be right there." Trebor Win was wide awake now. _Priority One?_ What could be so important that Central Command would send a Priority One message to a research vessel?

Had the war begun?

Win hurried out of his cabin, his footsteps echoing through the dim and empty corridors. In the lift he caught sight of himself in the slightly reflective wall, the curved surface accentuating his already wide Treb features, lined with worry. He closed his eyes and took a few deep breaths, steadying himself. If they were at war he would need to appear calm and confident to his crew, who were mostly scientists, not soldiers. Though he did not think they would panic, there would be fear nonetheless.

In the brief moments before he reached the bridge he thought about the alerting message and what it might mean. His ship, the _Anatar_ , had been part of a small armada, circling the planet Colltaire, currently in the midst of a civil war. Though a research vessel, the _Anatar_ was funded by the military, and in times of need was technically under the auspices of Central Command, the military arm of the Intergalactic League of Worlds. And these were certainly times of need, for the League was being pressured all across the galaxy by the old empires, especially the Lemians.

On the planet below, the unpopular leadership on Colltaire had aligned themselves with the Lemians. A small insurgency had grown increasingly bold, and the League was showing its support to the rebels with the armada. The Lemians had also sent ships, mirroring the League's movements, all but daring the League to start a war.

The League was so weak that it was forced to use quasi-military crafts such as the _Anatar_ to make the armadas appear larger. Win didn't think the Lemians were fooled.

The lift slowed to a halt short of Win's destination. The door opened, and Cale, the ship's chief science officer, entered.

"Can't sleep? Or trying to impress your boss?" Cale asked. Cale was one of the few humans aboard the ship, and was always trying to lighten the mood. "By the way, exactly who is the boss these days?"

The door slid shut and the lift continued on. "We received a Priority One from Central Command," replied Win. "So I guess that means they still are."

Cale's levity vanished. "Trouble?"

"I don't know yet. Let's find out." He stepped out into the control center of the ship. All appeared quiet, but Win sensed the nervousness in the room. The tension would have been obvious even if he had not been born with _gheris_ , what humans would call a sixth sense. As a Treb, it was just as much a part of him as his sight or hearing. Through _gheris_ he was attuned to the aura given off by emotions, especially those from other humanoids. It was an ability he did not speak of; it tended to make other races nervous.

He took a quick look around. The navigation console was unmanned. No one there was a good sign; it meant that the ship's Executive Officer, the XO, did not think an attack was imminent.

The XO was at the communications console, beckoning to Win. She handed him a small flat disc. Win looked up at her, somewhat surprised. "You haven't seen this yet?"

"No. It had an 'Attention Captain' attached," she replied. She didn't say anything else but Win could sense a question.

"I don't know either," said Win. "I can't imagine why." The XO had saved the encoded message to the disc so that Win would have the option of reading it in private. Though he understood the reason for it, a part of him hated all the military secrecy. He thought briefly of taking the disc somewhere to read but he couldn't imagine what could be on it that he would not end up sharing with his XO anyway. Plus what would his crew think of his trust in them if he ran off and hid to read messages? Still...

Win compromised. He bent over the communications console, slipped the disc in a slot, and placed his hand on a translucent plate. There was a slight delay as the decoder read his DNA, then the message came alive in bright iridescent lettering above the unit. The XO, perhaps sensing Win's discomfort, moved off a respectful distance.

Win read the message, scowled, and read it again. He stepped aside and motioned for the XO to read it, then turned to the communications officer. "Send two messages to Central Command. First, verify the last transmission. Use code Delta. Second, request further information regarding this Priority One message. Use code Gamma."

The comm officer repeated back what Win had ordered. He was somewhat puzzled by the seemingly unnecessary complexity of the coding, and was wondering if it meant that a war was upon them, but Win didn't appear worried. On the other hand, the Treb never appeared worried about anything. Of course, the comm officer had never met another Treb, so maybe what he took to be calmness was actually sheer panic.

Nothing in Win's next command to the XO or his tone of voice hinted at what was going on. "Set course for Station Four, normal cruising speed. And prepare for a change in our mission. Then join me in the bridge conference room. You too, Cale. And get I'Char up here."

Win hoped he had not conveyed any nervousness in his command. The war had not, in fact, started for the League.

But it had for the _Anatar_.

* * *

The Rhean once known as Prome activated the neural net which would connect its sentient protoplasm to that of Rhean Ceme, millions of miles away. After the slightest of hesitations the link was established; both Rheans becoming aware of the other's sensations along the tendrils of their exoskeleton. For some time they did nothing, reveling in the expansion of their own senses. There was no hurry, for they were Rheans, the most powerful race in the galaxy. For the Rheans, time was an illusion, as was the physical universe, an illusion to be played in.

This neural connection was their racial secret. It is what set them apart from virtually all others in the universe, this ability to connect over vast distances. The Rhean power came not from weapons, or strategy, as most others believed, but from this combination of their sensations, memories, and intellect, bringing together millions of their race into one gigantic sensory power, with almost instantaneous communications ability. Able to react with astounding speed to new technologies, the Rheans could copy and develop the best of what the galaxy had to offer faster than anyone. In ages past it had given them a supreme edge in war, allowing for rapid changes to strategies and military plans.

After a time there were fewer battles; their power becoming recognized by all. Planetary systems which offered them conflict were casually immobilized. Later, the Rheans became a race of peace. Not interested in material things or power for its own sake, the Rheans sought only to advance their own development, seeking a racial nirvana that they were uniquely equipped to achieve. They left the galaxy alone, and thus, though powerful, were a threat to no one. Once the empires understood this, and discovered that the Rheans would not interfere, they continued their galactic plunder. The Rheans saw all this, instantly, knowing of far off empire victories even before the emperors did. And for the longest time, the Rheans did not care.

Until now.

"The confluence of forces shows a path that could lead to a tidal shift in the galaxy," sensed Prome. "The empires, should they join together, will defeat the League. Combined, they could become a threat to our development."

"That is but one path, and the nexus of possibilities indicates many other outcomes," responded Ceme. "Even if that future were to occur, it is unlikely that the empires, even if they come together against the League, will stay in union. Nor is it certain that they would then turn against us."

Prome shifted color into the yellow band, a sign of congenial disagreement. "Most of the empires can only survive by expanding, constantly growing through conquest. We have seen ages of this, across the galaxy, in almost every race."

"Except us," sensed Ceme, across the great distance.

"Yes, but we are different," sensed Prome, and for a moment both luxuriated in the bliss of their uniqueness.

"Yet you still wish us to become involved with these lesser beings," hummed Ceme.

"You have seen the nexus. Though the possibilities are low, the risk is real."

"Should it come to that, we would win such a war," chimed Ceme.

"Of that the nexus is much clearer. There seems little doubt of the outcome."

"So why proceed?" queried Ceme. "Certainly even the empires can see this, even though they do not have our skills."

"For many reasons," sensed Prome. "They may see the outcome, but be compelled to attack us, for fear of losing power over what they have, or simply because it is their nature. They would not be the first to engage us out of sheer arrogance. But mostly because it would be such a waste."

"Of life?" Ceme seemed intrigued.

"Of time. Ours. Would you rather revel in the immersion of our joint knowledge, advancing toward our supreme goal, or use even an iota of that time to fight a useless war?"

Once again they paused, caught up in the very immersion.

"You would give the League protection?" asked Ceme. "If so, others would ask for it as well. What makes the League different? Their goals are unlike ours. They wish power, but do not wish to be left alone. In many ways they are like the empires, seeking to ever expand."

"That is true for them as a whole, but there are those within their races who show great promise. The true awakening of even one of their people would be a profound development, one that even we might learn from."

"Would one so developed ever become a threat?"

"Not to us. The very essence of that development would preclude it."

"Unless they change," cautioned Ceme.

"Perhaps. But not all powers must be a threat. There are many powers in the universe. One is of far greater enormity than even we are, than we perhaps can be. Yet we all feel that it will never be a threat to us."

"But it will to others," agreed Ceme.

"Yes," responded Prome. "The empires will feel threatened, should they ever accept the reality of that power. As will any other beings that live in fear."

"Is a power unknown a power nonetheless?" mused Ceme.

"It is," replied Prome. "Many fear that which is unknown, and this is especially true for those who live by conquest. See how many act toward us. They fear not only the power they know we possess, but the power they imagine we possess. If their eyes are opened to an even greater power than ours, they may fight it before they realize its extent."

"You like them, don't you?" hummed Ceme. He meant the League now, and of course Prome understood. "I am surprised. I did not think they would be of import."

"I think only of us, and our path," sensed Prome. "If any other beings with such potential were established in the nexus, I would do the same."

"Yes, but these beings of the League, are they worthy?" asked Ceme.

"That the nexus cannot tell us," admitted Prome.

"So what do you propose?" Ceme already knew the answer, but the flow of communication was comforting in its familiarity.

"The test, of course," sensed Prome. "It has already begun."

TO READ MORE, you can purchase **The Eternal Messiah: Jesus of K'Turia** by W. R. Pursche and Michael Gabriele at:

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Chapter 14: Eddie Snipes, I Called Him Dancer

Reprinted from **I Called Him Dancer** _,_ a debut inspirational novel by author Eddie Snipes. Copyright 2011, by GES Publishing. Used by permission of the author and GES Publishing.

A homeless man pulled his tattered coat closer to his neck, trying to block out the early morning chill while walking toward Central Park. A woman stood before him, looking at a display outside the Majestic Theater. His eyes were drawn to the display and saw an actress in the picture wearing a fancy ballroom dress. A chilling cold ached through his body, and his legs froze in place, but forgotten memories warmed away the chill as he admired the posters outside the Broadway theater.

"It's a good play, isn't it?" The man in rags turned to face the woman. By her stylish long gray coat, he could tell she was accustomed to the finer things of New York.

The woman gave an uncomfortable smile and walked away.

With trembling hands, the man ran his fingers across the theater display. Grime smudged onto the clear sheet of acrylic guarding the words, _Return of the Phantom. A High-energy sequel to Broadway's longest running play._ He started to leave, but stopped again at the next poster. A gold frame held the lovely picture. With the tip of his finger, he outlined the face of Christine Daaé.

"Alina hasn't changed." He tapped his finger on the man wearing the phantom's mask. "Looks like there's a new Erik." Leaning close, he examined the picture. "Yep. That definitely isn't Antonio."

A deep sigh escaped from the pit of his stomach. "Things should have been different." He tried to imagine his face in the picture, half hidden behind the mask. Patting the display like the shoulder of an old friend, he turned and lumbered down the street toward his favorite tipping spot just off Broadway.

The vagrant stood at the corner of 54th Street, looking at a marquis with a longing stare. The picture of the Return of the Phantom still lingered in his mind. The glamour of the Big Apple and the names in lights proclaim the success of those who have reached stardom. In this place, dreams still come true. The entertainment industry may have changed, but here, the golden age of theater spills into the modern day.

Pedestrians covered the sidewalks, peeking into windows and hoping to glimpse one of the celebrities that bring the theater district to life. The vagrant stood on the corner of 54th and Broadway, watching as people hurried past, and hoped someone would show a little charity. Each person hurried their pace when they neared the bearded man in rank clothing.

The homeless man shrugged off their indifference. He would earn his keep without them. Hunger pangs stabbed at his stomach, but the agonizing craving in his body always took priority over meals. His body screamed for relief and he felt as though his chest would implode from the weight pressing on him. Trembling fingers ran through his matted brown hair, and the man shifted from one foot to the other while watching cars creep by. He leaned against the building and again ran both hands through his hair. He rolled the snags through his fingertips. Jumpy legs wouldn't give him a moment of rest, so he walked a few paces and waited for the light to turn red.

When the light changed, he walked to the first car and raised his spray bottle. He ignored the woman shaking her head and dodged her angry stare. He sprayed the window, cleaned it with a squeegee, and repeated the process on the other side of the windshield before walking up to the driver. The woman refused to roll down her window.

Heartless wench.

He reached across the windshield and pretended to flick off a piece of dirt, dragging his muddy sleeve through the driver's line of vision. Looking at the smudge, he said, "Oops." He smiled and raised his hands in an innocent gesture. "Maybe you'll be homeless one day and see how it feels," he grumbled under his breath, and walked toward the next car.

Raquel neared the end of her drive from Tennessee to New York. Traffic stopped, and she took the opportunity to review her directions. _The next turn_ _is the Lincoln Tunnel._ Her heart beat faster, and she wondered if it was excitement over her new opportunity, or the hope of finding Michael, who had been missing for more than two years. He'd been the inspiration behind Raquel's dream to perform on Broadway.

_I actually made it!_ The thought of being on stage in New York caused a bright smile to sweep across her face, but the cheer receded into heartache. She needed to find Michael. Only then could she fill the hole in her lonely heart.

After exiting the Jersey turnpike, Raquel followed the signs toward the Lincoln Tunnel. Traffic slowed as a flood of cars trickled through the tollbooths blocking the entrance to the tunnel. While she inched along, her thoughts raced back to her hometown of Bristol. Her stomach knotted at the thought of Robert. A shiver crawled down her spine and she had the urge to glance over her shoulder. He couldn't be following her, but she still couldn't resist the urge to check.

What's the stalker doing now?

She could envision him dialing her old cell phone number, and shrieking in rage when he found it disconnected. She had played Robert's game, letting him believe he controlled her while she planned her escape. How long did he sit at the cafe before realizing she'd given him the slip?

Is Robert calling her parents, demanding to know where she had gone? Hopefully, her mom wouldn't slip up and tell him she'd moved to New York.

"Man! Traffic is rushing like molasses on a cold morning," she complained as she thumped the steering wheel.

Raquel pulled into the tollbooth, paid, and sped into the tunnel. Another clog of taillights and exhaust stopped her. She glanced at her watch.

Good thing I gave myself an extra hour. Can't take a chance on being late for my first meeting with my new producer.

Her attention returned to Tennessee, but she forced Robert out of her thoughts. It would do no good to escape his iron grip if she left her mind in his grasp. She pushed her long brown hair behind her ear and thought about Michael. How her heart skipped the first time they danced together. When the quiet and shy boy took the stage, an awe-struck class watched him become a different person. A horn honked from behind, startling Raquel out of her musings. She pulled ahead.

I need to keep my focus on the road.

"I always knew he would make it big." Raquel's own voice almost surprised her. Her heart lifted at the idea of finding him in one of the Broadway theaters. Does he still love me? Did he ever truly love me? She couldn't keep the doubts from digging at her heart.

Accustomed to the fresh air of rural Tennessee, Raquel almost gagged at the smell of exhaust in the tunnel. She tried to focus on something positive, hoping to distract herself from the suffocating smell.

Michael's talent had placed him on the fast track to stardom, and Raquel had spent four years trying to catch up. Their goal was to dance together again. Excitement had filled his voice when he called to announce his new leading role in the Return of the Phantom, but soon after his calls quit coming.

_Why? Did he have a new life and love?_ Her heart ached at the thought, so she pushed it away. _There must be another explanation._

The scruffy man approached another car waiting at the red light, cleaned the windshield, and garnered a tip. He gave a dissatisfied stare at the money. _A dollar? The guy is wearing a suit. I know he can afford more than a buck._

At this rate, the day would end before he could make enough money to survive. He felt his rage growing, fueled by his desperate cravings. An almost overwhelming urge to smash through the window and strip drivers of their valuables came over him, but he wrestled down the feeling. When would he get a break? There were few friendly faces to greet a man down on his luck on Broadway.

Traffic continued at its agonizing pace, but Broadway crawled into view. Raquel's shoulders grew tense at the passing of each minute. With her extra hour gone, she now feared being late for her meeting.

A man near the intersection ahead distracted Raquel from her frustrations. She watched the vagrant in rags as he bounced from car to car with a squeegee and a spray bottle, cleaning windshields, and gathering tips.

A friend had warned her to always tip street washers. Though cleaning wasn't invited, they expected payment. Raquel grabbed her purse and fished for cash. She pulled out a bill.

I doubt he has change for a twenty.

Other than the money she needed for parking, Raquel could only produce a dollar and some change. She poured the change into her palm and wrapped it in the dollar as the vagrant drew near. With the precision of an experienced windshield technician, the man rushed to the passenger side, sprayed the window, and drew the squeegee across it.

When the man reached for the center of the windshield, Raquel's heart stopped, frozen in a moment of shock. The window washer's crystal blue eyes looked familiar. Excitement and confusion gripped her heart, causing her pulse to quicken. Filth and a burst of whiskers obscured his face, but did she know him? Her mind rebelled at the thought, but her heart trumpeted with recognition. She tried to get a good look as the vagrant hurried to the driver's side to finish the job. In a moment, he stood at the car window with an extended palm.

Raquel brushed her hair aside and looked up, examining the man's face, searching for Michael's features behind the grime. The man refused to look at her, but glanced back and forth as though scanning for unknown threats. She started to hand him the money, but held it for a moment and tried to get another look at his eyes.

"Dancer?"

The man's eyes widened for an instant, then narrowed. The whiskers around the corners of his mouth raised slightly. "There ain't no dancers here, lady."

Raquel stared for a moment. "You just look like someone I know as Dancer. Aren't you Michael? Michael Camp?" Suddenly, she felt embarrassed by her question. How could Dancer be a vagrant? He is certainly a Broadway star by now.

"I'd do the Tennessee two-step, but it will cost you extra."

_The voice and the eyes seem like Michael's, but that's impossible._ Raquel refused to accept the thought and began to deny her heart's realization. Her thoughts warred against reason, trying to decide whether to accept the reality standing before her, or the image of Michael she'd expected to find in New York. She opened her mouth to speak again, but a blowing horn interrupted her. The car ahead had moved thirty feet.

The driver behind her rolled down his window to voice his complaint, but the sounds of car horns obscured his words as more drivers joined the protest. Words fled. Raquel handed over the money and pulled forward, followed by the line of impatient drivers. The man walked toward the traffic light, preparing for a new line of cars and reluctant tippers. When Raquel turned the corner, she adjusted her mirror to keep the man in sight until a building obscured her view.

Raquel parked her car and took a final glance at her watch. "Ten minutes late," she moaned, then slammed the car door. Racing to the production office, she fought to push down her emotions, but she couldn't get her mind off the windshield washer. Raquel wanted to reject the idea that he could be the man she loved, but couldn't mistake those blue eyes. Could this be why she lost contact with him two years ago?

Her mind raced through the possibilities—and the impossibilities. _Is it possible that one of the nation's top dancers is now homeless? If it is Michael, how could he have ended up cleaning windshields off Broadway?_

TO READ MORE, you can purchase **I Called Him Dancer** by Eddie Snipes at:

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Chapter 15: Amanda Stephan, Lonely Hearts

Reprinted from **Lonely Hearts,** a sweet Christian romance by Amanda Stephan. Copyright 2011 by TreasureLine Publishing. Used by permission of publisher.

Becky Callis was new in town, and she felt her intrusion.

A bearded man outside the hardware store stopped sweeping with broom in mid-air, narrowly watching them as they drove past, perhaps wondering if she were the type to plunder and loot his shop. A couple of older women that had been chatting outside a tiny florist shop suddenly turned to stone, their mouths gaping open, possibly wondering what kind of woman would be caught dead in such an old pick-up truck. Becky even imagined one of their tongues hung out. She repressed a giggle and waved, receiving a incredulous half-wave from one of the women, and no acknowledgement from anyone else. She hated being stared at, and tried to keep a somewhat pleasant smile pasted on her freckled face as she drove through. She could feel her fair skin literally burning with embarrassment.

Her thirteen year old daughter, Jen, gave her a twisted frown. "Mom, what is wrong with these people?" She asked, her pixie face turning dark red as a teenage boy waved at her. "They act like they've never seen strangers before!"

Becky's grin grew larger and more realistic as she gave a two-finger salute to the policeman leaning on his squad car with arms crossed as if daring her to go faster than the posted thirty mile an hour sign. Obediently, she stopped at the one red light the town could boast of and waited for it to turn green.

"I guess," she said with a shrug, watching an old man sitting outside a diner pretend to read a newspaper. He spit tobacco juice into a jar and set it down next to his chair, his bushy eyebrows making it very clear what he was looking at. "They don't get too many newcomers here."

Her face nearly as red as her mother's, Jen grimaced and pushed her sleeping brother's head off her shoulder onto the vinyl headrest instead. "Well that's fine, but they don't have to stare. Makes me feel like we're pets in a pet shop!"

"Or beef at a cattle auction." Becky laughed at her discomfort, noticing that the green light flickered faintly before going completely out. She drove on at the urging of the honking car behind her before she spoke. Jen grunted. "Oh don't worry, they'll get used to us and I'm pretty sure you're going to like it here. Just think," she said brightly, turning onto a dirt road the ratty map indicated. "We're celebrities!"

Jen laughed and looked out the window, taking in the country scene before her, the nosy townsfolk left behind. Large open fields of tall grass, trees lining the road, and mountains off in the distance made it a lovely scene she couldn't find fault with.

Becky smiled a sad, wistful smile, thankful she had her kids. In the nine lonely years following Frank's death, she often found herself wondering how she was supposed to cope and go on as she desperately missed her 'better half.'

_Well, I'll never forget what Frank looked like_ , she thought a little morosely to herself as she glanced over at Jeff. Tall for his eleven years, his cherubic face hid a wealth of mischievousness and humor that always brightened her day, especially when he looked at her with his guilty dark brown eyes as if to say he were extremely sorry for some prank he was about to pull or had pulled. Just like his father. Her heart wrenched with sadness, and she quickly turned her thoughts to another source of comfort.

Jen. When she looked at her daughter, it was like she was looking into a mirror. Petite, sassy copper hair that loved being just a tad on the unmanageable side, her hazel eyes full of compassion and loyalty, quick to laugh and quick to cry, she promised to be a beauty when she got older. Like her mother.

_At least that's what Frank had always said_ , Becky fought against the lump that insisted on forming in her throat as more memories of her dead husband flooded in.

Just in time to stop a tirade of reminiscent thoughts that would push her into a melancholy spirit, Jeff let out a terrific snore and wetly smacked his lips, making them erupt into giggles as his head lolled once again onto his sister's shoulder. She rolled her eyes, but didn't move him.

A few minutes later, Becky pulled into what looked like a tractor path instead of a driveway and stopped abruptly when a home came into view. "Jen, would you please check the address and see if this is the right place." She asked solemnly, studying the old, dilapidated farm house, complete with thigh-high weeds for a lawn.

Brittle shutters hung on by sheer will-power next to dusty, grimy windows, a huge, antique antenna clutched a thin wire as if for dear life and tapped against the side of the house, knocking off peeling paint with every slight breeze, while a rustic lean-to that served as a shed as well as termite dessert, stood dejectedly off to one side of the drive. She tried to stifle a laugh and ended up snorting instead.

"Mom," Jen answered doubtfully, looking at the paper in her hand. "This is the right place," she wrinkled her nose, "but I don't think the guy you're renting it from told you the truth. Didn't he say it was nice?"

They looked over at each other and burst out laughing, waking Jeffrey out of a terrific snore storm.

He bolted upright and rubbed his eyes and looked out the window. "Huh? What? What are you guys laughing at? Why are we stopped here?" He asked suspiciously.

"Welcome home kids," Becky said, grinning as she pulled up alongside the drooping porch and turned off the truck.

Jen opened her door and glanced down at the weeds. Becky could almost see her thinking about ticks and bugs getting on her. "Oh my word," she muttered as she looked around, a dismal frown on her face. "How are we supposed to get in? Is he going to meet us here or something?"

Jeff, always ready for an adventure, hopped out of the truck and ran to the porch. "He said he would leave the key under the mat by the front door. Come on," he said as he ran, wanting to be there before his more precautious sister.

Unthinking, he yanked on the handle of the screen door, causing the whole thing to fall right off the frame on top of him. "Uh, mom?" He hung his head in shame, embarrassed that he'd already broken something. "I think we're going to need a new screen door!"

"I'm pretty sure that's not the only thing we're going to have to work on." Jen laughed, thankful that it had happened to him, and not her.

"Noted!" Becky answered good-naturedly, giving him a thumbs-up. She unlatched the tailgate, smacking her hands across her jeans in an effort to erase the dust she'd accrued during their long hours of driving with the windows down.

"Hey mom!" Jeff called, putting an end to her depressing musings. "You should see the beehive up here!" He pointed to a gigantic paper wasp hive in the corner of the porch ceiling.

Jen jumped off the porch, squealing as Jeff picked up a stick to poke at the hive. "Jeffrey Allen! Don't you dare!"

"Did you find the key?" Becky called, trying to distract Jeff from the beehive.

"You don't need it," he said, innocently trying to hide the stick behind his back. "The door's open."

"Leave it alone," warned Becky just as he was about to give the hive a good whack as she turned to go back to the truck.

"Aww," mumbled Jeff, dropping the stick and shuffling to the car with his hands in his pockets. "Do you have eyes in the back of your head or something?" He grumbled, stepping up next to her as she pulled some boxes toward the edge of the tailgate of her old beat-up Chevy.

"Here," she said, handing him a smaller box. "Why don't you two help me and take some of these boxes in the house. And no. I don't have eyes in the back of my head, I just know you awfully well." She smiled indulgently at him, ruffling his thick hair.

Jen grabbed a box and started hauling it to the porch. "Too bad we sold our mower. Maybe we should get a cow!" She looked hopefully back at her mother.

"What's the matter? Don't you like the grass?" Becky laughed as she pushed more boxes near the end of the truck making it easier for the kids to grab them.

"Grass?" Jeff asked dubiously, struggling with his load. "If it were any taller, it would be over my head!"

Sensing her opportunity to pick on her brother, Jen blurted, "What do you mean, 'would be'? It already is!"

Somewhat sensitive about his size, he glared ferociously at her, making her stifle any more comments she might have had.

"Come on now," Becky said repressing a grin as she slapped him on the back. "Let's all get along now. We've got a lot of work to do, and I'm going to need lots of help. Here," she handed a box of cleaning supplies to Jen, and a broom and mop to Jeff. "Please take these into the kitchen."

They did as they were told, quietly quarreling amongst themselves as they left her to stack things on the porch. Becky was just setting down another load when she heard a loud crash and screams coming from the kitchen. Immediately dropping everything, her heart in her throat, she raced into the house expecting something terrible.

Looking wildly around the kitchen, she was surprised to see both kids standing on the chipped white Formica counter, their faces white with terror. "What is it?" A large box of pots and pans lay ominously in the middle of the tiny kitchen and several lids had rolled over toward the antique refrigerator. This had obviously been the loud crash she had heard outside. Nudging the upset box with her toe, she wondered momentarily if a large poisonous spider had hitched a ride from their previous home and had scared the kids.

Jen pointed to the small utility closet at the end of the room while she clutched Jeff's arm with the other. "There's an animal in there!" She said, shuddering with horror. "I think it's a huge rat!"

"Of all the things we have to have in the house, it's got to be a rat!" Becky said shuddering convulsively, her lips stretched in a thin line. She hated rats and mice more than anything, and was always disgusted whenever she had to deal with them for some reason or other.

Cautiously, she grabbed a broom and tiptoed to the door, listening intently for any sound inside. Jeff shrugged off his sister's hand and lightly jumped down off the counter, interested in seeing for himself what was in the closet. "Do you hear anything?" he whispered.

Becky shook her head and gently twisted the knob, ready to use the broom as a weapon and squash whatever it was. Slowly, she pulled the creaky door open. Taking a deep breath, she peeped inside and caught sight of two brown eyes looking back at her. Opening the door all the way, she found to her surprise and immense relief, a pair of baby raccoons.

"Oh look," she said, motioning for Jen to come down from her perch and look.

"They're so cute," Jeff said, poking his head inside the door so he wouldn't miss a chance to see what had caused all the fuss. "Can we keep them?" he asked, looking up hopefully.

"No way," Jen said, finally getting up the nerve to climb down. "That thing scared me to death."

"I wonder how they got in here," Becky mumbled, looking around the closet.

"Maybe it got in through there," Jeff said, pointing to the broken floor register. When he stepped in to get a closer look, one of the raccoons backed up to the wall and hissed menacingly at him.

"I think we're not going to get to keep either of these little critters," Becky said, pulling him back out of the closet by the back of his shirt. "Go open the front door and I'll try to sweep them out. Jen, get the mop and head them off if they try to escape." Obediently, Jen grabbed the mop as Becky started sweeping both hissing and angry raccoons out the door. Finally, after three mishaps with one of the raccoons almost getting away and Jen re-climbing the counter screaming, they managed to sweep them both to freedom. Laughing, they hurriedly shut the door before they could change their minds and come back in.

"Jeff," Becky said, turning to him. "Get the tool box out of the front of the truck and see if you can try to fix that register so they can't get back in that way." Jeff's face lit up, happy to have a 'man's job' to do.

"We don't have much more to do," Becky sighed, as she and Jen went outside to finish unpacking the truck.

Her face red with exertion, Jen swept a few strands of hair back and stood erect, trying to unkink her back after lugging a large box into the front room. "I sure am glad that we decided to have those yard sales before we moved."

Becky puffed and tried to navigate around the room with her vision blocked by the load of boxes in her arms. "Oh come on, don't you think it would have been interesting for you, Jeff, and I to carry in a couch?" She laughed as she and Jen slid down the wall and finally slumped to the floor, relaxing.

With an air of delight and pride, Jeff came in and joined them, his grin splitting his face in half. "I tried to fix that register the best I could. I don't think he'll be back. Duct tape fixes everything!"

Becky clapped him on the back. "Thanks. And thank you too Jen. I appreciate both of your help." She leaned back and closed her eyes, drained.

Contentedly, they sat for a few minutes, hoping this could be the last move.

"Mom," Jen said, her alarmed voice breaking the silence. "Someone's here."

Groaning, Becky stood up and arched her back just in time to see an old flat bed farm truck coming up the rutted drive.

"It could be the guy we're renting from," she said, unsure of herself. Quickly, she tucked a few stray hairs behind her ears and dusted off her jeans, trying to look presentable to whoever it was.

As it neared the house, the truck turned off the driveway to park in the long grass right in front of their door. A bent over old man in greasy overalls managed to get out and limp up the steps, chewing on a weed. He spat it out and knocked before he entered the room uninvited. Alarmed, Becky stood with her hands on her hips, ready to push the fragile looking man out the door if necessary.

"Howdy," he drawled, eyeing her and the two kids. "Name's Pickles." He stuck out a grubby, calloused hand her way, obviously intending to shake.

Becky took his hand and gave it a light squeeze and a gentle shake, afraid she would hurt him. "You're the landlord?" She asked, looking over his shoulder at her open-mouthed kids.

He ran his hands up and down his overalls straps, amused. "Yup," he said, glancing around at all the boxes. "This all ya got?"

"Yup," Jeff mimicked humorously before Becky could answer. She shot him a warning look, her scowl deepening as he shrugged his shoulders and smiled like a Cheshire cat.

"That's my kind of boy," the old man grinned, scratching his bald head. "Ya got a year lease and yer rent is due the first of the month," he said, getting right to the point. "I live right down the road to the left if ya be needin' anything, just give me a holler. Glad ya made it," he stuck his hand out again.

Liking his simple, country ways, Becky found herself pumping his hand up and down a little more enthusiastically this time. "There is one thing we need, if you wouldn't mind. I don't have a lawnmower." She raised her eyebrows as she tried to give him the hint as she walked him out to the porch.

A look of pure astonishment passed across his weathered features as he scratched his head again. He thought a moment before answering. "Well ya ain't got to worry about the grass. It'll die in a few weeks when it gets colder out."

Becky followed him to his truck, not quite ready to give up. "You don't have one? We'd really like to cut the grass."

Jen snorted, close at her mother's heels. She hated being left out of conversations. "Yeah, we can't find Jeff if he steps off the path." Becky nudged her in the ribs, making her squeak.

"Sure I got one," he said, climbing into his truck. "Bye." He waved as he put the old truck in gear and drove off, another long weed clutched between his teeth.

Stunned, they watched him leave, a trail of dust clouds hanging in the air. "I think that means he'll bring it tomorrow," Jeff said after a moment, joining them on the porch. Amused, they burst into laughter at their neighbor's odd ways.
Becky ran a hand over her face, her eyes twinkling merrily. "Who's hungry?"

Always anxious to eat, Jeff gave a loud whoop as he jumped in the air. "I'm starving! What are we going to have?"

She shrugged looking from one happy child to the other. "I thought we'd just go out for something tonight, what do you think?" Grinning at their exuberant 'yes', she clapped Jeff on his shoulder and grabbed her purse.

"Let's go!"

TO READ MORE, you can purchase **Lonely Hearts** by Amanda Stephan at:

http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/100565 (ebook)

http://amzn.to/tHjKpI (Kindle)

http://amzn.to/sbVYXh (paperback)

Chapter 16: Diane Tatum, Gold Earrings

Reprinted from **Gold Earrings** a novel by Diane E. Tatum. Copyright 2011 by Tate Publishing & Enterprises, 2011. Used by permission of the author.

The Setup

Dr. Graves sank into the leather-upholstered desk chair. The early spring air was brisk on his stroll home from the Harvard Divinity School campus after a long and tiring day. Arguing theology with young, adamant, closed-minded divinity students became more and more exhausting these days. Pastoring seemed easy in comparison. Though pastoring hours were longer, at least one knew what good or ill had been accomplished at the end of each day. Teaching young theologians was much riskier. Who knew what each student might do in a church setting or on the mission field? Dr. Graves prayed that he not be held accountable for their brashness and arrogance after leaving school.

Dr. Graves pulled from his pocket the two letters the postmaster had handed him on his stroll home. He placed them side by side on the desk. One return address hailed from north Boston. The feminine hand proclaimed that the writer was his goddaughter, Angelina. He smiled at the thought of her.

"A lovely young lady," he said to the flickering gas lamps on the wall. The second return address was St. Joseph, Missouri. The big, bold hand announced regards from "The Reverend Jonathan Thomson of First Church, St. Joseph."

"Jonathan was always quite formal." He chuckled to himself. Jonathan had been one of his favorite students, a serious young man who had graduated just one term ago. "Another very stubborn, brilliant theology student."

"Which to open first?" he said.

Angelina won out as always. She was very special to him From the time Madalaine Mercy had brought her to him for consecration and asked him to be her godfather, Angelina had held a piece of his heart. Angelina had been the daughter he had never had. This was one chance when Dr. Benjamin Graves had been able to affect one life to the good. Without a named father, raised in her mother's house of ill-repute, Angelina had turned into a butterfly. She was a beautiful, young Christian lady; a tall dark-haired angel on Earth. How he loved her, despite her family tree and circumstances of birth!

As Angelina's legal guardian, Dr. Graves also handled her growing trust funds, one set up by her mother and one set up by an Italian sea captain who claimed to be her father. It bothered him sometimes, handling the money Madalaine provided for the fund from her brothel. He rationalized that the money would go to a worthwhile cause when put into Angelina's hands on her eighteenth birthday in two weeks. The sea captain at least made his money honestly. He turned the envelope over and broke the wax seal. The pages crackled as he opened the sheets to read.

Dear Dr. Ben:

As I'm sure you are aware, my eighteenth birthday will arrive in just over two weeks. As you also know, I am no longer living at Mama's due to the unfortunate incident of a year ago. I hope to move to a place where no one would know of my past and could accept me as myself and not as Madalaine Mercy's daughter. Could you pray on the matter of a place where I could go?

Mama told me yesterday of a trust fund she had set up long ago with you as the guardian. I know you have safely and wisely invested the money. I plan to come to your home on Tuesday, the twenty-first, to arrange the transfer of the funds to my own account at Mr. Anderson's Bank of Boston.

Business aside, I want to thank you for your love during these eighteen years. Most of all I thank you for the religious training you provided, which led to my salvation in Jesus Christ. I trust that as I venture into a new world that He will guide me and provide for me a place where I can find human love and a proper home. I look forward to seeing you on Tuesday. Give my love to Aunt Agatha as well.

Love in Christ,

Angelina

Dr. Graves looked at the April calendar on the wall. He marked the dates on the calendar. Angelina's birthday was on the twenty-eighth. Her visit would take place on the twenty-first. She surely knew how to handle money. The funds could be transferred easily on her birthday once the paperwork was complete. Today was the fourteenth. Only a week would pass before her visit. He'd have a week to pray and consider his advice to her. Perhaps New York City or Philadelphia would be good choices. She would have liked Richmond or Charleston if it hadn't been for that foolish war.

Reconstruction was not much of a success in the South after all. The Lord would know the best plan. Dr. Graves knew to leave it up to Him.

Carefully setting Angelina's letter aside for Agatha to read later, he slit open Jonathan Thomson's letter. His powerful pen strokes jumped from the pages.

Dear Dr. Graves,

I wanted to let you know what the Lord has made of me so far. As you know, First Church, St. Joseph, has called me to their gospel ministry. I serve a faithful congregation of townsfolk, ranchers, and farmers. Unfortunately, sin abounds here on this western edge of civilization, with all those who pass through town heading west. I continue to hold the light of Christ high in this ever-growing part of the country.

Dr. Graves frowned and shook his head. Yes, Jonathan was a brilliant theologian, but had he not grasped the perspective of the entire Scripture? Could he still see the love of God for these sinners? What kind of theology saw only the responsibility of showing sinners God's purity without also showing them His love for them? Dr. Graves sighed deeply. It was just this kind of thing he feared day after day in the classroom. He continued to read:

I am anticipating the bonds of matrimony after a proper and suitable courtship. The woman in question is a Miss Alice Bardsley. She is pretty, after a fashion. She is companionable enough and persistent in her affections. Her father is influential in St. Joe, and, therefore, a marriage to her could bring some of the stragglers into the church through the family's influence. She seems to have a few vices, gossip, and flirtatiousness among them. Marriage would do much to tame her in these areas.

Dr. Graves stood bolt upright, the chair crashing to the floor.

"What!" he bellowed. "What kind of a marriage is that?"

"Ben!" A female voice shouted from the other side of the closed study door. "Are you all right, dear?"

Dr. Graves strode to the study door quickly and opened it. He found his small, gray-haired wife there.

"I'm fine, Agatha," assured Dr. Graves. "I've merely had some astounding news from one of my former students."

He looked down at this gentle woman who had been his wife for these twenty-five years. Her brow furrowed in worry. His smile at her brought a smile to her lips, and they kissed.

"Dinner will be served shortly, Ben," she finally replied, when it became obvious that he would tell her no more. It had been this way when he was a pastor. She knew not to ask any more questions.

"I've had a note from Angelina as well," he told her with anticipation of her delight. "She sends her love to you too. She'll be here a week hence to transact some business related to her eighteenth birthday. We must celebrate with her while she is here."

"How lovely, dear," replied Mrs. Graves with enthusiasm.

"Not nearly as lovely as you are to me, my love," Dr. Graves replied affectionately. "I'll be to the table shortly."

He watched her go with a twinkle in his eye. _No, God did not intend us to merely have a companion and correct her vices,_ he thought. _What utter nonsense!_

He closed the door, righted the chair, and picked up the letter from Jonathan he had tossed to the floor in his outrage. He completed reading the lines swiftly so as not the be late to his dinner date with his dear wife.

And so, Dr. Graves, that is how it fares so far. I attempt to seek out the sinners and share with them the fear of God and hell so necessary to their salvation, and I hope to have found a suitable helpmate for my ministry in St. Joe. If you have suggestions, I am open to your insights into the ministry of a pastor. If you are ever in the Midwest, please feel free to stop in and see me.

I am ever so grateful for the instruction you gave me as my mentor and look forward to being of assistance to you in any way humanly possible.

Your humble servant,

Reverend Jonathan Thomson

_How alone that young man has been,_ he thought. _Going to sea at fourteen after his parents' death and coming to divinity school after injury during that confounded war. He was then the oldest in a class of young college and divinity students. If only he had someone special to love and care for him,_ Dr. Graves pondered. _Marriage to someone special would make him a better pastor too._

The germ of thought fermented in the mind of Dr. Benjamin Graves at that moment. The inspiration grew. But would it be ethical?

"Ben!" Agatha called from the downstairs foyer. "Dinner's on!"

Taking another look at the two letters on his desk, he consigned the idea to after-dinner reflection and went downstairs to the meal.

Following dinner, Dr. Graves returned to the study. He quickly reread each of the letters.

_Could it be a coincidence that they arrived on the same day?_ he reflected. _No, I don't believe in coincidence; only God incidents_.

Dr. Graves strode to the window and looked out at the lights of Boston in the distance. He pictured Angelina hard at work on the accounts at Martino's General Store. In his mind's eye, he saw her twinkling sapphire eyes and her long midnight hair as she used the brilliant mind God had given her.

He blinked and imagined the West he'd read about in the news. He pictured the tall, blond man he knew Jonathan to be, serving in the wilderness, alone.

_Then could it be the providence of God that has placed the lives of these two young people into my hands? Surely God does work in mysterious ways when He answers prayer,_ he reminded himself. _I have often prayed for these two young people._

With that thought, Dr. Graves crossed the room to the desk and prayed silently for a moment in the leather chair. Finally, he pulled two sheets of stationery, the ink bottle, and a pen from the top drawer of the desk and began to compose two letters.

TO READ MORE, you can purchase **Gold Earrings** by Diane Tatum at:

http://tinyurl.com/6ehu4ea (paperback).

Chapter 17: Kenneth Winters, The Lost Crown of Colonnade

Reprinted from **The Lost Sword of Colonnade** , a fantasy novel by Kenneth G. Winters. Copyright 2011 by Xulon Press.com. Used by permission of the author.

A Strange Entrance

Davey Johnsen sprawled out on his luxurious leather recliner in the mini-mansion he called home. He had spent the afternoon playing game after game on his giant screen computer HDTV entertainment center. Looking at the remote control, he noticed something new.

I don't remember a purple button. I wonder what that does?

So, like many of us would do, he pushed it to find out. Before he had time to think more about it, he realized there wasn't any show or game on the TV. Rather, for a moment, he was on screen. He could see and feel himself being drawn into the giant screen. He felt goose bumps all over his body as he traveled briefly into the TV. He was surrounded by air charged with static electricity. All the hair on his body stuck straight up from those goose bumps. He could see little blue bolts of electricity attached to each hair.

A moment later the screen wasn't even there! He couldn't see it, his mom's antique and very valuable Tiffany lamp, or the plush leather couch and chairs.

"I must be losing my mind!" Davey screamed. No one else heard. Then he passed out.

He woke up suddenly, feeling cold water dripping onto his nose. Looking straight up, he opened his eyes just in time to watch another drop fall from a pointed formation. It was a bulls-eye, right in his right eye.

Wiping the water out of his eye, he glanced at his watch. Two hours of his life unaccounted for, swallowed up in his faded consciousness. The air was cool, too cool to be his living room. Davey was all alone in a very dark place.

_How in the world did I get here?_ His heart pounded with excitement and fear. His chest rose and fell as he fought to catch his breath. He'd never had a panic attack, although his mom had described them. He was close to having one now.

Then he thought, _OK, David Johnsen, just calm down, mellow out. I must be dreaming!_ But this was much more real than all of his fantasy adventures.

Davey had developed quite an imagination. After turning seven he'd been unable to run or play many sports. For the past seven and a half years he was primarily limited to indoor activities. Since his parents were quite rich, he had a lot of choices. His mom and dad weren't billionaire rich like Bill Gates or Donald Trump. They were merely the multi-millionaire kind of rich. That meant he could choose from an amazing variety of indoor fun.

Davey's leather chair was a special one. At the push of a button it helped him to stand up. Like his walker, the chair was used mostly by senior citizens with various physical problems. Surrounding the chair in his own giant playroom was every electronic toy and entertainment system that you can imagine.

What he didn't have was a mom and dad who were really interested in their physically-challenged fourteen-year-old son. They were too busy making money and impressing other rich and powerful people to give him the attention and love he needed.

In his fantasies Davey would become a great baseball player hitting towering home runs with two out in the bottom of the ninth inning. On other days he would read about people like Robin Hood, King Arthur, Sir Lancelot and all that was kingly and knightly and noble. More often than not he became the main character of the story. He killed the dragon, robbed from the rich to give to the poor and defeated the wicked sheriff. Or, as he read a science fiction story, he would be featured as the hero defeating a villain with a scaly body, huge fangs, and four or five arms with multiple claws. Usually its body, mouth and nose were dripping some kind of disgusting goop of various nauseating colors.

Another drop of water dripped on his face from the ceiling (or whatever you call the top of a cavern). Looking up he noticed a cone-shaped mineral formation was the source of the drops of water. There were many of them, dripping water everywhere. You may know that these are called "stalagtites." Below each stalagtite, there was a matching cone forming on the floor. These are called "stalagmites." One of those stalagmites was centered very uncomfortably behind his neck. Fortunately it was one of the small ones. He sat up and took a closer look at the surroundings. His eyes were adjusting to the light and he could make out more of the cavern.

He could see only darkness to his right. The source of the light came from the smaller tunnel to his left. The light was faint but definitely there. Looking that way he could see everything more clearly.

_Well, I guess I'll try crawling in that direction._ Without his walker and braces that was all he could manage at home. They had not made the journey with him. As he started out he gradually noticed that he had more strength than he could remember having in his legs, in his arms, in his entire body.

After crawling a while, he thought, _Wow, I feel so different. I think I'll try standing up_. He did. "OOWWW!" he yelled as his head hit the roof of the cave. He felt the top of his head and laughed at himself for standing up straight and tall in a place that wasn't tall enough. The height inside the cavern varied greatly.

Next time, he stood up more carefully, bending some at the waist. _Well, what do you know about that?_ he thought. _I may just try and take a few steps._ And he did. Only he didn't take just a few steps. He walked slowly, carefully. Each moment he expected his legs to weaken and that he would take a hard fall on his face or on his butt.

Instead, for the first time in over seven years, he walked without crutches, a walker or braces. He did not fall. He found himself gaining confidence in his legs that had been so unreliable. There was energy within him that he hadn't felt in years. He felt better than ever before.

_I can, I can really walk. What a great dream this is! I don't ever want to wake up_! With that, he pinched himself, but he didn't wake up. As you have probably figured out, he wasn't asleep. Davey still wasn't sure.

He walked steadily for at least ten minutes, ducking down or standing up depending on the height of the tunnel. Then the tunnel split in two directions. To the left he saw a wide tunnel that gave off the foul odor of rotten-eggs. To the right was a small cave about three feet wide, so short that he couldn't stand up in it at all. It was from this tunnel that the dim light and the fresh air came. Davey decided to skip the large dreary tunnel and see where the smaller one led. He had to alternate between walking and crawling in order to fit through the small space. Mostly he crawled. Progress was extremely difficult at times.

If Davey had been limited to the physical strength he had for the last seven years, he would never have made it. In one place rocks had been piled or had fallen across the tunnel. There was a small opening near the top of the cave, just enough to allow air and light to enter. Grabbing one rock after another, Davey made the hole larger until there was enough room for him to squeeze through. As he struggled and inched forward he saw the source of the light just ahead. He pushed and squirmed a few more yards until he crawled up and out of the tunnel into the brightness of a cloudless, moonlit sky.

Davey was on the side of a mountain. It was quite steep. As he stood up he had to be careful not to slide. Looking up, he could see a stark, shining conical peak. He did not want to go that way. Looking down, he saw a smooth black surface with occasional patches of stones, sand and soil. He was about a third of the way down the mountainside. Above the tree line the mountain was grey and barren. There were a few low bushes scattered here and there. Where the bushes ended he saw trees. They were pines that gradually increased in height and beauty. Further down the mountainside the trees reminded him of the tall Ponderosa pines of the Rocky Mountains. He couldn't be sure from this distance, but he thought he could see hardwood trees beyond the evergreens. In that direction, the dark green forest was broken by a meandering line down the middle of it. The line was actually a rippling river shining like silver in the moonlight. It seemed to have its source somewhere to the north. He couldn't tell exactly where. All along the winding glistening stream the forest was an even deeper green. The trees in the valley looked like a bumpy green carpet.

Davey knew a lot about trees and plant life from all the time he spent reading, watching documentaries on TV and surfing the net. There were trees as far as the eye could see. Nothing moved. He couldn't hear a single sound. That bothered him, though he didn't know why.

_I think I'd better take a better look around before I start down the side of the mountain. I hope my legs are up to this._ He looked to his left and knew immediately why he could see so clearly even though it was night. The moon was incredibly large. Davey didn't know if it was because this moon was larger or closer. It lit the night sky with a beautiful glow.

_Wow! This is just like some of the science fiction books I've read. I'm not seeing the 'man on the moon.' I can make out some craters and mountain ranges without a telescope!_ With that thought he closed his eyes tightly and pinched himself again, much harder than before. When he opened his eyes, he fully expected to find himself back home in his recliner in good old Long View, Connecticut, parked in front of the giant screen TV. Instead, the mountain was still there, the wilderness was still there, the river was still there and the large bright moon was definitely, well, you guessed it, still there.

"This is really weird!" he said. He enjoyed hearing a voice, even if it was just his own. "I can't seem to make this dream end. I do wonder if I've imagined just once too often. It sure feels real, but it just can't be, can it? What is this place? How did I get here? What should I do?" These and scores of other questions competed for first-place, his brain headed towards overload. _Stop it David Johnsen! I've got to stop letting my mind race out of control. I've got to stop and think. How do I get back home?_

His thoughts turned to his large suburban home in Long View, Connecticut, and to his parents. He could see them, all dressed-up as they often were. His dad's name was Richard Johnsen. His mom's name was Evelyn Esther Dereuter-Johnsen. She liked the hyphen, Davey didn't. Dad never gave an opinion.

Their house had eighteen rooms plus six full bathrooms, an indoor-outdoor pool and a couple of large Jacuzzis. The pool and the surrounding patio were like something out of a large resort in the Caribbean. The roof retracted fully into the ground so that when it was nice weather, you weren't even aware there was a roof. If it began to rain or the air temperature fell below 80 degrees, the roof automatically emerged from the ground, protecting swimmers and sunbathers. That's a nice feature to have in the Northeast. It's not one very many families can afford.

From the waist up, Davey was no weakling. Almost every day he swam in the pool. On the warm summer days he could swim with the roof open. On the cold or wet days, and there were many of those in Connecticut, the roof would remain closed. Either way, a flick of the thermostat could bring the water to exactly the best temperature for swimming.

Davey loved to swim. Most of his propulsion came from his arms. Years of struggling with crutches or in and out of cars with his weakened legs had helped him develop considerable upper body strength. Plus, he enjoyed sets of curls and other arm and chest exercises that he could do from a sitting position. He would never become an Olympic wrestling champion, but given the opportunity he could have beaten most guys his age at arm wrestling.

A bird called overhead, flying toward the dark woods by the river. He felt strangely relieved to see a bird in flight, even though it was just a sparrow. It was the first living thing he had seen in this place.

_It's time for me to get moving_. _Once I reach that wilderness, it's going to be a lot darker_. So picking himself up, rejoicing again in his newfound walking ability, he started off in the direction where he hoped to find the river.

People in jungles and frontier areas usually settle along rivers, he thought. Since Davey had spent a lot of time watching PBS and Discovery Channel and doing research online, he had a good deal of knowledge that would help him in this new place, even if it couldn't help him figure out where this new place was. He still wasn't absolutely sure this wasn't all a crazy dream.

He said, "If this is real, I don't have a clue where in the world I am. I don't even know where in the universe I am!" Then, adapting a line from a famous movie, he added with a chuckle, "I'm not in Connecticut anymore." He found himself humming the song "We're off to see the Wizard" as he continued down the mountain.

For five minutes he carefully cut a path across the mountainside, gradually angling his way down like a skier traversing a slope. He was making pretty good progress, but focused more on songs from "The Wizard of Oz" than on his feet.

His hummed rendition of "Over the Rainbow" was interrupted when his left foot caught the edge of a sharp rock. Everything changed in a hurry. Remember, he was fairly new at this walking business, and this wasn't easy terrain for a novice. He slipped and tripped and down he went. Digging his heels into the rocky ground, he was about to pick himself up when the ground beneath him started moving, sliding down the mountainside, bringing Davey along with it. Desperately he grabbed at the dirt and volcanic rock, trying to stop. But the cooled lava was very slippery. A thin layer of sand, stones and dirt was spread over the dark shiny surface. The more he grabbed the more stuff seemed to join him on his journey down the mountainside.

"Ayeeeeeee!" he yelled as he slid down a good portion of the mountain. Lots of dirt, pebbles and larger stones joined him until he felt like the whole mountain might come along for the ride. After what seemed like hours, he came to a place where the mountain was not nearly as steep. Sliding on his butt, he stuck his heels into the ground, flipped over on his face and stopped, grabbing at the dirt with his hands. His fingernails were filled with dirt and small pebbles. The palms of both hands were almost rubbed raw. His nose was clogged with dirt and grains of sand.

_Plllunk, Plunk, Plunk-Plunk! Ker THUMP!_ Davey had stopped but the dirt and stones were still sliding and hitting his back and the top of his head. Finally they stopped.

Davey hacked up sand from his throat and tried to clear his nostrils so he could breathe. Then he took stock of himself. His ribs hurt a little, but he found no serious injuries.

"This walking business isn't as easy as it looks," he said. In spite of the bruises he did feel rather good about making 15 minutes worth of the downward climb in about 15 seconds.

Well, my clothes are really a mess now. Mom will never understand this! But at least I'm still in one piece. I must be more careful. Then again, she'll never believe that I fell while walking down a mountainside, or while walking at all, come to think of it!

The rest of his hike down the mountain was a lot less scary. The incline gradually grew less steep until he reached the valley floor below. Looking back he could see that the mountain came to a cone-shaped peak, with part of the cone broken off. This all fit in with the kind of rock he'd just used as a giant slide. _It must be an old volcano_ , Davey thought. _That would explain the smoky tunnel too. I'm glad it isn't too active._

He heard a deep grumbling. It wasn't the volcano. The noise came from the inside, not the outside. His stomach was growling. He set off in the direction he believed was toward the river. The rumblings gradually became worse.

_Funny, in all of the adventures I imagined at home I never thought about my stomach growling._ He smiled. _Things just aren't the same as you imagine they will be._

His mind wandered back to a trip he had taken to Disney World with his parents two years before. He had eagerly looked forward to that trip. When it finally arrived, his dad had scheduled numerous business meetings and Mom spent most of the time with her friends. He spent the time at the wonderful amusement park with a small group of other kids with similar physical limitations. He wouldn't have minded that so much, but he had never met any of them before. Everyone else had at least one friend in the group, but Davey didn't fit in. It was not the trip he had anticipated. Once again there had been too little time as a family and too much time alone. That was the way his parents were.

The moon was setting, its soft yellow light dimming. It was getting very dark. As a single tear slid down his cheek, Davey found a spot to sit and think. Instead, he fell asleep.

* * *

Three hours later, as the sun was beginning to rise behind him, Davey awoke. Or should I say he was awakened by some strange sounds. Once again the sounds were coming from him. His growling stomach no longer amused him. He felt hungrier than he'd ever been before. He'd never gone without food. On the occasions when they were together, his family always dined at 6:00 p.m. Of course, most of the time, they didn't eat together. In any case, the staff served Davey's dinner promptly at the same time every day. In this new place, dawn was about to break.

"Punctuality is one of the keys to success. If you can't be on time, you won't make a dime," his dad often said to him or to anyone who would listen.

It took Davey another three hours to walk through the forest and reach the river. A path cut its way quite nicely to the riverside. He looked at the sun rising and the land filling with an orange light.

"This must be the west bank, he whispered to himself. "At least it would be the west bank if the sun rises the same way here as it does back home. I wonder if the water is any good to drink."

It had been quite a while since he drank his last soda. His lips were parched and his tongue was dry. Bending down, he cupped his hands, bringing some of the crystal clear water to his mouth. He was hesitant at first, knowing that parasites and other nasty little critters can live in rivers and streams. This water was delicious, more wonderful than any water he had ever tasted, more wonderful than any water he had ever imagined. After his first sip, he drank deeply from the river. The water was so cold, clear and refreshing. _This is richer and more filling than water I'm used to_ , he reflected. He would never forget that water and that feeling. _Honestly, I'd really love a burger or a pizza, but this is better than nothing._ He noticed his stomach had stopped growling as the water reached its destination.

_I don't know why, but I do feel much stronger now, ready to start another walk._ Turning to his left he could see the source of the river. It was a beautiful waterfall on the side of a majestic mountain, much larger than the one he had just left. He was at least a mile away, but the waterfall was so powerful he could faintly hear it. The silver strand of the falls cascaded hundreds of feet, glistening in early morning light. He had never seen such a beautiful waterfall before. Niagara with its gigantic force couldn't compare with the simple beauty of this silver thread seen at a distance. Only the mountains could be seen from his vantage point. The rest of the North was hidden from view by the deep forest that grew right up to the riverbank.

_Well, I must be off, and if I am to stick to the river, which at least will keep me from dying of thirst, I must go south._ He paused for another drink of water and checked his sports watch.

"Wow, I've been gone a long time! Mom must be frantic, and James too," he said to himself. James was their butler and was in charge of the other two servants: a maid, Gertrude, and a French chef, Marcel. James and Gertrude had actually done more to raise Davey than either of his parents. It never occurred to Davey that his dad might be concerned.

Davey had been homeschooled because of his physical limitations. Homeschooling is pretty popular today among parents who prefer to combine education with passing on traditional moral values and faith in their children. For Davey's parents, homeschooling wasn't like that at all. Neither one of them made much of an effort to be involved in his education. They were much too busy with careers and social life for that. Homeschooling at their house meant they hired an endless supply of private tutors at considerable expense. Since he didn't go to public school and his parents seemed hesitant to have him get together with others his age, Davey didn't make many friends.

When his tutors weren't with him, he spent much of his time sitting in his recliner in his own special entertainment room. With the touch of a button on his multiple remote controls he could listen to his surround sound stereo, enjoy his giant screen 3-D HDTV or watch a Blu-ray movie of the highest quality. On some particularly boring summer days he would push a button on the remote and access the computer games and internet activities. All were shown in brilliant resolution on the same giant screen. At times he was entertained by these games. Other times the games could become downright boring.

His mom often said, "You can do whatever you want in your special room." Sometimes Davey responded to his mom by thinking, _Do whatever I want? Yeah, right!_

Davey thoughts moved back to his present situation. _Oh well, what's done is done. I don't know of any way of getting back. I don't even know where I am._ A rush of similar and even sadder thoughts filled Davey's mind, until soon he was feeling quite homesick and sorry for himself. He felt very alone. It didn't seem like a dream any longer. As he walked a few quiet tears began to wind their way down his cheeks.

_This is no way to act on an adventure! I never shed a single tear in all my imaginary exploits_ , he thought. Then Davey wiped his face and snorted, willing himself to stop crying. He washed his face in the river, took another drink, sighed deeply, and continued walking.

"I'm sure glad no one was around to see that. Crud, I'll be fifteen soon!" he said. But as most men and boys don't like to admit, they do sometimes cry. In spite of his mixed feelings about his folks, Davey was very homesick, just the way many teens get homesick if they go away to a boarding school, or even for their freshman year at college. Young soldiers and sailors get homesick when they go off to boot camp or on their first deployment far away from home. Even older sailors get homesick on long deployments. You can take my word for it.

The rest of the morning he walked and walked. Most of it was easy going, walking on a clear path next to the river. In a few places parts of the river bank had eroded and collapsed. The path disappeared and the bank became a gooey marsh. In these areas Davey had to cut away from the bank into a tangle of deep undergrowth that was near the edge of the wilderness.

As he tried to circumvent one of those marshy areas, Davey stepped into a really muddy place with his left foot. His right foot was on solid ground, but his left leg was rapidly sinking down into the gush. Reaching to his right he grabbed onto the ground. Pushing and pulling with his hands and right foot, he struggled against the mud. Using all his strength he pulled his left leg free.

"Oh CRUD!" he said as the suction of the mud pulled his sneaker from his foot. He jumped onto the solid ground without it. Turning around he yelled at the marsh, "Oh no you don't!"

The mud was quickly closing over his shoe. Reaching over as far as he could without falling into the mud, Davey grabbed hold of the sneaker just as it was about to disappear. The mud held it fast for a moment. He pulled with all his might.

"You're not getting away from me, you stinkin' shoe!" Davey yelled at the inanimate object. With one last pull the sneaker came loose with a loud _PLOP!_ Mud sprayed everywhere. His clothing was a total mess. And he was right about his shoe. It was really "stinkin!" When he made it back to the river, he found a little eddy. Sitting down on the river bank, he did his best to clean himself off. He immersed the shoe into the water and scrubbed it. No matter how he tried he couldn't get all of the mud off the outside or out of the inside of that shoe.

He pulled his shoe back on. _Now that's not very comfortable!_ If you have ever walked in wet shoes you know what he meant.

Even with a squishy shoe, he was thrilled with the knowledge that he could walk. When he came to a section of the path that was solid ground, he decided to run for fifty yards or so just to see if he could. As you may have figured out, he really could. He found himself running and leaping and jumping around, feeling the pure thrill of being able to do this simple thing most youth take for granted. In fact, Americans of all ages take walking and running so much for granted that we don't do enough of either. We do a lot of eating instead.

* * *

The excitement he was feeling wore off quickly. His stomach began to growl all over again, reminding him that he hadn't eaten in what seemed like forever! In his entire life he had never gone this long without something to eat. He tried not to think about it, but more and more he wanted food, especially a pizza. His bedroom at home with its top-notch pillow top mattress and warm blankets popped into his mind. Never before had he been this alone, or gone without food this long. It would have been the middle of the night in his home, perhaps 4:00 a.m. He had never been up that late before. In spite of the refreshing qualities of the water, he was beat, really beat.

_I have to rest a while. It doesn't seem too dangerous around here, but I'd better get off the path into the woods just in case._ Davey picked his way through the low brush near the riverbank and walked for a few minutes into the woods. As he did the trees changed, with the cedar trees near the river giving way to oaks and maples. In the midst of those he found a small grove of evergreen trees. He got under the cover of the low-lying pine branches. _I hope there aren't any snakes,_ was his last thought _._ Then he fell sound asleep using some of the old pine needles as a mattress. He really was quite comfortable.

TO READ MORE, you can purchase **The Lost Sword of Colonnade** by Kenneth G. Winters at:

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Young Adult

Chapter 18: Tom Blubaugh, Night of the Cossack

Reprinted from **Night of the Cossack** by Tom Blubaugh. Copyright 2011 by Bound by Faith Publishers. Used by permission of Bound by Faith Publishers. Historical fiction.

Nathan's eyes flew open. Sounds, screams and gunshots penetrated the cold air of his upstairs bedroom. The pungent smell of smoke invaded his nose. He coughed. _Am I having a nightmare?_ Shadows danced wildly across the ceiling and down the walls.

Heart pounding, he threw off his covers, jumped out of bed, and rushed to the window. His little brother, Israel, followed.

It's real!

"What is it, Nathan?" Israel whispered.

Nathan pulled his brother against the wall behind him.

"Hey! I want to see!"

"Shush, Israel." Nathan looked through the window at the valley below, his heart racing. Men in long coats and fur hats were running through the village brandishing swords and raising rifles. _Cossacks!_

The Bukolovs' and the Gorbenkos' houses were burning. Bodies lay on the ground. He couldn't tell who they were, but he knew they were friends.

Momma rushed into the room. "Get away from that window, Nathan!"

"Those are Cossack soldiers, Momma!"

"Cossacks," echoed Israel.

"Get dressed, Nathan. Hurry."

Nathan hesitated at the window.

"Now!" she shouted, grabbing him with such force he lost his balance. "Get dressed. Bring your coat."

Nathan turned from the window.

Momma pulled Israel's clothes from the hook behind the door, hurried him into them, and down the stairs.

Nathan shoved his trembling hands into his shirt, the horrible scenes replaying in his mind—houses ablaze, soldiers on horseback, dead bodies, his friends in terror. _Why are the Cossacks here? What do they want?_

He pushed his feet into his boots, jumped up, and hurried to the chest at the foot of the bed. Lifting the lid, he pulled out a knife in its sheath and shoved it into his right boot. He reached back for a leather bag containing lead balls and patches, and a powder horn. He fastened the pouch and powder horn to his belt. The firelight danced across his father's pistol. He picked up the gun and balanced it in his right hand. _Momma said I can't use it until I'm older. She doesn't know I've taken it out when I've gone hunting and practiced shooting it. I'm sixteen. I'm a man. Why should I have to wait?_ The thought calmed him.

Nathan shoved the unloaded gun into his belt, went back to the window, and stared at the nightmare below. He turned away and tried to close his mind against the violence. His rifle, loaded and ready to fire leaned against the wall in the corner. He slipped his arm through the sling, hefted the rifle on his shoulder, and grabbed his coat. He ran down the stairs.

The back door banged in the cold January wind. Nathan pushed his right shoulder against the door and forced his way through. A bitter gust whipped down from the Caucasus Mountains and hit him full in the face, pushing him off balance.

Nathan gasped as acrid fumes attacked his nose and stung his eyes. He blinked away the tears and peered through the smoke. Momma moved like a ghost across the yard, her robe billowing behind her. Her long, black hair blew wildly in the wind. She was only halfway across the yard pulling Israel by the hand. _Why isn't she already in the root cellar?_ Then he knew the answer—she had waited until he was out of the house.

Nathan lowered his head and fought his way after her. A few meters from the cellar, he froze when he heard the piercing squeal of his terrified horse. He turned toward the barn. "Aza, I'm here. I'm coming," he yelled.

Before he reached the barn a woman's scream ran a chill up his spine. The sound was cut short, followed by an ominous silence. Nathan felt sick. _Momma?_

He glanced toward the cellar. He couldn't see Momma or Israel. Fearing the worst, he turned and stumbled toward the underground room. His eyes still stinging, he stumbled to the entrance, using his rifle as a crutch to keep him upright.

"Momma?" he whispered.

Silence. His heart stopped.

"I hear you, Nathan. We're all right."

Nathan staggered down the steps with relief. His mind swirled with images and terrible sounds. His thoughts returned to Aza. He turned back to the steps.

"Nathan, stay here!"

"I must go to Aza, Momma. I heard him scream. He's panicked, he could hurt himself."

"What can you do for him, Nathan?"

"I can calm him down and turn him loose into the woods. If they set the barn on fire, he'll die. He'll be safe in the woods. I must go!"

"You're more important than your horse. I, we need you here with us. Stay, Nathan. I couldn't bear to lose you."

Nathan was torn. Breathing a heavy sigh in resignation as he pulled the cellar door shut, he let his eyes adjust to the dark. He leaned his rifle against the wall.

Momma wrapped her arms around her older son. Nathan felt her shiver. He knew she was more afraid than cold. _Had she heard the scream?_

She sank to her knees, pulling Nathan down. "I know you're afraid," she whispered.

Nathan tensed. "I'm not afraid. I'm a man—the man of the house. You've said this yourself." He pulled away from her. "You say I'm brave and strong. You tell me I'm like Papa, but you treat me like a little boy."

"Nathan, you're both. You're my little boy, but at the same time you're a man. Can you understand?"

Ignoring her question he said, "Papa should be here to protect us. I didn't even get to tell him good-bye."

"Don't be angry, Nathan. He loved you very much. He loved all of us." She slipped her arms around him again saying, "It was an accident. There was no chance for anyone to say good-bye. Dying wasn't his choice. You're a man, Nathan. You look just like him—tall and strong, yet gentle. You have his black, wavy hair, hazel eyes, even his strong chin. What would I do without you?"

Nathan didn't say anything. He couldn't stay mad at her. Her soft voice melted his heart. _Even when she's afraid, she comforts me._ _Momma's right. About all of it. It isn't her fault Papa died._

His anger, no longer directed at her, receded.

"Momma, are we going to be all right?" asked Israel.

"I pray we will, son. Who can know with certainty?"

"I'm scared, Momma," Israel said.

"I know, son, I know."

Nathan felt her arms leave him. In a few seconds, he felt her rocking against him. He knew she was holding Israel.

The woman's scream crept into Nathan's mind again. He put his hands over his ears as if he could silence it. _Was it Vasile's mother?_

Vasile was his best friend. It didn't matter to Vasile that Nathan was a Jew. The two of them hunted elk, roe deer, wild boar, rabbit, and birds almost every day and rode their horses all over the surrounding countryside. They raced. Aza was faster and Nathan always won. _Where is Vasile? Is he alive? Is he hiding in his cellar? Does he have his rifle?_

Nathan was the better shot even though he was two years younger. The men in the village used to wager on which boy would bring in the most game.

The wind howling through the spaces in the cellar door pulled Nathan from his thoughts. He realized he couldn't dwell on Vasile and his family. It was too painful.

His thoughts turned toward the village. Gagra sat at the base of the Caucasus Mountains in northern Georgia, on the eastern shore of the Black Sea. Tonight was one of the rare times the mountains let the Arctic winds assault the village. _The Cossacks seem to have blown in like a whirlwind. Why have they attacked us? What is here that they want? Women? Food? Weapons? Many of the houses are already damaged and there are few families._

Nathan stroked the handle of Papa's pistol. His father found it after the Turks raided the village. He told Nathan a Turkish soldier must have dropped the gun. The rifle and ammunition bag were gifts to Papa from a woman who lost her husband during the raid. That was when Papa became the village hunter. _I'm the hunter now._

A strong gust rattled the cellar door, startling Nathan. When it died down, he could hear the terror of the night—constant gunfire, men cursing, women wailing. The sight of the burning house flooded his mind again. _Please God, don't let them burn our house._

Time crept past. The gunfire died down and the yells ceased. Suddenly, there was the sound of hoofbeats on the road—many horses at a gallop. The sound faded into the night.

"Momma, I think the Cossacks have gone. I'll see if it's safe now."

"No, son." She pulled Nathan to her and held him tight. "Wait a few minutes more. Maybe the fires will die down."

"The wind's too strong, Momma," he protested. "The fires will burn all night. I need to see." He tried to pull away from her.

She tightened her hold on him. "What can you do if it isn't safe, Nathan?"

_What can I do? I must do what Papa would do. I must be a man like Papa._ "I'll be careful," he said pulling free of her.

He reached for his rifle, crept up the steps, and pushed the door open just enough to see into the yard. The fires from the burning village houses cast an eerie glow on the thick smoke swirling in the wind. He breathed a sigh of relief as he realized their home was still standing.

"The house and barn look to be all right," he whispered to his mother. "Aza is safe. I won't be gone long."

Before she could protest, he pushed open the door and stepped into the yard. He let the door go just as Momma cried, "No, Nathan!"

He crossed the yard in a crouch, the rifle gripped tightly in his hands. The wind pushed at him with angry fingers. The back door was shut. _This is good. Perhaps no one has gone inside._

He slipped into the house, pulled the door closed, and stood still listening for any sounds. There were none except from the outside. The smell of smoke was strong. The blaze of fires lit the room with an odd glow. Through a window, he could see the village. A strange peace filled the house in contrast to the nightmare outside.

Nathan checked each room. _Clear._ He ran up the stairs. Satisfied everything was in place he returned to the kitchen. He took one last look around and stepped out the door.

As he turned to shut the door, his rifle was jerked from his hand. He froze, his heart pounding, his breath suspended. He felt a pistol jab into his back.

"Well, well. Who do we have here?" asked a deep, raspy voice. "Put your hands behind your head and turn around slowly."

Nathan obeyed. As he turned, he gazed into the piercing eyes of a Cossack soldier.

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Chapter 19: Lynn Dove, Shoot the Wounded

Reprinted from **Shoot the Wounded** , First Book in the "Wounded Trilogy" by Lynn Dove. Copyright 2009 by Word Alive Press (Canada). Young Adult fiction. Used by permission of author.

"Reckless words pierce like a sword, but the tongue of the wise brings healing" Proverbs 12:18.

"The tongue that brings healing is a tree of life, but a deceitful tongue crushes the spirit" Proverbs 15:4.

Leigh stared at the wild, varied assortment of flowers: marigolds, sunflowers, chrysanthemums, lilies, and roses. All of Ronnie's favourite flowers spread out in a wild assortment of mixed bouquets all across the front of the church sanctuary. It may have been an attempt by someone to cheerily try to camouflage the cherry wood casket, but it was a bleak attempt at best. The church's stained glass windows reflected beams of rainbow light through the flowers' petals that further served to enhance the already impressive array of colour, but eyes were constantly drawn to the coffin more so than the flowers surrounding it. Ronnie would have liked the flowers, may even appreciated the deep, polished beauty of the casket's wood, Leigh thought to herself, but not so the mournful groans of the old church organ played with sad conviction by Ronnie's aged Aunt Edna.

The sanctuary was filled with family and friends, some openly weeping, others talking barely above a whisper. Hanging in the air was a feeling of sombre solemnity that dared not be interrupted by small talk. Leigh heard a giggle from somewhere in the back and, contrasted with the muted tones, her anger bristle against whoever had the audacity to think this occasion funny. She felt her mother touch her hand, and looked up to see her mother's soft brown eyes damp with unshed tears.

Mom hurts for me, not Ronnie, Leigh thought. She doesn't completely understand, but that doesn't matter. I'm glad she's here. Leigh squeezed her mother's hand gratefully. Seated next to her mother was her father, stoic and protective in his blue business suit. Leigh wouldn't even try to guess what he was thinking. He sat with his eyes focused ahead, his jaw firmly set and the little vein in his temple pulsing as it always did when he appeared upset.

Leigh had tried to approach her father and put into perspective the past actions of her best friend, Ronnie, but her father wouldn't listen. "Don't make excuses for her, Leigh. The past is past," he said. "She had a future. How could this have happened?" He had shaken his head and fumed behind his dark eyes and expression all night. He couldn't possibly understand why Ronnie had done the things she did. She didn't even understand it all and Ronnie was... had... been her best friend!

There sat Ronnie's parents at the front of the church. Mr. Webber's hand hung limply over his wife's shoulders and Mrs. Webber was weeping, her head bowed in prayer and misery. Ronnie's two younger brothers were huddled together beside their dad, both quiet and subdued. And there sat Jake with his parents. He looked over at Leigh and smiled weakly at her. He was trying to get her attention, trying to make up for all the weeks they had been silent to one another. Leigh quickly looked away. She couldn't bear to see his face. After all, he was partly to blame for this.

Her attention was drawn to the pulpit where the youth pastor, Scott Robinson, now stood. A young man in his late twenties, tall and handsome, with a heart for the young people in his congregation, he had been asked by the family to lead the service. Never in his experience had he spoken at a funeral before. He was nervous, especially under these tragic circumstances with the death of one so young, and a member of his youth group. He wanted the words he said to comfort, to focus attention not on the tragedy, but on God, Who was supposedly in control of all things, even in the midst of sorrow and heartache. Scott cleared his throat nervously and spoke to the people gathered.

"'The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not be in want. He makes me lie down in green pastures, he leads me beside quiet waters, he restores my soul...'" Scott led the congregation, reciting the Twenty-Third Psalm, "'...surely goodness and love will follow me all the days of my life, and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.'"

Scott cleared his throat nervously a second time. "We are here to remember and celebrate the life that was Veronica Marie Webber. Ronnie, as she was known to all her friends and family, grew up in this community. She came to know the Lord at a youth rally when she was twelve and was an active member of our youth group. She served in our children's ministries and was on the volleyball team at school. She loved music, swimming, camping, and she loved all of you here in this room." He paused. Leigh squirmed uncomfortably in her chair.

The youth pastor faced the congregation and saw the faces of pain and grief on the family members. They had been through so much this past week—actually, these past several months. Asking God for courage to speak boldly, he sighed and continued. He glanced through the crowd of mourners and his eyes settled on Leigh's face. He was well aware that the two girls had been close for years. Looking directly at her, he spoke with conviction.

"I know Veronica... Ronnie, loved all of you. She had a zest, a love of life that knew no boundaries. She made mistakes, true, but that did not negate the fact that she knew her friends and family supported her, encouraged her, and believed in her. Perhaps that is why we all ask ourselves today how it is we may have failed her at a time when she needed us the most. There are so many whys. God never promised that every question we asked would be answered. Some of us may even feel angry with God for allowing this to have happened..." He saw a slight nod of affirmation from Leigh, but continued, "Psalm 91 says that he who dwells in the shelter of the Most High will rest in the shadow of the Almighty. Ronnie is resting with God now..." And his voice broke with emotion.

Leigh did not hear more. She was aware of Scott referring back to different passages of scripture as he eulogized her friend. One of Ronnie's uncles, a cousin, and one of the church's deacons followed, sharing little snippets of stories they remembered of Ronnie's childhood and teen years. Leigh didn't recall the words, nor did she much care what was said. Only immediately following the service when Jake tried to stop her in the church foyer to give her a hug did she react with venom.

"Don't, Jake!" she hissed. He stepped back in surprise. "You can't make me feel better. You did this to her! I don't want anything to do with you, ever!" With that, Leigh pushed away from him, leaving him bewildered and hurt.

* * *

"It doesn't make any sense," Cindy said the next day.

Leigh's group of friends had circled around her at school. Short, with chestnut-coloured hair, Cindy was the pragmatic one. She tried to find reason to all things. She tried to find a solution when none existed. She also tried to rely on herself for all the answers. Tina was the crier. Stout, with long hay-coloured hair, overly-sensitive, Tina was emotional to a fault. She wept in happiness and in despair. Auburn-haired, with dark hazel eyes and a creamy flawless complexion, Janelle was unforgiving. She held grudges the longest, and spent days in moodiness. Of all of Leigh's friends, Leigh wondered why she even associated with Janelle. Some days Janelle was so unlikeable. Corey was the clown. Tall, gangly, with short, bleached-blonde streaks in her already lightened blonde hair, Corey tried to make light of everything. Sometimes it was therapeutic to have her as comic relief; sometimes she chose comedy inappropriately to relieve the tension. Today was such a day.

"Well, at least now I don't have to pay Ronnie the twenty bucks I owed her."

Corey said without thinking.

"What?" The other girls reacted with disbelief.

"How could you say that?" Tina wailed and slapped Corey soundly on her arm. "You are heartless!"

Leigh walked away in disgust.

The remaining crowded around Corey, reprimanding her viciously for her insensitivity. Leigh knew it would do no good. Some kids would continue to say and do things over the next several weeks that would be totally inappropriate. Leigh knew that many of her friends couldn't express grief, some honestly didn't care, and others would just choose to forget or move on with life in an effort to pretend it had never happened. Leigh wasn't sure which category she would eventually fall into. At present, she just felt angry and numb. She despised the fact that rumours were running rampant, everyone speculating, trying to piece together the puzzle on their own to determine what exactly had happened to Ronnie. Truth was not part of the equation, it seemed, just sensationalism and gossip. It made Leigh even angrier.

What bothered Leigh more than anything else was the feeling of unconnectedness with her friends, her family, her church, and God. She couldn't remember a time when she had felt so alone. No one, not one person, seemed to understand the torment she was going through. She knew that she should pray, she knew she could journal her thoughts, and maybe feel a sense of release doing that, but there was such weariness in the idea. She couldn't face it right now. Then, of course, there was Jake. How could she love him and hate him at the same time? She fumbled with the lock on her locker. The numbers blurred before her and her books tumbled with a loud splat on the floor at her feet. She cursed and immediately looked up with guilt. Swearing was considered inappropriate in her church circles.

"Crap!" she raged. I can't even act like a normal human being! I want to swear! I want to yell and scream and kick in this... She stopped herself from using an expletive about her locker. That wasn't the answer, either. She couldn't just drop sixteen years of upbringing and forego all that she had been taught just to satisfy a need to vent her anger. There had to be a better way.

Janelle handed her a math book she had dropped, and bent to pick up the remaining books at Leigh's feet.

"Corey is an idiot," she calmly stated. "Don't let her bug you."

"I don't know what's the matter with me," Leigh confided. She leaned wearily against the locker and gratefully allowed Janelle to retrieve all the books. "I'm not sure about anything anymore. I was so angry with Ronnie. I was yelling at her for getting herself in trouble. I wasn't her friend; I didn't do anything that showed to her that I was her best friend. I let her down." Janelle put an arm around Leigh. "I had no idea that Ronnie was so messed up. I was mad at her. I don't even know why I was mad at her. I mean, the only person she was hurting was herself, yet I was mad at her because somehow or another knowing she had messed up was hurting me!"

Janelle walked with Leigh to their homeroom. "Too bad Ronnie didn't listen to you months ago. Seems to me, this is all her doing. You have nothing to feel guilty about."

Leigh did not feel encouraged in any way as she entered the class. The seat up front that would have been Ronnie's was so obviously vacant that she had to choke back a sob as she passed it. The whole day passed like a great heaviness was weighing on her. If someone had asked her what the teachers had said or what homework assignments were due, she wouldn't have been able to respond. She sat on the bus alone, ever mindful of the seat across the aisle, Ronnie's seat... vacant... just like the one in homeroom, and in English class, and the chair in Science right next to hers. This was supposed to behave been the year of for new beginnings, for them and to put all their past mistakes behind them.

"Ronnie, how could you do this to me?" Leigh dropped her head into her hands and wept.

TO READ MORE, you can purchase **Shoot the Wounded** by Lynn Dove at:

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http://tiny.cc/shootthewounded (paperback)

Chapter 20: Rev. Serafim Gascoigne, Landing Place

Reprinted from **The Landing Place** , a YA Historical Fantasy by Rev. Serafim Gascoigne. Copyrighted. Used by permission of author.

Nikolai's first thought was that it was simply turbulence. The SB-6 bi-plane bumped and lurched in the superheated air over the Mountain. That should have been his first warning. He pulled hard on the control stick, reining in the bucking SB-6 as if it were a Cossack steed. The plane reluctantly submitted to the young Russian pilot and finally settled on an even course at 10,000 feet.

It was then that Nikolai spotted the enemy patrol. It looked like a dark, thin snake slithering its way along the side of the Mountain just south of the Devil Rocks. _Looks like_ _roughly 100 to 150 soldiers._ Nikolai half closed the throttle and dropped to 8,000 feet to get a closer look. From this altitude, he could now pick out a line of heavy-laden mules accompanied by armed soldiers with rifles, the sun glistening on their bayonets. The column was slowly picking its way through the rocks, twisting and turning in a long, continuous line. _It looks more like 300 at this height_. _Well, whatever the number, I need to get back to HQ and report this._ It would be dusk in two hours. He swung the SB-6 biplane around in a wide turn, thrusting his control stick forward for more speed, and headed northeast for the landing strip at the Aratsky Pass.

Then it happened again. The plane suddenly began to buck and sway from side to side. "What the blazes?" he shouted, his voice sounding empty against the roar of the powerful Argus engine. As if in answer, the engine spluttered and misfired in protest. The buffeting was so violent that Nikolai was forced to grip the control stick with his right hand and use his other to clutch the side of the cockpit. A cold sweat began to trickle down his back. He had flown in all types of weather during training. But this was way beyond his experience. Then as quickly as it had erupted, it was over. The plane settled down again as if nothing had happened. Nikolai blew a sigh of relief. He checked the control panel. The altimeter still read 8,000 feet. Everything appeared to be working normally. The sky was clear. The twin, snow-capped peaks of Ararat on the starboard side appeared calm and majestic against the blue September sky.

"Watch out for unexpected air pockets," Andriadi had warned him. "Always maintain a steady altitude, keeping your eyes and senses tuned to the slightest change in temperature or change of wind." He could hear his late instructor's voice clearly in his mind.

_Yeah, sure_ , he thought. _But air pockets are caused by turbulent weather not by clear skies. They never told me about these kinds of air pockets at the Imperial Flying School. Well, that's one for the book_ , he mused. _I can't wait to tell Smirnoff and the others when I get back._ With this thought Nikolai settled down for the flight back to base. As he looked at the calm scene below, he suddenly remembered a conversation he had had with his Azeri mechanic, Gudrat, earlier that day.

"First mission, Your Honor?"

"Yes, Gudrat! I'm flying over the Mountain. The weather looks good."

"Over the Mountain?" Gudrat's eyes registered alarm.

"Yes. Why?"

"May Allah protect you!" Gudrat took a talisman out of his pouch and offered it to Nikolai. It was a brass amulet with a sacred text from the Koran.

"Thank you, Gudrat, but I am wearing a cross my mother gave me." _That will have to do_ , thought Nikolai. Besides, he was a realist. He did not hold with superstition.

When the fog came, there was no warning. Nikolai was directly over the Devil's Rocks. It sprang up like a demon from a smoke stack. It was so quick and unexpected that before he knew what was happening, it had shot upwards in white, ghostly spirals, fingering the underside of the fuselage. Nikolai immediately climbed back to 10,000 feet. "Dragon's Breath," Andriadi had called it—hot air from volcanic vents in the sides of the Mountain.

Nikolai was no fool. He knew better than to get caught in one of these death traps. He knew he must keep well clear of the billowing fog. _I need to climb and head west, away from the Mountain._ He yanked the control stick and banked the plane almost vertically to gain altitude. But however much he climbed, his SB-6 could not outrace this menace. The Dragon's Breath rose in pursuit. Within seconds the fog had rushed up and over the cockpit, completely engulfing the SB-6 and its pilot in an impenetrable, wet blanket. Nikolai was now forced to fly blind.

_Got to get out of this now!_ He pulled on the control stick and gently pressed the left rudder. Instead of veering away from the fog and the Mountain, the SB-6 dropped unexpectedly. Nikolai cast a quick glance at the altimeter and noted that it read 9,000 feet. "This is not possible. I could not have lost 1,000 feet in a matter of seconds!" He removed his thick leather gauntlets and struck the glass several times with his knuckles, but the needle still pointed to 9,000. It didn't make sense. _Perhaps it is malfunctioning._ He checked the meter again. It still registered 9,000 feet. Whatever the reading, he was losing altitude fast. If he didn't correct this immediately, he risked flying into the jagged rock formations that sprung up like claws below. He pulled hard on the control-stick once more, in a desperate attempt to lift the plane. But there was no response.

Nikolai checked the altimeter again. His heart dropped. It read 8,000 feet.

He tried to pray, a thing he had only done as a child. He tried to remember a prayer. All he could remember was, "Lord have mercy! Lord have mercy!" It sounded weak. _Why should God have mercy?_ Then he remembered his mother often repeating, "Spasi Bozhe! God Save me!" He began to shout out these words as he fought to right the plane.

Nikolai thought of his mother. An idiotic image came to his mind of her telling him to eat up his kasha and stop whistling through his teeth.

The blinding, wet fog buffeted and tossed his SB-6 like a predator tossing its prey before devouring it. Nikolai blew angrily through his teeth. He felt sick. It was becoming difficult to breathe. The air had turned heavy and icy. It forced itself under his goggles and into his flying suit. He felt it surging through his chest, piercing all the fibers of his body. He cried out in pain—"Spasi Bozhe!" But the cold air relentlessly burnt its way into his blood.

_Fly! Soar!_ cried his mind. But Nikolai could not move. His arms had become numb. He was helpless. It was only a matter of minutes before he would smash into the rocks below. _Will death be quick? Will the SB-6 explode on impact, incinerating me in a ball of flame?_

As he huddled in the cockpit, awaiting impact, he felt a sudden, upward thrust beneath the aircraft. For a split second it seemed to arrest his descent, but then in the same moment, it began to throw him violently upwards. The upward thrust drummed and strained on the struts, making the wings quiver. _At this rate the plane will shatter at any moment._ The surging current forced and twisted the plane in a spiral up the face of Ararat. Nikolai hardly had time to realize what was happening, the movement was so swift and menacing.

He glanced once more at the altimeter. "15,000 feet," he gasped. "No one has ever flown at this height before." He watched, mesmerized, as the needle of the altimeter continued to climb. He was amazed by this reading, but not fearful. In fact, he felt a calm sweep over him as he and the SB-6 spiraled up into the rarified atmosphere. With this feeling of peace, Nikolai passed out.

TO READ MORE, you can purchase **The Landing Place** by Rev Serafim Gascoigne at:

http://amzn.to/t7h450 (paperback).

Chapter 21: Dr. Robert E. McGinnis, Raised in Paradise

Reprinted from **Raised In Paradise** , a fictional story about a young Indian boy who traveled across the West for animal rights., by Dr. Robert E. McGinnis. Copyright 2009 by Createspace.com. YA Fiction. Reprinted with permission of the author.

New Footsteps For The Legacy

Harry Raven was his adopted name. He eventually found his last name to be Bird. Due to amazing and profound changes in his lifestyle, his name went from this to Harry Bear and finally Soaring Eagle. But this story is not about him, but his son, who was Christened Soaring Monayya Bird, more often called Little Eagle. It might be important to mention his Father Soaring Eagle sometimes called Harry. Harry was king of a volcanic tribe living on sacred Indian land in a vast remote rugged area somewhere in the west. This information is given in order to give a background for this book.

Harry was also the chief and spiritual leader of a large tribe of gentle and kind sheep ranchers who herded their flocks over an entire county and owned all of the land therein. As if these impressive titles were not enough, Harry was considered the number one citizen and father of a small town now renamed Paradise from the original name of Donkville. Harry was the most sought after man in the area; his efforts and dreams tied together the entire county with a diverse make up of individuals. Not only did the local communities seek out Harry, but also many large businesses consulted with him from time to time. Needless to say, Harry was the wealthiest man in the county having bought a very valuable gold mine, but he did not live a life of wealth, but used his money only to help others. Harry was more at home in the open land than in the confinement of a city or building.

Harry's son, Little Eagle was brought up in the ways of the Indian and like his father, he was destined to be a leader and someday fill his father's moccasins. At the age of sixteen, Little Eagle was self-sufficient and like his father, enjoyed living off the land and being close to nature. Little Eagle had attended both the Indian school in the volcano and the schools in the county below. But his major education was earned living along the streams, roaming the mountains and wandering with the mountain lions that still lived in the wilder part of the county.

When he was only four years old an old mountain lioness that had once been saved by his father was found dead near Spirit Mountain. She had been killed while defending her cubs. One lay dead next her. After searching for half a day, Little Eagle found the other cub hidden in a crevasse too small for the attacking lion to get at her. Little Eagle needed only to look into his father's eyes for approval as he took the small animal. He raised her until she was old enough to return to Spirit Mountain and live on her own. Over his growing years she had become his closest playmate and protector while he roamed Spirit Mountain. Little Eagle was the only human she would tolerate and kept her distance from all others. It was not uncommon for Little Eagle to sleep next to her in a mountain den far from the civilized world. He named his wild friend Xtualti Sinoos, which meant the highest of a kind.

Little Eagle had many, many teachers and his education went on non-stop. I don't mean his formal classroom education, but his Indian education. His granduncle, Rain Bird was the medicine man for the ranching Indians and took a very special interest in the boy and gave him a very special education. Rain Bird spent his free moments with Little Eagle and had him making arrows at age six and winning target competitions by age ten. There was not an Indian on the ranches or in the volcano that could outshoot the boy.

Rain Bird had also been Harry's teacher, but Harry did not come to the Indian life until he was in his mid-twenties because he had been adopted at age one and lived in Seattle among the non-Indian cultures of the big city. Harry had become a very good Indian and surpassed most anyone else in the ways of Indians, but his son, Little Eagle at every turn, out did him.

By age eighteen many boys and girls from both the volcano and the sheep ranches went to college on scholarships provided by Harry's college trust. The first children of the volcano were just reaching that age. Little Eagle had no interest in planning for such ways, as he did not feel at home in the city. However that was two years away and his life was about to change as much as his father's had twenty or so years back when Harry was first drawn to this area by spiritual command. Although Little Eagle truly loved learning from books and read extensively, he could not imagine leaving his land and especially his lioness friend. He had one other friend that was also his companion. An old horse named Black Eagle, which was too old for long trips, but when Little Eagle went to visit Rain Bird, Samuel, or any of the nearby ranches, he liked to ride Black Eagle. Although, the old horse was slowing down quite a bit and didn't enjoy getting too far from the lush grass in the big bowl that was part of his father's estate. The big bowl was the most special place outside of Spirit Mountain. It was part of the large mine that Harry, Little Eagle's father had bought many years ago.

Rain Bird lived at the top of the big bowl in a large white house with his wife, Betty Bird, formerly Betty Howard. Rain Bird had married very late in years and Betty was quite a few years younger and they both looked after Little Eagle like he was their own. Little Eagle's mother and father were so busy most of the time, the boy was on his own a lot. It was not by choice that his parents were so busy, but they had tremendous responsibilities and had a hand in everything that concerned the entire county. Harry had been asked to run for governor several times, but turned it down without a second thought. Little Eagle's mother attended her first American taught class when she was about twenty-two and did very well. She went on to earn a law degree and spent most of her time making sure the populations that concerned her and Harry were not abused.

Twenty years ago there were three distinct cultures in the area. The tribe that took refuge in Spirit Mountain after being driven from some place in Mexico, there were the Indian sheep ranchers that had been driven here from the East Coast for similar reason, and finally, a very small minority of non-Indian people living in the city of Paradise, formerly called Donkville.

The small population living in the very fertile, tropical like extinct volcano had grown faster than most populations in general. There had been a period of time when no children were born to the people living in the volcano, but they seemed to be making up for lost time. The first of the children after the sterile period were just reaching college age and every single one intended to attend college.

Little Eagle and his father had blood kin living in Spirit Mountain. Not only did Little Eagle's mother come from there, so did Harry's grandmother. It is not as complicated as it sounds, but interesting to say the least. Kings of royal blood ruled the tribe that had migrated from Mexico and Harry and Little Eagle shared that blood. The ranching tribe chose their leader by a series of secret tests and Harry had passed those long ago. Little Eagle was destined to rule the tribe living in Spirit Mountain by virtue of his birth, whether or not he followed his father. but leading the ranchers would remain to be seen. To tell the truth, Little Eagle felt closer to the tribe in Spirit Mountain and as a matter of fact, that is where he was born. The doctor who attended his birth was an old family friend, Dr. Monte O'Bannon.

The town and ranches had changed quite a bit as well. Harry had hired the best energy engineers in the nation who designed and installed the most modern geothermal generator of the time. The electric power was so abundant that not only did the entire county have electricity, but also the surplus was sold to surrounding areas. It was not hard to find a heat source as the old volcano still had millions of thermo units stored down in the vast reaches of the earth. The rumbling from the action far below the surface could be heard from time to time. The small town of Paradise had streetlights, satellite television, and every ranch had lights, telephone and running water as well.

Other than that, the county board of directors did their best to maintain an atmosphere resembling the days of old. Yes, there were better roads and with pavement in most places, but many ranchers still did their work on horseback and lived in the original ranch houses. The population growth was mainly limited to Indian families as they owned the entire county and they sold to very few outsiders. The ranches had grown very productive with the advent of electricity. Water had become plentiful and a lot of the land had benefited from irrigation. Most of the ranchers had diversified and were producing more than sheep.

There were continual instances of outsiders trying to wrest away some of the land and the battle had even gone as far as the Supreme Court. As a matter of protection Harry had formed a coalition group among the surrounding counties and this organization had been buying up available land outside the county when available. Naturally this drove up the prices everywhere and the land under Harry's rule was now at a premium. The area had become so valuable that every shyster and tycoon had tried to get a piece of the action. Harry's influence had grown with his wealth and every politician in the state and at the federal capital knew him on a first name basis. Harry had the protection of the government at every level and the area under his control had the status of being a historically protection region. The Indians may have lost the first war, but they were leading ten to one in this one.

The museum located in Spirit Mountain was highly guarded and not open to the general public. Many of the political leaders were invited to visit from time to time and that was considered the highest honor one could receive. The general council consisting of representatives from both Indian tribes made all the rules and regulations concerning the museum which had been determined to contain artifacts from descendants of both early tribes. The connection of the two tribes prior to Harry's grandmother losing her way from the volcano had never been established, but all the artifacts found were prior to her departure. It was presumed that only the elders of each tribe were aware of the others existence and kept it a secret for safety reasons. There was no proof of that, but it seemed to be the only feasible theory. It was further assumed that these early elders wanted to leave a rock solid display to prove there was definitely a connection.

Little Eagle grew up in the midst of this growth and development. His father never confined him to a regular school schedule but since both districts were coordinated, Little Eagle was allowed to move back and forth at will. He chose to spend the coldest months attending school in the volcano where the student population was rather small. Classes were conducted in the old stone cathedral cut out of the mountain.

Both Lonetta and Pamida had moved permanently into the volcano to live near the museum where they were both head curators. Pamida's mother was still one of the two teachers at the school. Pamida and Lonetta had married twin men from the ranchland area. Their husbands, Jim and Tim Cloud had moved into the volcano and headed the security for Spirit Mountain. They were very good at their job and few could get past them unless it was someone like Rain Bird the medicine man. One of those was Little Eagle. He delighted in his cunning and slippery ways to get past their defenses without being detected. Many new and technical devices were used to secure the mountain and the young man had learned to out fox every single security.

Little Eagle's best friend inside the volcano was his father's old friend, Spengeeh who was now medicine man and spiritual guide for the tribe. The old medicine man had died of natural causes and his wife had followed the following year. Harry was still the king and he moved Spengeeh into the leadership role without hesitation.

Even though Spengeeh had the responsibility of taking care of the day-to-day community situations, he continued his role of fisherman. He taught Little Eagle many ways to fish and how to make a variety of fishing tools. Spengeeh now had six children of his own, but he considered Little Eagle as his seventh when the boy spent time in the volcano. Little Eagle would catch a fish each time he arrived just to please his godfather. He rarely came in by canoe because he knew the maze behind the cathedral like the back of his hand and could walk it in the dark or blindfolded.

As soon as he exited the entrance to the cathedral he would take his knife and use a special reed that grew abundantly along the rivers edge. With a few deft strokes of his very sharp hunting knife he had a fishing spear that would yield him a fish on the first try. He had learned how to pull the reed up out of the soft mud and shave away all the roots except one shaped exactly right and in the form of a small barb. The root was as hard as birch and in the hands of a skillful fisherman, would do an excellent job. When Little Eagle saw the fish he wanted swim up to the rock walkway, he quickly thrust the spear into the fish and twisted it a half turn so that the fish could not fall from the end. Spengeeh gave praise for the catch no matter the size.

Little Eagle had no duties in the volcano except to attend school. The rest of the time he was free to explore, fish and enjoy the life of a true paradise like no other. The secret of the volcano had been preserved in an open way. The land and tribe within Spirit Mountain were cared for like a private club with visitation by invitation only. Little Eagle had been the most important dignitary and family member since his birth sixteen years ago.

Little Eagle spent almost as much time traveling between the two places as he did attending school. The trip over the recently graded toads by car took only a few hours. Little Eagle managed to stretch his walking trip into three and sometimes four days. Even when Black Eagle was younger and able to make the trip, it still took three or more days. Harry did not worry about his only son nor did he ever ask him to hurry. The time the younger boy spent alone living off the land was another education that both Rain Bird and Harry approved of as much as his classroom learning. Actually, Little Eagle did better than most students at his schoolwork even though he attended sporadically and fewer days that the rest. He was a very sharp and quick to learn young man.

Rain Bird had already given him his one-day, one-week and one-month training. Little Eagle received this training far younger than any Indian had ever accomplished it before him. There was a good reason why his training was started earlier. Rain Bird was getting too old to keep the fast pace of previous years and Harry wanted to offer the young man a variety of Indian training programs. Lonetta and Pamida had studied the history of the two tribal leadership-training programs and Harry was intent on using them all with his son.

Little Eagle could walk with out leaving a sign or making a sound. During his early years Rocky had accompanied him, which gave Harry a lot of comfort, but now Rocky was gone after having lived a full life. It was one of Harry's saddest days when Rocky went to sleep for the last time. Rocky's body was taken to the volcano and treated like the Indians of old. He was placed on the special rock platform along the river and mummified like many of the people who had died in the volcano since it was discovered. Now that Rocky was gone and Black Eagle is too old to make the trip, Little Eagle made the trip alone.

On each trip his friend, Xtualti Sinoos the mountain lioness always greeted him. She attended a high lair, which overlooked the land in many directions. She knew within half a day when Little Eagle was coming from the East and ran to meet him along the way. By the same token, she wasn't too far from the passage up Spirit Mountain and could see him as soon as he exited the gated cavern of the mountain. All the Indians knew she was near, but did not know where she stayed. They all respected Little Eagle's relationship with her and went out of their way to avoid disrupting their sacred pact. Twenty years ago when Harry first visited the volcano, the tribe living there mistook Rocky for the sacred lion spirit that was said to live on Spirit Mountain. Since then they had learned the difference between dogs and lions and now they considered Xtualti Sinoos the guardian spirit of the mountain. Even though she accepted no one but Little Eagle, she tolerated the men who did not bother her. Several times when she was yet a cub, Little Eagle would take her through the caverns of Spirit Mountain and play with her. Some of those times they played hide and seek in the maze behind the cathedral.

The rest of the background for this story can be gotten from the previous books written about Little Eagle's father and how he came to this area and became ruler of two tribes. It is now time for us to get on with this story and we will start here.

Little Eagle will be the main character from here on out and the rest of this book will tell about how and what he accomplished and adds to the unique way of life among two separate Indian tribes living together and growing more like one every year. Marriages between the two tribes go back as far as Little Eagles great-grandparents. And there had been no more except for Little Eagle's mother in the last twenty years, specifically due to the fact that the volcano people did not produce children until eighteen years ago. There would be much intermarriage later. The two tribes were linked back to when Little Eagle's great-grandmother lost her way from the volcano and strayed down onto the sheep ranches where she stayed the rest of her life. There were just two such incidences but those made a strong impact on the ranchers. The descendants of those two losing their way and continuing their lives down on the flat sheep land passed on language and culture to the two families that they married into.

TO READ MORE, you can purchase **Raised In Paradise** by Dr. Robert E. McGinnis at:

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Chapter 22: Dr. Robert E. McGinnis, White Bird Returns

Reprinted from **White Bird Returns** , a fictional story about a young Indian man forced from his tribe because he wanted more human rights. Copyright 2011 by Createspace.com. Reprinted with permission of the author.

A Rough Beginning

She was about to have her baby and no one was anywhere in sight. Indian women were confronted with this many times and in some tribes, the woman about to give birth left the compound to deliver alone, in some place distant, away from the village. The birthing method was handed down from one mother to the next and the father had little if anything to do with the delivery. His mind was on hunting, defending against enemies and providing shelter. It wasn't always this way in the Wisnook Tribe, and it might not have happened this time if she had not gone out looking for berries by herself. Everyone was out gathering some sort of food and Sweentouk did not want to go as far away as the rest of the women had in order to find the best berries and nuts. Sweentouk knew her time was close and didn't want to be too far from her tepee.

When she realized it was time, she sat, but that was very uncomfortable. Then she began looking for a place where she would be safe. She wasn't near any of the others and she wished that her sister had stayed behind. There was a lot of work to do and with winter coming soon everyone was needed for gathering. She never realized the pain would be so great.

She tried to think of anything to take her mind off of the pressure. Sweentouk thought about her husband and how proud he would be when he returned home from hunting and found a new baby in the tepee. She hoped it would be a boy. Boys made family life more productive and were less of a problem. Yes, it just had to be a boy. She felt it move and knew she needed to hurry. She selected a mossy area near the small stream where the tribe bathed and obtained water for drinking and cooking.

It wasn't long before she was holding her baby, satisfied in the knowledge that it was a boy. She began thinking of a name for the baby and before long she fell asleep with the baby lying on her arm. She had not decided on a name for her newborn.

She was very tired, but it didn't take much for a change in her surroundings to awaken her. She didn't hear any natural sounds in the forest and that was a message that most Indians recognized. The animals had quit talking.

Just as she was about to stand up to head for home, a shadow crossed the open space near her and she glanced up to the rim of the hill and saw four or five strange braves silently walking on the ridge. They needed to be silent; if they were caught near the Wisnook encampment, there would be a lot of explaining to do. Most tribes respected the territory of another, but on occasion they would raid for food, weapons, blankets or even wives. They had been known to steal a newborn baby, especially if it was a boy. There was no telling what these young men were up to and she didn't want to find out. She held her breath.

She didn't move until they were completely out of sight and then she waited three or four minutes before she stood up. Oh, she was very dizzy and wanted to sit back down, but at that instant she saw one of the young Indian men cutting down the hill to get a drink of water some distance away. She stood stock still daring not to move. Any movement might be caught out of the corner of his eye. He was a good distance away, but since he was young, he probably had excellent eyesight and Indians are trained to see anything that moves.

She was glad the baby was asleep because if he cried out, the young man might hear him. She glanced down at her newborn with the loving eyes of a mother and when she glanced back up, the young man was looking directly at her. She waited for him to make the first move and as soon as he did, she did an about-face and headed for her compound where there would be enough people to defend her. He had started toward her slowly at first but when she turned and began leaving, he took off on a run after her.

She would gladly give her life for that of her son, but there was no way to know whose life, if any was at stake and she wasn't about to take chances. Her first thought was to try to get away because she knew she had no defense against him. She also thought that she must hide the baby, if he caught up with her and she didn't have the baby, then the baby would be safe unless he found it. As she looked back and started down a long hill, she remembered the hollow tree where her sister had gathered large speckled bird eggs some time back. The tree had a very large opening and the baby was still sleeping so she dropped the baby into the bird nest in the hollow tree and kept on running. Now she could run faster and run she did. Indian women were used to giving birth on the trail and not getting left behind. They could stay up on a march for any reason and in any season as the saying goes. It was just the way it was in those days.

She was thinking the young Indian chasing her probably wondered how she got so far ahead of him all of a sudden. She began shouting at the top of her lungs for someone in her tribe to come to help. And help did come, about a quarter of a mile from the compound six boys ages ten to twelve had been playing and heard her screams. They dropped everything and picked up their bows which, even though they were too young to be out hunting, were as deadly as anything their fathers had.

They topped one ridge just as the Indian chasing Sweentouk topped the other and he came to a sliding stop as he tried to turn around. It was only a miracle that he got back up and got away before the six boys were within shooting range.

Sweentouk shouted to the boys that they had to go back with her to get her baby. The boys were only too willing to help now that the older young man had taken off for places unknown. It would be very unlikely that either he or his companions would come back this close to the compound and it would be doubtful that they were aware that most of the adults were gone.

Sweentouk was running out of energy as she climbed the last hill before they reached the tree where the large bird nest was located. She almost passed out at the top as the tree came into sight and she told the boys where the baby was hidden and sent them on ahead while she sat and moaned from the new and growing pain caused by so much anxiety and running.

She watched the boys dance around the tree waving their arms and shouting "white bird" over and over as they danced around the half broken old tree. She couldn't understand why they hadn't taken the baby out of the large hollow and after the painful process of standing up, she began making her way toward the tree. One of the boys returned to help her and when he reached her, he told her that there was a white and sacred snowy owl sitting inside the hollowed out tree.

As soon as Sweentouk reached the tree the owl shouted his welcome call to her and flew away, leaving the baby exposed down below. The boys brought the baby out and handed him to Sweentouk who cried as she carefully placed the boy into the crook of her arm. She sat right down with her little newborn and was unable to move another foot. The boys broke a lot of long poles from a sycamore tree and wove a travois so that they could pull her home. Even though the ride was very rough, she fell into a deep sleep after her exhausting experience.

As soon as they entered the compound, some of the older women took over and began to care for Sweentouk and her baby. She would sleep until the next morning. When the other women came in from gathering fruit and nuts the boys told them how the baby had been protected by a sacred white owl. The boys described the magnificent white bird. The baby would be called White Bird from that moment on.

White Bird was born as a member to one of the best tribes on the east coast. The Wisnook Indians were friendly to everyone, even the settlers from other countries and helped those in need by sharing their own food and blankets. The Wisnooks had more trouble from other Indian tribes than they did with the settlers. When warring tribes would seek to enlist the aid of the very large Wisnook population to fight the settlers, they always refused to be drawn in. They could see no advantage in fighting when there was so much free land everywhere and all they had to do was to move. And move they did, and did it often as they tried to avoid trouble.

The Wisnook learned several European languages from their frequent trades and visits with the settlers. The settlers appreciated them, but did not trust most of the other Indians that roamed the area. Settlers often built homes near the Wisnook for protection and guidance. The Wisnook had some strange physical characteristics for an Indian. A Wisnook Indian man could actually grow a short beard. The Wisnook in physical appearance were more European than with the other indigenous native Indians. Most of the Wisnook had blue eyes as well.

White Bird grew up learning the many languages of the settlers and by the time he was seven or eight, he was travelling with his tribe as interpreter. He learned fast as most children do and he enjoyed the fame that came from being able to speak to many people. He remained reserved, but when he was called to duty, he performed well.

Many times someone travelling through would try to hire him, but his parents always refused. He was too young to go along with traders, merchants, soldiers and trappers who would have to get along without knowing the languages ahead.

By the time he was ten years old he knew ten different Indian dialects and three European languages. The local medicine man took him under his wing and put him to good use in his own work.

His mother and father were very proud of him and more protective than most Indians would be. His mother always had a fear that she would lose him again and kept him close. Her health never fully recovered from her first childbirth but she had three more children before White Bird was ten years old.

White Bird became skilled in arrow point making; he was an excellent craftsman and soon he had a collection of new age tools donated to his use by friendly settlers. He was especially proud of his brass and iron pin set which he used skillfully in making arrowheads. He made ceremonial arrowheads for his medicine man and for other tribes as well. His work became well known and it was an honor to wear one of his arrowheads around ones' neck and they were considered good luck.

His childhood was filled with happy times, his father was kind and understanding, his mother loving and nurturing, and his siblings were always somewhere underfoot until the medicine man took him under his wing to teach him the medicinal characteristics of plants and how they were used in treating the sick. He was given spiritual guidance that shaped his character for the rest of his life. He became a teacher and a mentor to anyone younger and that included his siblings when they would stand still long enough to listen to him.

By the time he was twenty years old, he was well on his way to becoming a medicine man in his own right. In order to become a medicine man in the Wisnook tribe, a person had to go through a very rigorous testing period after an apprenticeship to the leading medicine man. Large tribes might have any number of medicine men and the Wisnook was a very large tribe, but only the eldest medicine man was given the task of mentoring those that were to follow.

After a certain number of years of mentoring, the medicine man would approve of the person or persons being tutored and then the tribe would present a candidate a series of tests to see if a young understudy had been adequately prepared and spiritually accepted before moving on. The medicine man and chief had different tests but both were conducted by the council.

When White Bird was ready to begin his testing period, which could take a year or more depending on the results of each phase and the length of time for completion, his testing began with an examination by the council. He sat before twenty members of the council who asked questions and listened to his solutions. One of the questions was this: If you were trapped in a blazing forest with a family of four, the mother, father and two infants which would you save if you only had time to save one?

He sat silently for a moment as all eyes and ears were directed his way. He knew the story as taught to him during his tutoring, but he wanted to be careful because he had to explain his decision. The standard answer was to save the father because he would be needed to provide food and safety for the tribe. He knew that would be the easy answer and one that benefitted everyone, while only sacrificing those that could be replaced. During his training, he had lost some of his respect for the male dominated society that he lived in and had given this subject a lot of thought.

While his eyes were closed he thought of his own mother and the many sacrifices she had made for him and his siblings. She had even put her own life in jeopardy to save him when she ran like the wind, just after giving birth to spirit him out of harm's way. He heard the story many times and it made a strong impression with him.

It is rare, if not objectionable, for one being tested to stand during an answer as it shows a character having position, rather than submission. But stand he did and in a clear and unwavering voice he answered and possibly changed the tone of future examinations as he said, "I would save the mother, because not only is she the bearer of the two children, but, because she can bear two more, nay, ten more. There are many men without wives and she would not go unfed or unloved. Yes, we could save the man trapped in the fire so that he would remain instrumental to the tribe, but the mother could bear many more such men and do so much more for the tribe."

The council was unprepared for his answer and the manner in which it had been delivered. The council knew he had not been taught this way by the medicine man. The medicine man was also in attendance and was one of the council members.

The medicine man spoke up, slightly indignant but not too offended because he had grown fond of White Bird and knew him to be fair, positive and always correct in his thinking. He asked, "So, you are saying the father will not produce more children and the two young children may not grow up to produce more children."

White Bird continued to stand, "I am not saying that at all, the father can produce ten children a year, but not additional to the children the women could have with any other man, it is not necessary that he be saved for these same ten women to have children. The two little children caught up in the blaze have no history of reproduction, and it is uncertain if they will live to become adult or if they will even be able to produce children."

No one spoke and it seemed as if they were at a loss as to how to counter his argument. He nailed it with saying this: "Our tribe has been raided for slaves many times in the past; how often do the raiders take a man? How often do they take a woman? Men are of little value and we have yet to see any man taken for a slave since I was born. Men are killed, women are taken, therefore which is the most valuable to other tribes, men or women?"

They looked at each other and one began nodding in agreement until they all were doing it. That put an end to that question. It also changed history within the Wisnook tribe. Women gained a tremendous amount of respect on that day. White Bird was going to be responsible for many practical and philosophical changes within this tribe over the years. The council may not have expected the answer he gave, but his convincing argument put a light on the subject that made the situation very clear to all in attendance.

In reality, his decision would cost no one a life because it was a theoretical question, but it was opening a door that had never been breached before. The question as answered was clearly representing the inner person being tested. It also demonstrated the grit of the man being on trial, because he knew what the acceptable answer should have been.

The next question had to do with migration. Many tribes migrated to better hunting and gathering sites throughout the year and the Wisnooks were no exception although the entire tribe didn't always make the move. About half stayed on the best plots of land to hold territorial rights. That is until the European settlers began pushing Indian people back away from the coast. Some Indians fought back, but not the Wisnook. The next question was, "If you become a medicine man of our tribe, how will you select your wives?"

He was still standing, even though no one seemed to notice any longer, as he answered, "I will not select more than one wife unless there is someone who is not wanted for a wife by any other. I will not select my first wife, but we will select each other. When we are single, we are two different people, created for two different purposes, but when we marry, we become one person with one purpose." Again he stopped as they glared at him, but he continued. "Men fight over wives like buffalo trying to build a big herd. Women are herded into a group where they are prohibited from being part of the tribe on a higher level. They are called the property of so and so and not the partner of so and so. I want a wife who is considered equal in all things and given the right to hunt and to go out to search for horses if she chooses."

The council withheld further questions and this was the straw that broke the resolve of those that were willing to support him after the first question. He was not answering like a true Indian of the times. They didn't understand him at all. They didn't like anyone who suggested that men were not the ruler of the family. Many of the men had two or three wives and most were allowed to have as many as they could feed and care for. That system worked when they were young, but once the men were too old to hunt and feed a family, they began to starve unless someone else was willing to do for them what they couldn't do for themselves. That was another reason for warfare, because the younger men would often kidnap women from other tribes when there weren't enough to go around at home.

White Bird saw this as a problem that could only be sorted out by some system of equality, not only with gender, but with the pairing of available resources, namely young men and women.

The old medicine man spoke loudly and as he began talking, White Bird sat back down for the first time out of respect for his teacher, and this did not go unnoticed. The medicine man said, "There is truth to what White Bird speaks, and it may be new to our ears, but if we think about it, we will see he has bright eyes and sees things very clearly."

As he went on, it was obvious that the old timers were not interested in supporting White Bird at this time. He had given his answers true and to the point, but had failed in the political arena. These men were among the oldest in the tribe and they had settled into the pattern of their forefathers and it was comforting to them to live the same way as those who had come before them.

The chief, who had six wives, spoke up. "I love each of my wives and they love me. We have brought into the world twenty-four children who have profited the tribe greatly. I can see no use to this foolish conversation and see no way that we can allow this heathen to become our medicine man." The council could do nothing but agree. There was no saving point in the latter part of the discussion and even had they continued the inquisition, many of White Bird's answers would have been just as controversial. He was a forward looking man with his sights far over the horizon. That horizon would eventually take him and the Wisnook tribe almost three thousand miles to the west.

Sweentouk, his mother, and Manito, his father, were heartbroken. They believed in their son and had asked him to hold his tongue, but he could not. The medicine man stepped into the lodge and confronted White Bird with this statement. "A wise man will do his work with his head and not his tongue."

White Bird explained that he could only tell what was in his heart and he would not be able to stand tall and look anyone in the eyes if he had lied just to become a medicine man. The medicine man put his hands on the shoulders of White Bird and said, "It is I who makes a medicine man and not the council." Everyone looked at him with surprise.

He went on, "It is the council that makes a person a medicine man for the tribe, but that is not as important as being a medicine man for the entire Indian world. The Wisnook council has spoken and before the new moon, you must leave here and take nothing with you except the clothing you now wear. I will go with you to the conference of nations and sit with you before the council of medicine men who will be your only judge. It will then be up to you to find a tribe that will accept you as a medicine man."

Sweentouk began crying and pulling at her hair. White Bird walked over and pulled her hands down saying, "The Creator of All Things has a special job for me and I must find it. I thought it was within my own tribe, but now I see that it is not."

She stopped sobbing and looked long and lovingly into his eyes. He had been a special gift to her when she needed something strong to hold to, and now she had to be strong for herself. She was very proud of him and his independent stance.

His soothing voice and calming nature put her anguish to rest as he assured her that he had a prophecy to fulfill and he had to go out and serve others. He told his parents all about his frequent dreams of wandering alone in a huge wasteland and fighting giant monsters on both land and sea. The land was great, but the sea was greater, the land was dangerous, but the sea was more dangerous, and in the end, he would win every battle and return home to his beloved tribe.

The wise medicine man verified that White Bird had told him about his dreams many times and it was his destiny. White Bird was not being kicked out by the council, but he was being called out by destiny which had greater plans for the Wisnooks by giving White Bird a task that would create a path to save the Wisnook from self-destruction and fighting among themselves. It is not uncommon for an uncommon leader to be selected by fate to execute a plan created by the Greatest Power within the universe. The medicine man then turned and placed both hands on White Bird's shoulders again and said, "Go, go now and seek the great one who will become the greatest chief the Wisnook have ever known."

White Bird was taken aback by that as he had not understood that he was supposed to find a leader to lead the Wisnook, he thought he was going out to serve the Wisnook, but had no idea that the medicine man had been informed as to his calling as well.

White Bird turned and began walking out of the tepee when his sister ran up to him and begged him to take her with him, and then the other children ran up crying the same thing. Sweentouk moved in between them and as if she was beginning to understand why White Bird must leave, she pushed him out through the open flap and held the younger children back saying, "It is bad enough to have lost one child twice without losing another."

She was referring to the time when White Bird was born and she had to hide him in a hollow tree and a large white Snowy Owl had flown to the nest and covered the baby so that no one would see or hear him down inside. Someone or something was looking out for White Bird. She thought so then and she was certain of it now.

White Bird had until the new moon before he had to be out of the compound, but he was leaving right away, two weeks before the moon was new again. He realized it was his destiny and it was not the chief's choice that he left, but a power greater than anyone on earth. He walked tall and slowly, looking only straight ahead as everyone who was still in camp watched him go, knowing full well that he had made up his mind to leave early despite his love for his tribe and family. Two of his closest friends and hunting companions ran up to him carrying their bows and begged him to take them with him. They found a lot of strength in White Bird and they had great admiration for him. When he told them that he could not take them on this journey, but one day he would return. They offered their own bows for his protection. He refused saying that he was forbidden to carry anything away from the tribe and that he would soon have all of the things he needed to accomplish the task that had been assigned to him. He had no idea what that was, but he was ready for the challenge.

They had no idea what he was talking about, but long ago, they learned not to challenge his statements, he always knew right from wrong. They would have him as their chief, even now, if it were possible.

The chief came to the door of his lodge when he heard the crying and moaning outside. He walked slowly toward White Bird who neither looked left nor right. The chief looked as if he wanted to take one last look at the young man with the strange ideas that were heretofore unheard of among the Wisnook. Even though the chief was not without remorse, he was doing his job as he saw fit, but it was a hard task and he regretted that he had to do it because he, too, had developed a lot of respect for White Bird.

White Bird had saved his life once when the tribal compound was raided by slave seeking foreigners. As they rushed the village with superior weapons in an effort to cut the chief down and out of the battle in order to demoralize the braves, White Bird had come to his defense and even though the raiders were shooting powerful weapons, White Bird drove them off without getting a single wound. He was so brave and fast that he was upon the enemy before they could reload and sent ten men sprawling as he laid them out with a heavy stick made of hickory. The chief was saddened to see him go, but he knew the law as he saw it and a good chief would banish anyone who blasphemed the ancient laws.

TO READ MORE, you can purchase **White Bird Returns** by Dr Robert E McGinnis at:

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Chapter 23: Cheryl Rogers, Just Like Jonah Wail Tales

Reprinted from **Just Like Jonah Wail Tales** , a fiction book teaching there is a price to pay when you disobey, by Cheryl Rogers. Copyright 2010 by author, Used by permission of author.

An Election Too Close to Call

Steve stayed close to the basketball as his opponent was dribbling, his hands poised to snap it from under the other boy's control. The score was 30-30 and the two middle school teams were battling for the season championship. Steve was his team's top player, and all eyes in the auditorium watched as he slapped the ball away and began dribbling it toward his team's basket. With an ease that comes from long hours of practice, he gracefully flung the basketball through the hoop as the bell shrilled, signaling the end of the game!

The crowd's cheers were almost deafening as Steve's teammates carried him around the court celebrating their team's victory. He held his arms upwards with clenched fits yelling "B-L-A-Z-E-R-S, blazers are the best!"

Steve had practiced every day after school, sometimes with the team and sometimes with a friend or two. He'd been playing regularly since third grade and it showed. Coach Billy relied on Steve for those tough plays, especially when the pressure was on to perform. Steve seemed oblivious to the pressure. It was almost as if the basketball, hoop and Steve were alone in the auditorium, his concentration was so intense. Naturally outgoing, he enjoyed the glory that came to him after sinking the tough shot, over and over again.

Steve's success on the basketball court spilled over into other area's of his life. The girls recognized him as a winner and frequently crowded around him to praise him for the team's latest victory, and his contributions to it. Even the teachers seemed to keep up with the team's accomplishments – and Steve's.

Steve seemed to know instinctually that hard work paid off, and he applied the principle to his school work as well, earning good grades most of the time. He also inherited his father's handsome visage, which he noted with pleasure every time he carefully combed his thick wavy brown hair in the mirror. He'd smile at himself and say, "You handsome devil you," as he put his comb into his pant pocket to save it for later.

For a seventh grader, Steve was remarkably successful, making him the envy of some of his male classmates. Things were especially keen when he beat Ken Sanderson for class president a couple of days ago. Ken got excellent grades and was known for starting the school's first chess club. Some people said he'd demonstrated his leadership abilities and smarts, and that he was the natural choice for president. They'd even made some completely unjustified remarks about his not being a dumb jock. There was no way you could say Steve was a dumb jock, not with his As and Bs. Even if he didn't get all As like Ken, he was a lot more well rounded.

Steve was really just a popular all-around good guy, whose accomplishments were noted over and over. It happened so often that Steve was beginning to believe he was invincible, on the basketball court, and off.

Shortly after his victory as class president was announced, Ken came up to him to congratulate him.

"Hey Steve, I am happy for you man," Ken said. "It couldn't happen to a nicer guy. Well, except for me, of course."

Ken smiled awkwardly. "You know Steve, I don't mind helping out – if you want me to, that is," he continued. "I've got lots of ideas I hoped to try."

"Yeah well thanks, I have other officers," Steve said. He threw his sweater over his shoulder and strode down the hall, without a second glance at Ken.

Ken was stunned and he wasn't the only one. Ms. Gable, the student council moderator, who was quietly watching the conversation from inside her classroom, was stunned as well. She approached Ken, hoping to help him deal with the rejection she knew he was feeling.

"Would you mind stepping into my classroom for a minute, Ken," she asked. "I want to talk to you about something."

Unbeknownst to the candidates, the election was actually close, very close – so close Ms. Gable had not been sure she should announce the outcome. She had decided to trust her volunteer counters and give Steve the victory, even though he'd won by 10 of 150 total votes. But she was disturbed by what she had just witnessed – very disturbed.

"It is not customary for us to reveal the vote counts in the Student Council elections," Ms. Gable began. "But I want you to know you did very well. I hope you are not discouraged by the outcome. I hope you are not discouraged from running for office again, or from helping the Student Council."

She smiled.

"I guess you just saw what happened," Ken replied. "I appreciate what you are trying to do, but do you really think my help is wanted? I have the feeling if I lived on another planet it would not be far enough away for SOME people."

"Ken, I am in an awkward position. I did see what happened and I don't believe you were treated properly. I will deal with Steve later, but right now I want to know your thoughts. I think you behaved admirably in offering your services. I believe you demonstrated the kind of quality leadership we need at Clark Middle School," Ms. Gable continued. "I wish I could say the same for Steven."

"In my role as moderator of the Student Council, I not only am responsible for overseeing the fairness of the election but the integrity of its members. Do you promise to keep what I tell you a secret, just between us, until I say differently?"

Ken was shocked. Ms. Gable was talking to him like an adult. Taking him into her confidence? What could this be about? The only way he could know was to agree to her terms.

"Of course, Ms. Gable," he blurted out. "What is it?"

The words came tumbling out. Ms. Gable could scarcely contain herself. The election had been close, so close, that she had almost demanded a recount. But it was late and there was no reason to distrust the verdict delivered by the vote counters.

"Perhaps I made an error, Ken. I don't know how to go back now unless ... you want a recount. I realize this is putting you on the spot, but if you want it, I could ask for a recount."

"Uh." The room was silent as Ken contemplated the decision he was being asked to make. It didn't seem like a decision a seventh-grader going on eighth grader should have to make.

"Let me see if I get this straight. You want ME to decide if I want a recount," he asked in disbelief.

"I want you to understand something here Ken," Ms. Gable continued. "This is not like some political election where you can demand a recall or anything like that. This is between you ... and me. I think I made a mistake here. It may not affect the outcome. I really don't know. But if it does, I would like to make it up to you. I want to know if you still want the job – if you really won, that is."

"Heck yeah, I want the job. I ran for it, didn't I? If anything, I want it more now to knock that guy off his throne," Ken said. "I still can't believe what he did."

"Alright, Ken. This is what we are going to do. I will recount the votes personally and if there is a change I will talk with Principal Holcomb. He must agree if the results are to be overturned. In the meantime, mum's the word, okay?"

"What if I blab," Ken asked, eliciting a stern look from Ms. Gable.

"You'd look like a sore loser for questioning the election results, which already have been announced," she said crisply.

"Gotcha." Ken left the room, leaving Ms. Gable to her duties.

She shook her head from side to side sadly, wishing she'd recounted the votes the first time. If Steve were the true choice of the student body, she'd be battling his ego all next year. Luckily, she'd kept the ballots. She opened her desk drawer and removed a box containing the votes and began counting. As she approached the final votes, she felt excitement and dread. The outcome was Ken, 46; Steve, 45; Marie, 32; Justin, 15; and Karen, 12. She quickly recounted the votes, returned them to the box, and headed to see Principal Holcomb. He was as disturbed as Ms. Gable when he learned the news.

"Ms. Gable, I do wish you had done a recount before all this happened. But I understand you had no reason to doubt the outcome of your volunteers. You promised a recount to Ken and I stand by you on that," Principal Holcomb said. "I wish we could just declare there was an error, but I don't think it is fair when the difference is one vote. We must have a runoff election – as distasteful as that may be."

"A runoff for eighth grade president," Ms. Gable asked rhetorically. She was almost as stunned as she had been when she overheard Steve and Ken's conversation. "We've never had a runoff as long as I've been here."

"Nor as long as I have been here. I'll make the announcement at the end of the day," Principal Holcomb concluded. "The final election will be in one week. We will not tell anyone how close the election was. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, of course," Ms. Gable replied.

"If one of the candidates wins by 10 or less votes, you Ms. Gable, will decide who the winner is. And no more is to be said of it. Understood?"

Ms. Gable sighed in relief, looked straight into Principal Holcomb's brown eyes, and said: "Yes sir. Thank you very much."

The campaign was especially heated considering the turn of events, but Ms. Gable cautioned both candidates they must not resort to name calling, insults or anything which would tarnish each other's reputations. Failure to do so, she warned, would result in immediate disqualification. So the days passed by with many promises being made, more than any eighth grader could ever deliver, no matter how well intentioned. When the verdict was in, Ken had made a resounding victory, apparently garnering many of Marie, Justin's and Karen's votes.

Although Steven had many fans from helping his team win the basketball championship, the memory of the team's victory had faded somewhat. The school's Chess Club had recently been named first place in the district's contest. It was heading towards state competition and there was quite a bit of excitement about that, at least among some of the students.

Steve had a hard time adjusting to his status as a loser, but Ken offered to let him run the Fundraising Committee.

"I'd like to try to raise money to redo the gym floor," Ken explained. "I thought you might have a special interest in that."

Steve remembered, with remorse, how he'd treated Ken. Now Ken was offering him a job, when he wasn't willing to do the same for Ken. And he was even giving him an opportunity to help the Basketball Team. Steve hesitated. He felt like an ant. Maybe an ant whose legs had been squashed.

"Na. It is nice of you Ken, real nice. But the student body has spoken. They don't want me, so they'll just have to do without me."

"Suit yourself," Ken shrugged, walking off and wondering whom else he could recruit for the job.

Just as before the conversation was overheard, however. Word got around that Steve didn't want to help the basketball team and his popularity waned. When Steve tried to talk to the girls, they gave him the cold shoulder. It hurt the most when he was preparing to join Katie in the lunchroom, only to find Ken seated next to hear, intently discussing her assignment as President's Advisor. They never had a President's Advisor before, but they sure did now, and Ken was making full use of the position to get to know Katie better. It sounded like she was advising him about the seventh grade class's first dance! He walked by quickly and settled in with some other friends, who finished eating quickly and left him sitting by himself. He was having that feeling of being an ant with squashed legs again and he didn't like it. So he decided he better study his math. He hadn't been doing so well at that either.

Steve's life seemed to be unraveling in other areas as well. He was frequently angry and stormed off when people tried to talk with him. Impatience seemed to rule him and his chores were frequently left unfinished. The same could be said for his homework. Although his good grades from earlier in the year succeeded in carrying him through most of his classes, he wound up in summer school math. He was no longer allowed to spend as much time practicing his basketball. He was truly miserable and he did not know why. He wasn't sure what had gone wrong, or why. As he sat at the desk in his room trying to do his math assignment, tears began falling from Steve's eyes and he sobbed and heaved, uncontrollably. Steve's mom stuck her head inside the door.

"Steve, what is wrong? Tell me what is wrong." She entered the room, gave him a hug and waited for him to explain.

"Aw, mom. Everything has gone wrong in my life and I don't even know why. I was doing great at school, great at basketball, I had lots of friends, and then I had to go and run for student council. Once I lost that, everything seemed to fall apart."

"It's not about Student Council, you know that. Do you remember what I told you when you ran in the runoff? It's not about winning, it's about serving. If you didn't win there, you can always serve somewhere else."

She thought for a moment.

"Everything we have is a gift from God, Steve, and we need to give him credit for our successes. Have you prayed about this?"

"Well, no. I don't like to pray much. We go to church."

"You do know, I trust, that God can fix things for you. Don't you think he was behind things going so well before? Why don't you ask him if you did something wrong?" His mom left the room to give him time to think and pray.

Steve kind of felt warm inside as he guiltily remembered how he'd treated Ken when he'd offered to work with the Student Council. He remembered his mother's words about serving. To Steve, winning was another chance at power, to prove his value and make others like him. It had never been about serving. He also realized he'd taken credit for all the successes he had, after all he'd worked hard at basketball, and his studies. Well, heck, he even worked hard to keep well groomed, stopping to check himself in the mirror frequently throughout the day! But his effort had not been enough now. He couldn't even control his emotions like he used to. It felt like God closed the curtain on his life.

Steve decided to pray, like he'd never prayed before. He surrendered his life and circumstances to God and asked God to forgive him for not recognizing and crediting him for the successes he'd had in life. He ended with a declaration of trust that God would make things work out the best for him, whatever that was. He wiped the tears from his face and went to the bathroom only to see himself as a wreck in the mirror. He washed his face and carefully combed his hair. Just then the telephone rang and it was Katie, asking Steve if he would reconsider his decision not to head the Fundraising Committee.

"Steve, I hope you don't think I'm being too forward. Ken did say he asked you before, but I plan to be working closely with that committee and would really appreciate your help. We should have someone from the basketball team involved and you are the likely choice."

"When you put it that way, Katie, how can I refuse?" Steve replied, putting aside his feelings of rejection. This job was starting to sound good, after all.

"Okay, I'll put you down. Talk to you later, Stevie."

It was a start. Things weren't back to normal, but they were on the upswing and Steve had God to thank. He returned to his room and thanked God for what he was doing. Then he did his homework so he could play basketball later.

TO READ MORE, you can purchase **Just Like Jonah Wail Tales** by Cheryl Rogers at:

http://www.songsfromtheword.com/NewChristianBooks/store/ (ebook)

https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/cherylrogers (ebook).

Chapter 24: Evelyn Uslar-Pietri, Pirate's Gold, Treasure to Die For

Reprinted from **Pirate's Gold: Treasure to Die For** , a young adult adventure by Evelyn Uslar-Pietri. Copyright 2010 by Tate Publishing. Used by permission of author.

"Is it treasure ye be wantin'?"

Six little words that would transform my life. They would launch me into a treacherous sea of adventure—adventure so hugely terrifying, so dreadful and fantastic, that a lesser pirate would have turned sails and ran! Fiendish creatures, evil wizards, deadly curses, bewitching nymphs, and more; I tangled with them all, barely escaping alive, in my relentless search for choice treasure. Long-lost and precious beyond compare, a treasure so extraordinary that—

But I'm getting ahead of myself. My name is Johnny B. Wilde, captain of the Bonnie Belle and, as you may have guessed, a fearless pirate if there ever was one.

Pirating has been the family business since Great-Grandpa Wilde lost his right hand in an occupational accident involving a nasty shark and large amounts of blood. Suddenly and painfully unemployed, Great-Grandpa was forced to consider his options, which, in fact, weren't many. It was plain his days as a fisherman were over, but there wasn't much else Grandpa knew how to do well; other than lie and cheat, that is. Those self-same skills—scrupulously polished and perfected—were passed down to Grandpa Wilde and then on to my very own father, who also earned himself an unrivaled reputation for bravery. And that, of course, is where I, Johnny B. Wilde, come into the picture: Captain Jimmy Wilde's one and only legitimate son, proudly raised to uphold the family tradition.

I was thinking about my father that fateful afternoon when my life...capsized. Standing there on the Bonnie Belle's foredeck, breathing deeply of the balmy sea air, wishing Pa hadn't been all that brave. He might have lived a little longer; we might have gone on a few more voyages together. Master pirate that he was, there was still much he had to teach me, and I, at the age of nineteen, still had much to learn. If only...

But enough of that. As my first mate, Salty Joe Cummings, always likes to point out, there is no use crying over spilt rum, is there? Pa had been gone for over three years, and I'd be wise to keep my mind off sorrowful events I could in no way change. "Think 'appy thoughts" is what Salty Joe would have said if he hadn't been below decks. "'Appy thoughts are bound to make ye 'appy."

As I stared into the horizon, watching the sun slip like a flaming cherry clear off the edge of the earth, I heard an unfamiliar voice. It was very British and just a little bit nasally, and it said, "Is it treasure ye be wantin?"

Startled, I looked around, only to see nothing but flaming cherries dancing about. I rubbed at my eyes, hoping to erase the sun's lingering impression, and looked again. I was clearly still seeing things that weren't there, this time in the form of a rather plump and funny-looking pelican. A talking one, no less, just a few feet away from me.

"I s'ppose the answer is aye, ye being a pirate and all?"

This amazing creature was standing with the help of a peg leg, peering at me from behind a black eyepatch.

"What...who...are...you?" I managed at last.

"Yoho, at yer service. Pleased to make yer acquaintance, Cap'n Johnny Braxton Wilde," said the bird, smiling most pleasantly.

"You...know me?"

"Aye, I reckon I do at that."

I scanned the deck, hoping there was a crew hand that could confirm what I was hearing. No such luck; they'd all gone below for their afternoon grog. About now, I too could have used a little grog.

"Well, if yer not wantin' treasure, I'll be on me merry way then."

"No, wait. What do you know about treasure?"

"I knows where to find it, and I knows who can 'ave it."

"Where is it?"

"Not so fast, Cap'n." The pelican chuckled. "First, let's find out if ye be qualifyin' for such a dandy prize. Do ye own a parrot?"

"A parrot? No, but what does that have to do with—"

"Splendid," said the pelican, nodding approvingly. "Now, can ye be counted on to keep a vow?"

The lie was nearly out of my lips before I checked it. This creature had mysterious powers; I didn't want to risk its disfavor. "Depends."

"On what?"

"On what I swear by. I'm only bound if I swear by the family honor."

"Splendid," said the pelican once again. "Are ye a man of courage?"

I straightened to my full height. "I'm the only son of Captain Jimmy Wilde, if that tells you anything."

"Aye, it does. It tells me I may 'ave found me man," said the pelican, waddling toward me—awkwardly because of his peg leg.

"Your man for what?"

The pelican made a playful sound of exasperation. "Why to find treasure, what else?" he said with a wink.

"Look, you...what did you say your name was?"

"Yoho, at yer service," he said, bowing as best he could. "I be the one yer like to sing about: 'Yoho, Yoho, a pirate's life for me!'"

Clearly this was a seriously confused bird. "No, see, the 'yo-ho, yo-ho' part is like a refrain, not actually a—" I stopped, seeing the effect my words were having. The pelican's shoulders had become slumped, his beak bobbing down towards the deck, as if its weight were unbearable.

"Then again, on second thought, it could be a name."

The beak moved upward a fraction. "Could it?"

"Yes. I see that now. Most probably."

The upward motion continued. "Probably?"

Blast the silly bird. "Definitely, is what I mean. Now, Yoho, you mentioned..."

"Treasure?" he warbled, quite fully recovered, a sparkle back in his one eye. "Aye, Cap'n. I 'ave a map to prove it."

"May I see it?"

"Aye, Cap'n, but I be needin' two promises sworn by yer family honor."

"Go on."

"First, promise that from this day forth, until death do us part, ye'll let me be yer parrot."

Parrot? The bird had huge identity issues, but treasure was on the line, and I was in no mood to argue. "I swear by my family honor that you can be my...er...parrot...until death do us part," I said, solemnly raising my right hand.

"Splendid," cheered Yoho, flapping his wings. "Second, promise ye'll take good care of me and protect me from harm."

I repeated the oath, and he flapped his wings some more, as excited a pelican (or parrot!) as I'd ever seen.

"Now, where is this map?"

"Aye, the map," said Yoho. Meaningfully, he gazed down at his peg leg and then up at me. "I'll be needin' yer 'elp gettin' this off then. If ye can undo the buckle at me waist, the leg slips right off. It's 'ollow, it be; ye'll find the map inside."

I did as he asked, carefully removing the wooden appendage, unsure if Yoho would be able to maintain his balance. "You all right?" I asked, straightening up, precious leg in hand.

The little fellow nodded bravely. "Aye. Much obliged, Cap'n."

There was a wax stopper sealing the open end of the peg leg, and swiftly I sawed through it with the tip of my cutlass. Something was in there, all right. A yellowed parchment scrolled tight and tied with a faded, red ribbon. Holding my breath now, I slid it from its casing, removed the ribbon, reverently unrolled it, and whistled.

"You weren't lying, my small friend," I muttered in little more than an awed whisper. "You weren't lying at all."

He squawked something about never lying or some such foolishness, but I wasn't really paying attention. The map appeared genuine and quite detailed. It showed a sea—the Sea of Vasquez—dotted with a collection of islands, five of which were named: Encantada, Isle of Cursyu, Fortunada, Skull's Island, and Begongo.

"This is strange. It does say treasure map up here, but the exact location isn't marked. The treasure could be anywhere, on any of these islands." I must have been thinking out loud because my feathered companion piped right up.

"Aye, Cap'n. Right ye be at that. But take a look at the back of the map; somethin's been written."

It was his turn to be right. A clue of sorts had been penned there, very ornately and in glittery, gold ink: If in search of great treasure ye be, then go to Skull's Island and see.

"Well, Yoho, at least we have a starting point: Skull's Island in the Sea of Vasquez." If we even made it there in one piece. I personally had never known anyone who'd been to the Sea of Vasquez and lived to tell about it. It was rumored the dreaded Captain Snake-Eyed Pete had been there, that he'd lost his mind as well as his crew in that infamous sea. But no one knew for sure, seeing that he'd been several cards short of a full deck by the time he was rescued. As the tale went, a merchant ship crossing the Indian Ocean had spotted what appeared to be an abandoned dinghy. A closer inspection had revealed an unfortunate figure huddled at the boat's bottom, crying for his mum and babbling about death on the Sea of Vasquez. It was none other than the dreaded Captain Snake-Eyed Pete!

"Xcuse me, Cap'n, don't mean to be interruptin' yer thoughts," said Yoho, bringing me back to the present. "But if yer not be needin' of me leg anymore..."

"Why of course, I'll get it right back on you," I exclaimed, hurriedly shoving the map in my belt and dropping to one knee. I was entirely unprepared for what I saw, although nothing should have been surprising on this most incredible of afternoons. But there you have it. The crazy bird had two—not one—normal legs! What the blazes was he doing wobbling around on a peg leg?

"What..." I began, at a loss for words.

"What?" he said brightly and proceeded to tuck his left leg right up into his feathers so it disappeared from view.

"Why..."
A breeze had picked up, and Yoho was swaying rather alarmingly. "Why what?" I hesitated to say more, remembering his sensitive nature.

"Cap'n, 'xcuse me again, but I'm fixin' to fall on me bum, I am..." said Yoho, weaving about on one skinny leg.

Silently, I strapped the belt around his waist and secured the artificial limb.

"Thanks, Cap'n, much obliged!" The little runt grinned gleefully, testing his wooden contraption. "That be better!"

I crossed my arms over my chest, watching as Yoho tottered about the deck. "Is there really treasure waiting to be found? Is it still there?" I murmured, mostly to myself. Instantly, Yoho, who was obviously gifted with keen hearing, came to a stop. "Aye, Cap'n," he said, fixing me with his eye, "there be treasure awaitin' us."

I exhaled slowly, deliberately, and pulled the map from my belt. "Well then, my newfound friend, let's not waste any more time! Tonight we set sail for the deadliest, most mysterious place on earth. Tonight we go to the Sea of Vasquez!"

TO READ MORE, you can purchase **Pirate's Gold: Treasure to Die For** by Evelyn Uslar-Pietri at:

http://amzn.to/rXLRBo (Kindle)

http://amzn.to/rVEvWu (paperback)

Chapter 25: Amanda Washington, Chronicles of the Broken

Reprinted from **Chronicles of the Broken** , a young adult faith-based fiction novel by Amanda Washington, published by Leeway Artisans. Copyright 2010 by Amanda Washington. Used by permission of author and publisher.

Monday, November 21

Amy Yong sat at the back of Mr. Blanchard's freshman class, history book propped up on her desk. She was confident no one could see her playing the silenced Nintendo DS behind the bulky book. She battled villains while Mr. Blanchard droned on and on about the accomplishments of men who had been dead for a very long time.

Amy was done with dead people. In fact, Amy was pretty much done with people in general. Electronics were far more interesting. And if something electronic died, she could just catch a YouTube video and learn how to fix or replace the problem. Never a good idea with people though, that is how Frankenstein was made and that guy was crazy-ugly.

The sides of her mouth curled up, as she began the key-combo that would end the life of a mini-boss.

"Amy?"

She glanced up. The whole class had turned around to stare at her.

"Uh..." Her palms began to sweat under all those speculative eyes and she shifted in her seat, offering an uncertain smile. "Yeah?"

Mr. Blanchard stared at her for a moment too long, making Amy want to crawl under her desk. She couldn't put her finger on the reason why, but the teacher was creepy with a capital "C."

"Yeah?" He cleared his throat. "It wasn't a yeah or no question." Shaking his head, he seemed to encourage the snickering of her classmates. "Let's try this again. Does anyone know what year the American Revolution started?"

A brown-haired boy in slacks and a blazer gave Amy a smug smile and raised his hand.

Mr. Blanchard sighed. "Yes Andrew."

"1775."

"Dorkipedia," Amy muttered as she glanced down at her game – dead character, gloating mini-boss. O-M-G, I can't believe that creepy jerk got me offed. She glared at her teacher.

When the bell rang, she grabbed her things and headed for the door. The geeky know-it-all was in her way, so she forcefully brushed against him, knocking his books to the floor. Pansy.

"Oops." She covered her smile with a hand. "Did I do that?"

"Ms. Yong." Mr. Blanchard's voice rang out above the shuffling of books and chatter of students. "I'm so glad you've decided to stay late today."

Amy shook her head. "But I—"

Her teacher ran a hand through his greasy hair as his lips spread into a coffee-stained smile.

Amy sighed. "Fine." She stomped back over to her desk and sat down, then pulled out her history book and pretended to read it. So lame. She glanced at her watch, knowing that Mr. Blanchard's unavoidable lecture would ruin her day, if not her entire life. In fifteen minutes she was supposed to be joining an über group of gamers in an online shootout. If she wasn't there, they would replace her. And if her replacement was any good, Amy would have to wait forever to get another shot at joining the group.

"I'm very concerned about your performance in my class." Mr. Blanchard leaned against a neighboring desk, looking down his crooked nose at her.

Amy closed her history book and watched him, wondering if the desk would snap in two under his super-sized meal-lovin' frame. "I try." She shrugged. "It's just so tired. History's meant to stay in the past."

"You try?" He leaned forward and tapped the front pocket of her sweatshirt, thumping against the plastic DS. "I wouldn't call that trying. You need to stop bringing that thing into my class before I take it." He shook his head and chuckled. "Amy, Amy, Amy. What am I going to do with you?"

His tone was somehow alarming, and his close proximity made Amy feel cornered. She looked around furtively, suddenly aware of how alone they were. He shut the door? Mr. Blanchard was the type of teacher who enjoyed public humiliation of his students. It seemed strange that he wouldn't take advantage of the opportunity to make Amy sweat in front of her peers. As if summoned by her thoughts, beads of perspiration begin to roll down her back.

Mr. Blanchard's lips spread into a grin, seemingly encouraged by her discomfort. "It's a shame too." He reached toward her and ran his fingers through one of her pink pig tails. "Pretty girl like you should be doing much better in my class."

Amy shuddered. So gross! "Hold up!" She closed her eyes and yanked her head back, away from him. "I'm not some epic drop for you to... to... fondle," she spat. "That is inappropriate, and totally—"

"—Your grandparents have been through so much," Mr. Blanchard said, interrupting her. He leaned back and the desk beneath him groaned under his weight. "It must have been hard on them to put their lives on hold, in order to take care of you." He shrugged. "I'd hate to have to inform them of your failing grade."

Amy's brow furrowed as she pieced together the not-so-veiled threat of her teacher. "Failing? I'm not failing. I've got a C." Amy wasn't stupid and most of Mr. Blanchard's tests were multiple choice. She gamed during class so she didn't have to listen to his monotonous rambling, but fear of having to retake the class next year persuaded her to study enough to pull a solid C.

He leaned toward her again. The remnant stench of his lunch—salami and dill pickle sandwich—lingered in the air between them. Amy tried not to gag.

"Of course the conversation doesn't have to go that way." He smiled and angled himself, above her. "We could come to an... arrangement."

Is he looking down my shirt? Her cheeks colored, as she placed a hand on her chest, making sure he couldn't see down. Glancing around the class for aid, she caught sight of the laptop on her teacher's desk. It grounded Amy, reminding her who she was. Online handle, "Viral." She'd worked hard for every letter of the name, unleashing viral destruction upon anyone who dared tick her off. With the ability to affect every computer she touched in a big way, she wasn't some stupid, little teeny-bopper to be trifled with.

What sort of virus protection are you packin' on that piece o'crap laptop Mr. Blanchard? With a plan for revenge already developing in her mind, she stood and turned toward the door. Mr. Blanchard grabbed her arm.

Amy's eyes grew round, as she stared at his hand, mentally documenting the exact location of his fingers. His skin felt hot against hers, like he was burning some sick brand into her arm. "Don't touch me," she warned through gritted teeth. "I know karate!"

"Do you?" He asked, sounding both interested and doubtful.

"I'm Japanese. Duh." She didn't really know karate, but reasoned that white people believed all Asians did. Like it was part of their DNA or something. And to be fair, she probably knew a little. With all the ninja games she had played, surely she'd absorbed something. Her lip pulled up in a snarl, as she tried to look menacing and ninja-ish.

Mr. Blanchard stared at her for a long uncomfortable minute, before releasing her arm. "Think of your grandparents. They will be so disappointed in you."

"What?"Amy's back stiffened. Her grandparents were pretty old-school and she couldn't even imagine having a conversation with them about her statutory-aspiring teacher. The less involvement they had in her life the better. "You know nothing about my grandparents and this whole convo is a little more psycho than I care to deal with."

"If you leave this room before your detention is over, I will fail you. I'll call your grandparents and tell them you've been cheating."

It was on now—no one threatened Amy, unless they wanted to deal with Viral. Amy leaned forward and glared into the face of her nemesis. "You wanna game ole' man? Do it and see what happens." She grabbed her bag and escaped before he could answer.

Amy sat on the bench in front of a three story apartment complex across the street from the school. She shuddered, remembering the creepy way Mr. Blanchard had looked at her. Ugh, so gross. She popped a piece of gum into her mouth, hoping it would make her feel a little less dirty and glanced around. The school parking lot was packed and she could hear the announcer preparing the crowd for the football game.

Convinced no one was watching, Amy carefully slid her laptop out of her small, pink backpack. She then placed it on her plaid skirt, over bright pink leggings. Clicking on the power button, Amy searched for networks.

Her cell phone rang.

Annoyed, she yanked the offending device out of the front pocket of her pack and glared at the display. Her grandmother's face smiled back. Temporarily thwarted from her plans, she flipped open the phone.

"Oba-chan." Amy's Japanese vocabulary consisted of a whole two words. She only knew those because her grandparents requested that she address them in their native titles. Amy's eyes began to gloss over as her grandmother described the trivial events of her day. She always calls at the most annoying times. Deciding not to be detoured from the task at hand, Amy clicked the mute button on her phone, and then returned her attention to the computer. A strong, unsecured network popped up named "Big Daddy's" popped up in her list of available networks.

Seriously? This guy deserves to get hacked.

There were two computers sharing files on Big Daddy's network. Amy giggled at her luck and opened the shared files, searching for dirt. Under a file named "Nancy" she found a raunchy letter that described disgusting activities that seemed right up Mr. Blanchard's ally.

"How was your day, Amy?" Her grandmother's question sounded in her ear.

She mentally recapped her day. Well, it started out okay, but then there was this annoying know-it-all who totally showed me up. Oh, and my perverted history teacher made a play on me. Turns out I'm gonna fail history unless I... Amy gagged again. Ewwe, no. Some things grandparents just didn't need to know.

She clicked off mute and pasted on a wide, phony smile, hoping it would carry over the phone and make her appear happy and well-adjusted. Yeah it was fake. But if her grandparents knew half of the stuff that floated through Amy's mind they'd be dragging her into therapy. No thank you.

"I'm at the library studying..." She read a line of the love letter and winced at the graphic detail. "Reproduction." She coughed. "Cellular... reproduction... you know, biology."

Amy held her laptop with one hand and, balancing the phone on her shoulder, she glanced at her watch. "Yah, I'll be home by six. Love ya too." She flicked her phone closed and returned it to her backpack. Then she really focused on her screen, scanning the word document in its entirety.

Her face scrunched up. That's just nasty. Amy grinned, feeling very wicked and devious, Perfect. She conducted a word search for the name of the intended recipient of Nancy's letter and changed it to "Bob." Using techniques she learned from YouTube—of course—she set up a ghost email account. Next, she sent the slimy Mr. Blanchard the sort of message he deserved from the hijacked IP address. A few more key strokes carbon-copied the school principal and director of the school board. It wasn't as flashy as a virus would have been, but this seemed more fitting, considering the teacher's crime.

Amy's finger hovered over the mouse pad. One little click and she could have her revenge. But is it right? Sure, Mr. Blanchard was a dog, but sending this little love letter could cost him his job. The letter mentioned certain acts at work a teacher definitely should not be involved in. Maybe I'm overreacting? Her phone buzzed and she glanced at the incoming text.

From: MadSkillz2killz

'5 mins late - U R out, Viral.'

Amy glared at the phone, wondering if smoke was literally coming out of her ears. Mr. Blanchard had gotten her kicked out of the most epic first person shooter team ever. He must pay. She took a deep breath and felt superpower-type vindication fill her veins. Like Wonder Woman with a golden keyboard, one little click and Amy could right the wrongs for harassed women everywhere. Click.

"Win—Amy. Fail—Mr. Blanchard."

Amy stood and started to head for home when the football field across the street suddenly erupted into a loud roar. Curious, she crossed the street and rushed to investigate the scene, arriving just in time to see the coaches and referees pull apart two boys. The biggest kid continued to swing as the coaches shoved him toward the bench.

"Wilson, if you don't control yourself you'll be glued to that bench for the rest of the season!" The coach yelled.

The boy threw up his arms and ripped off his helmet.

Amy squinted, but she didn't recognize the trouble-making football player. "Meatheads," she muttered and headed toward home.

Retreating to her bedroom, Amy pulled out her laptop and fired it up. While it booted, she put her recently played games back into their cases and filed them alphabetically. Then she counted them, to make sure they were all there. Twenty-eight PS3 games, Sixteen Wii games, and twenty-two PC games were alphabetized on the shelves next to her 32" television.

Then something caught her eye. Lying on the bed was a large manila envelope. Amy strolled over and picked it up. Her grandfather had scrawled her name on the front in his usual spidery handwriting. Inside was a handwritten note that read:

Mr. Blanchard called and informed us that you're failing history. He said he wants to work with you to help you through it. He's such a nice man to voice his concerns over your education. We spoke about the situation and are worried about how much time you spend with your video games and computer. You need friends and life experiences. One of our neighbors dropped this off today, and we think you should go. It will be good for you to spend time with your peers.

Dread felt like a weight in Amy's stomach as she opened the enclosed flyer.

Winter Youth Camp

The bus leaves from Green Hills Church at 8:00 am on Friday, December 16 and returns at 5:00 pm on Friday, December 23.

Bring a sleeping bag, pillow, warm clothes, a coat, gloves and a good attitude.

Amy resisted the urge to beat her head against the wall—barely.

TO READ MORE, you can purchase **Chronicles of the Broken** by Amanda Washington at:

http://goo.gl/VE8Pd (Kindle)

http://goo.gl/W9jgZ (Nook)

http://tinyurl.com/6jcytsw (paperback)

Children's Picture Books

Chapter 26: Judi Chesshir, My Finny Fin Fin

Escape into an underwater adventure with the story _My Finny Fin Fin_ written by Judi Chesshir. It is a fun twist on the tale _The Three Little Pigs_. Join the little dolphins in their search for unique homes of their own. Meet the dangerous predator, the hungry shark, which discovers them. What will happen to the dolphins? Will they be strong enough to defeat the shark? Dive into this underwater journey to see what unfolds.

Author Judi Chesshir has been a teacher for over 20 years. Along with a strong belief that the imagination can take you anywhere, she wants to instill a love of reading to each child that comes in contact with her stories. Her dream was to write a book someday and was thrilled when it finally happened. Here in her own words she tells how the story was created.

" _I had been in prayer for a few months asking God to help me think of a story to use in a book. I had planned on writing a novel, but wasn't sure what I wanted the story to be about. I just had a burning desire for many years to write a book and have it published. While in prayer, I told God he would probably need to just drop an idea in my lap and have the whole book publishing process come about easily, if I was ever going to write a book._

" _Then one day at school, my lesson for the day was to compare "The Three Little Pigs" to a similar book. I could not find a different version of the book in my classroom. I didn't have time to go by the library, so I decided I would combine a writing lesson with the compare and contrast lesson. My story, My Finny Fin Fin, was written in front of my second grade class. It was an example to my students on how to take an existing story and change it around to make it their own. I chose my characters, the dolphins and the shark, because the majority of my students enjoyed learning about these animals. I had my students vote on what would happen to each dolphin. After modeling how to write the story and comparing it to "The Three Little Pigs," each student created their own twist on "The Three Little Pigs."_

" _Later when I went home, I placed my story in a public online portfolio to save for use the following year. Others read my story and suggested I try to get it published. I thought why not give it a try. I did a little research, revised my story, and then sent it online to Tate Publishing. A few months later, I had a contract on my doorstep. Needless to say, I was thrilled and shocked all at the same time. I had not planned on writing a children's book, but was excited about this new venture anyway. I thanked the Lord for answering my prayers and fulfilling one of my dreams."_

The author's goals for _My Finny Fin Fin_ would be to have the story used for entertainment as well as a teaching tool in elementary schools. She can't think of a more exciting thing than to have her words read and enjoyed by a child. She enjoys hearing the voices the children use for the characters as they read out loud and hearing their giggles. Since _My Finny Fin Fin_ was written as a teaching tool, she would feel honored to have teachers and parents use it to teach reading comprehension skills with their children. Judi Chesshir can't help but smile each time she knows a child is learning and enjoying the story.

_My Finny Fin Fin_ is a wonderful children's book for kids ages one to nine. This cute adventure comes with a free audio download on the last page of the book so that the kids can have the story read to them. The story can be downloaded to iPods, computers, cell phones, and more. Don't miss your chance to get this book for the special child in your life.

" _Taste and See_ " _a sampling of this delightful book for children:_

Reprinted from _My Finny, Fin Fin_ by Judi Chesshir, a children's picture book for ages one to nine. Copyright 2010. Used by permission of author.

The first little dolphin decided to make his home in the middle of a school of squid. He knew he would have plenty of food to eat and have fun gliding through the ocean with them as they changed colors to match their surroundings. He said his good-byes to his brothers and happily joined the squid. He was busy getting used to his new home when he suddenly heard a deep voice say, "Little dolphin, little dolphin, let me come in." "Not by the hairs on my finny fin fin," said the dolphin. "Then I will chew my way in," declared the shark.

The second little dolphin was living happily in the tall green seaweed until one night he heard a deep voice he had never heard before, saying, "Little dolphin, little dolphin, let me come in." "Not by the hairs on my finny fin fin," said the dolphin. "Then I will weave my way in," uttered the shark.

The third little dolphin had discovered a beautiful coral reef. He swam around it and decided this would be a safe home to live in. He quickly made friends with the tiny, colorful fish who shared the reef with him. One afternoon while he was getting ready for a game of hide-and-seek with the clown fish, he heard a deep voice say, "Little dolphin, little dolphin, let me come in." "Not by the hairs on my finny fin fin," said the dolphin. "Then I will crash my way in," roared the shark.

TO READ MORE, you may purchase _My Finny Fin Fin_ by Judi Chesshir at:

http://amzn.to/uS5Wui (Kindle)

http://bit.ly/tg7FAx (Nook)

http://amzn.to/siXZFa (paperback)

Chapter 27: Brenda Hendricks, What's Better than That, Seren Dippity?

As a child, author/illustrator, Brenda Hendricks enjoyed hidden pictures found in magazines and take-home papers. One of her favorite pastimes was discovering images in the clouds.

On warm summer evenings, she and her grandchildren continue the fascination by pointing to horses, elephants, and angels in the clouds as they sway on the porch swing.

Now, Brenda incorporates hidden bees in her illustrations so you, too, can join the fun. The number at the end of each page indicates how many hidden pictures are on that page.

But what inspired the story, you ask?

While watching a bumblebee scurry from flower to flower, Brenda's inquisitive mind wondered what would happen if someone told a bumblebee that his wings were too small to carry his heavy body? That's what scientists say, you know. Thus her first book, _What's the Buzz, Bumbly Bee_? was born.

Another day, another bee, and another question dawned on Brenda as she noticed that all insects—butterflies, ants, beetles, and even bumblebees share the nectar from the flowers in her garden. But what if one of the bees decided she wanted all the pollen for herself? Voila, the seed for the second book, _What's Better than That, Seren Dippity?_ was planted.

" _Taste and See_ " _a sampling of this delightful book for children:_

Reprinted from _What's Better than That, Seren Dippity_ **?** by author/illustrator, Brenda Hendricks, a children's picture book for young children. Copyright 2011 Used by permission of author.

"What are you doing up here?" Seren Dippity asked.

"I'm flying high. What's better than that? Bumbly Bee smiled. "Watch this!"

He soared up, up, up then spiraled back to the queen bee. She didn't laugh. She didn't even smile. Instead she...(5)

"Ouch, you stung me!"

Bumbly dipped into a low loop then met her faced to face. "What's up with that?"

"Get me pollen from my flowers. Now!"

Seren Dippity led the way back to her daylilies.(4)

When they reached the flowers, Seren Dippity shrieked, "Nibs Rabbit, you're eating my daylilies."

"De-licious." Nibs swallowed a mouthful of flowers. "What's better than that?"

Seren Dippity didn't laugh. She didn't even smile. Instead she...(3)

TO READ MORE, you may purchase _What's Better than That, Seren Dippity?_ by author/illustrator, Brenda Hendricks at:

http://www.myquotesofencouragement.com/my-books

Chapter 28: Jay Miller, Sal and Sally

" _Taste and See" a sampling of this delightful book for children:_

Reprinted from **Sal and Sally** by Jay Miller, a children's picture book for young children. Copyright 2008. Used by permission of author.

TO READ MORE, you may purchase _Sal and Sally_ by Jay Miller at:

http://amzn.to/vgOxnE (paperback)

Chapter 29: Sherrill S. Cannon, Santa's Birthday Gift

" _Taste and See" a sampling of this delightful book for children:_

Reprinted from _Santa's Birthday Gift_ **,** by Sherrill S. Cannon. Copyright 2009 . Used by permission of author.

After I read the story of the Nativity to my granddaughter, she looked at me and asked, "But where's Santa?" That night the entire _Santa's Birthday Gift_ story came to me in a dream, and when I sat down to write it, the words just flowed \- with ideas I hadn't even thought of. I thank God every night for His inspiration and for allowing me to write _Santa's Birthday Gift_.

Santa's birthday gift is his promise to Baby Jesus to bring gifts each Christmas to celebrate the birth of the Christ Child.

" _So each year at Christmas, Santa brings toys_

To all good little girls and all good little boys;

He remembers his promise in a wonderful way,

He gives Christmas gifts for the Christ Child's birthday."

My favorite comment was from a mother who wrote that after her daughter read Santa's Birthday

Gift, she said, "Now I get it!"

TO READ MORE, you may purchase _Santa's Birthday Gift_ by Sherrill S. Cannon at:

http://www.SantasBirthdayGift-amazon.com (paperback)

http://www.SantasBirthdayGift-bn.com (Barnes and Noble)

Section 3

Miscellany

Chapter 30: Nike Chillemi, Burning Hearts, recipes

Recipes from Sanctuary Point series by Nike Chillemi

Sanctuary Point Recipes - heroine Erica Brogna ( **Burning Hearts** , May 2011) and heroine Katrina Lenart ( **Goodbye Noel** , December 15, 2011) both had mothers who were phenomenal bakers.

Burning Hearts

Can a sheltered young seamstress, disillusioned by the horrors of WWII, escape an arsonist/murderer who has killed her employer and mentor, while trying to decide if she can trust the dashing war hero who's ridden into town on his Harley—who some say is the murderer?

Erica Brogna's parents doted on her and taught her to think for herself. Many boys she grew up with had fallen in the WWII, shaking her childhood faith. In rides a handsome stranger, at the hour of her most desperate need. A woman who is her close friend and mentor is trapped in a burning house. After making an unsuccessful rescue attempt, Erica stands by as this man rushes into the inferno and carries her friend's lifeless body out.

Lorne Kincade can't outrun his past on his Harley Davidson WLA, the civilian model of the motorcycle he rode in the war. He's tried. He's been a vagabond biker in the year since the war ended. His Uncle Ivar bequeathed him a ramshackle cottage in Sanctuary Point, on the Great South Bay of Long Island, NY, and now he'd like to hope for a future again, repair the miniscule place, and settle down. The only problem is, a young woman with hair the color of mink is starting to get under his skin and that's the last thing he needs.

Apple Strudel - Mrs. Brogna's old-fashioned apple strudel

Apple Strudel Dough

2 ½ C flour

¼ tsp. salt

2 tbsp. plus 1 tsp. vegetable oil

13 tbsp. water

1. Combine the ingredients in a bowl.

2. Stir with a spoon until the dough forms a ball.

3. Knead the dough until it is smooth and no longer sticky.

4. Form the dough into a ball and coat it with additional oil. Cover with a clean kitchen towel and allow to sit at room temperature for an hour.

5. On a well-floured surface, roll the dough into a 9X13 rectangle.

6. Keep surface well-floured and gently flip the dough rectangle, keeping the long side toward you. Roll out as thinly as you can without breaking the dough. About 3 ft. X 2 ft. or slightly more.

Apple Strudel Filling:

½ C dark raisins

6 medium to large chopped, peeled and cored Granny Smith apples (not as fine as diced)

¾ C granulated sugar

1 tsp. lemon zest (grated lemon rind)

4 tbsp. lemon juice

1 tsp. cinnamon

1. Mix all ingredients together.

Preparing the Apple Strudel:

1 C melted butter

½ C white unseasoned breadcrumbs

1. Brush dough with slightly more than half the melted butter.

2. Evenly sprinkle the buttered dough with breadcrumbs.

3. Spread the filling along the longest edge of the dough as if it were a log.

4. Begin to roll the dough and the log of filling, slowly and gently.

5. Place the rolled strudel seam down in a horseshoe shape on a greased baking sheet.

6. Brush the remaining butter over the top of the strudel. Sprinkle a tiny bit of granulated sugar on top.

7. Bake in a preheated oven at 375 degrees for 35 minutes. Serve either warm or at room temperature.

Goodbye Noel

Will a young pediatric nurse determined to make it on her own be able to care for an infant whose mother was murdered and escape the killer who has struck again? Can she trust the stalwart village detective with her life and her heart as he works to catch this killer before somebody else dies?

Pediatric nurse, Katrina Lenart, grew up strong willed and independent minded, while sharing her mother's flair for high fashion. When the police chief gives her an orphaned baby to care for, her maternal instincts take over and she's willing to fight anyone who might not have the infant's best interests at heart, even the man she's growing to love. After an attempt is made to kidnap the baby, she and the resolute village detective team up and do some sleuthing, undercover as well as at a fancy ball.

Detective Ian Daltry is a widower with a child and is not interested in a new love. Hunting a killer who stops at nothing has placed him in the position where he must protect a beautiful young woman he's drawn to. Is there's something he's overlooked in analyzing the case? Will he find out what that is before this ruthless murderer kills someone he loves?

Kolacky (Linzer Tarts) - Renata Lenart made hers with raspberry jam and served them on New Year's Day

1/2 C butter, softened

1 small package cream cheese (3 oz.), softened

1 1/4 C all-purpose flour

1/4 C jam (raspberry, strawberry, or apricot)

1/4 C confectioners' sugar

1. Cream butter and cream cheese in a medium mixing bowl with an electric mixer, until fluffy. Add flour, and mix well.

2. Roll dough to 1/8-inch thickness on a lightly floured surface; cut into circles with a 2-inch round cutter.

3. Place 2 inches apart on lightly greased cookie sheet. Spoon 1/4 teaspoon of the jam on each cookie; fold opposite sides together slightly overlapping edges.

4. Bake at 375°F for 15 minutes.

5. Remove to wire racks to cool; sprinkle with confectioners' sugar while still warm. Makes about 2 dozen cookies.

Visit Nike Chillemi's blog at http://crimefictionandfaith.blogspot.com/

Chapter 31: Saundra Dalton-Smith, Finding Your G.R.A.C.E. Place , a devotional

Finding Your G.R.A.C.E. Place Bible Study

By Saundra Dalton-Smith

Study Guidelines: 1. Read the daily devotional. 2. Meditate on the Scripture focus. 3. Set aside at least 5-10 minutes to allow God to speak to you. 4. Answer the discussion questions. 5. Pray.

Day 1

**Scripture Focus:** "My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness." 2 Corinthians 12:9 NIV

Why G.R.A.C.E.?

Welcome to Day 1 of G.R.A.C.E. Bible study.

If you are like me, when you look back over the errors, failures and mishaps in your life you may wonder why a Holy God would ever love you. How can He forgive and forget all the things you've done in the past? How could you ever amend your past mistakes and wrong choices? Can the blood of Jesus remove the stains of past drug addition, sexual promiscuity, or abortion? What event from your past still clings to your present and holds you back from your future? It's impossible for you to go back and redeem your past, but God can. Nothing is impossible with God. (Luke 1:37)

God is in no way confined to our limitations of time. Your past pains, disappointments, weaknesses and shortcomings are the perfect ground for God to dig deep, plant the seed of His promises, and reap a harvest for His Kingdom. Over the next five weeks, it is my prayer that God reveals to you the area of your life He wants to extend His G.R.A.C.E.

**G** –God's

**R** -Resurrecting power

**A** -Actively

**C** -Changing and

**E** -Empowering your life

His grace is sufficient to overcome every area of your past that tries to keep you spiritually bound. Learning to live within the security of that grace requires an understanding of its potential. G.R.A.C.E. has the potential to change every aspect of your life. God wants to infuse His resurrecting, life-giving, overcoming power into your spiritual walk, your marriage, your health, your career, your family and any other part of your life that is important to you. There is not one area in your life that does not matter to Him. You are His beloved bride and His desire is to take care of all of your needs. (Phil 4:19)

Over the next five days we will be discussing the five components of G.R.A.C.E. We will use God's Word to find answers and examples of how these words define the grace of God that has been extended to us. Each day's Bible study will start with a Scripture focus for you to memorize and hide in your heart for those times when your past tries to resurface. Each study will conclude with a closing prayer and discussion questions. Now let's get ready to find our G.R.A.C.E. place.

Knowing God

Knowing God and having a personal relationship with Jesus is the most important step and the first part of G.R.A.C.E. Without the knowledge of God's characteristics, attributes and promises we often fall back into our own beliefs about God causing us to spiritually perish. (Hosea 4:6) Throughout the Bible God reveals Himself to us through His various names. The names of God within the Bible are not merely for identification purposes but give us insight into who He is.

They reveal His personality, His intentions and His thoughts toward us. Each name is a personal promise from God declaring who He is and what He is capable of doing within your life. This week allow God to reveal a different side of Himself to you through the promises in His names. Choose three names that you will use to begin building the foundation of your trust upon in God. Look up the Scriptures associated with that name and expect to see God manifest that part of Himself within your life this week.

Names of God

ELOHIM –God of all power and might (Genesis 1:1, Psalm 19:1)

El Elyon –The God most high (Genesis 14:17-20,Isaiah 14:13-14)

ADONAI– Lord of all/My master (Malachi 1:6)

JEHOVAH--YAHWEH – God of my Salvation (Genesis 2:4)

JEHOVAH-ROHI– The Lord my Shepherd (Psalm 23:1)

JEHOVAH-SHAMMAH – The Lord who is present/ My companion (Ezekiel 48:35)

JEHOVAH-RAPHA – The Lord my healer (Exodus 15:26)

JEHOVAH–MACCADDESHEM – The Lord who sanctifies (Exodus 31:13)

EL-SHADDAI - The God of the mountains or God Almighty (Genesis 17:1,Psalm 91:1)

EL-OLAM – The everlasting God (Isaiah 40:28-31)

JEHOVAH-TSIDKENU -The Lord our righteousness (Jeremiah 23:6)

JEHOVAH-JIREH - The Lord will provide (Genesis 22:13-14)

JEHOVAH-NISSI - The Lord our banner (Exodus 17:15)

JEHOVAH-SHALOM – The Lord my peace (Judges 6:24)

JEHOVAH -SABBAOTH– The Lord of hosts (Isaiah 6:1-3)

EL-ROI - The strong one who sees (Genesis 16:13)

ANCIENT OF DAYS -Daniel 7:9

EVERLASTING FATHER - Isaiah 9:6

I AM - Exodus 3:14

"The name of the LORD is a strong tower; the righteous run to it and are safe" Proverbs 18:10.

Closing Prayer

Thank you God for being all that I need. You are sufficient. Help me to be able to see You working within my weaknesses. Help me to be sensitive to Your presence and Your Spirit. Reveal Yourself to me this week in a new way. Fill every place that has become dry and soften the hardened places of my heart. Draw me to the G.R.A.C.E place You have prepared for me. In Jesus name. Amen.

Discussion Questions

**1.** When was the first time you recall God extending His grace to you? What areas in your life today do you need God's G.R.A.C.E. to overcome?

**2.** In this week's study we learned many of the names of God, but God also reveals Himself to us though the names of Jesus. What names of Jesus have you found comfort in? How do the names of Jesus apply to our daily lives? Let's see how many names we can find in the Scripture about our Savior!

**3.** Knowing God sounds so religious but it has nothing to do with religion and everything to do with relationship. Relationships are built around time spent sharing together, mutual adoration, and a desire to be transparent. What is one thing you can do today to help build your relationship with the lover of your soul?

**4.** It is easier to believe that God wants to heal, deliver, bless or set free the woman you sit beside in a church but what about you? Have past disappointments or weaknesses made you question your position in line for God's blessings? Do you believe that God wants to bless you beyond what you can ask or think? Is there anything that is too difficult for our God?

**5.** Choose three of the names of God that you will use to begin building the foundation of your trust upon in God. "Those who know Your name trust in You, for You, LORD, have never forsaken those who seek You" (Psalms 9:10).

Day 2

**Scripture Focus:** "He who dwells in the secret place of the Most High Shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty" (Psalms 91:1).

In Pursuit of the Secret Place

What is your reaction when life does not work out the way you planned? The job you've had for 20 years suddenly decides to downsize? The husband you thought you would be living out your retirement years with asks for a divorce? Your only child is seriously injured in an accident leaving him or her paralyzed for life? Where do you turn when life is interrupted with an unexpected disappointment?

There are times in life when it feels as if you may be dying on the inside, emotionally and spiritually dying. Numb and immobile from an event so unplanned that you cannot coordinate a mental reaction, only to later find yourself crying uncontrollably. Crying out like David, "My God, My God, why have You forsaken me? Why are You so far from helping me?" (Psalm 22:1)

It is during those times that you are being called by God to come away with Him. Every life event has a divine purpose. Good or bad, each can either bring you closer to God or pull you further away. Since you are participating in this Bible study, it is my belief that your desire is to always be moving closer to God even when you are facing disappointment. You are in pursuit of the Secret Place.

What is the Secret Place of God?

First of all it is a secret. It is not openly disclosed to everyone. Every believer in Christ will not find the Secret Place, only those who search it out. It is available to all, but each much take the journey to find it. There may be some difficult territory that has to be overcome to get there. There can be some hills that must be climbed and some valleys to travel through on your journey. It is mandatory that you travel light. The passages are narrow with only enough room for the bare necessities. There is no room for bitterness, anger, greed, pride, unforgiveness, disobedience, rebellion, or impure motives. The only needed commodity is a yielded heart.

The secret place is a holy place close to God. It is the place where His presence becomes as real to you as the person sitting beside you in Sunday school. It is a place of intimacy, trust, love, and continuous fellowship with the Lord of all creation. It is a place He expects you to not only find, but to ultimately dwell. He wants you to get so comfortable in this place that you eventually see it as your home, the place where you belong.

What are the Benefits of the Secret Place?

1. You are shielded from evil.

"You shall hide them in the secret place of Your presence from the plots of man; You shall keep them secretly in a pavilion from the strife of tongues" (Psalms 31:20 NKJV).

2. You are hidden in Christ.

"For in the time of trouble He shall hide me in His pavilion; In the secret place of His tabernacle He shall hide me; He shall set me high upon a rock" (Psalms 27:5).

3. You are delivered.

"You called in trouble, and I delivered you; I answered you in the secret place of thunder; I tested you at the waters of Meribah" (Psalms 81:7).

4. There are hidden treasures.

"I will give you the treasures of darkness and hidden riches of secret places, that you may know that I, the LORD, Who call you by your name, Am the God of Israel" (Isaiah 45:3).

5. You are rewarded.

"But you, when you pray, go into your room, and when you have shut your door, pray to your Father who is in the secret place; and your Father who sees in secret will reward you openly"(Matthew 6:6).

What is a G.R.A.C.E. Place

The journey can be difficult on the way to the secret place but God has been so gracious as to give us a rest stop along the way. This is what I call a G.R.A.C.E. place.

**G:** God's

**R:** Resurrecting power

**A:** Actively

**C:** Changing and

**E:** Empowering your life

This is the place where you are strengthened and empowered for the journey. It is the place where assistance comes along beside you to help relieve you of unnecessary baggage. This is the place where your tears of disappointment are used to soften the hardened ground of your heart. This is the place where your faith is built up and fears are torn down. This is the place where you receive power from on high. This is the place where the fruits of the spirit are nurtured. This is the place where you fall in love with Jesus. This is the place where you are wooed back into the arms of a risen Savior. This is a place of resurrection power.

Resurrection Power

By definition resurrection is the act of rising from the dead or the returning of life. So in order to have God's resurrection power at work within your life something has to die. Sometimes it's your plans that have to die. Sometimes it's your dreams, but regardless of what dies, take comfort in the knowledge that God specializes in resurrections. There is not one dead dry place in your life that He does not have the ability to speak life back into. Joy can be resurrected, peace can be resurrected, hope can be resurrected, and faith can be resurrected.

God's resurrection power has the ability to change your life. It is strong enough to redeem our past. It is powerful enough to conquer life's problems. It is potent enough to change our behavior. It is effective and competent in its ability to renew our minds. It is the same power that raised Christ from the dead and seated Him at the right hand of God. (Eph 1:20) That same power is available to you. When you've got God's resurrection power actively working within your life, you can rest in the assurance that all things work together for good. (Rom 8:28) No matter how dark a situation may be, God can turn it around. He can cause you to rise up out of that problem the same way He causes Christ to arise from the grave. It's time to arise, shake off those grave clothes of the past, fold them up, and put them away. There is a newness of life to be explored as He leads you through your G.R.A.C.E. place to the secret place. He is calling you to come away, so what will your answer be?

Rise up, my love, my fair one, And come away! "O my dove, in the clefts of the rock, In the secret places of the cliff, Let me see your face, Let me hear your voice; For your voice is sweet, And your face is lovely" (Song of Solomon 2:13-14).

Closing Prayer

I need you, Lord. I need your help to find my way. I want to let go of everything that would impede my journey. I surrender all into your capable hands. I lift up my life, my dreams, and my expectations as my offering to you today. Lord, I hold nothing back from your touch. My heart's cry is that I may know Christ and the power of His resurrection active in every area of my life. In Jesus name. Amen.

Discussion Questions

**1.** Has there ever been a time in your life when it seemed as if God had forsaken you? How can disappointments and difficult times be used by God to draw us to Him?

**2.** Today we learned about the Secret Place of God. Why is the Secret Place a desirable place to be? Why do you feel God has prepared the Secret Place? How would dwelling in the Secret Place benefit your day-to-day life?

**3.** Is there any baggage that is holding you back from being able to move freely into the Secret Place? How can finding your G.R.A.C.E. place help you overcome that area?

4. Are there any areas of your life that seem to have died? Do you believe that God's resurrecting power is able to breathe life back into that area? Stir up your faith today to expect a resurrection in that area.

5. Do you ever have trouble letting go of areas of your life? Which areas do you find the hardest to let go? Do you trust God or have disappointments caused you to lose trust in Him?

Day 3

Scripture Focus: "No one has seen a God besides You, Who works and shows Himself active on behalf of him who [earnestly] waits for Him" (Isaiah 63:4 AMP).

Amazing G.R.A.C.E.

Often when we are in the middle of a challenge, it is difficult to see God at work within the situation. If you pray for a job only to find out you did not get it, you may become discouraged at the time. But a few weeks later, when you secure another position with better benefits, you can see how God was active on your behalf. During the time between the initial "Not Now" and God's best, there is a wilderness place. This is the place where your faith is strengthened and proven. This is the place where you must draw an imaginary line in the sand and declare, "As for me and my house, we will serve the Lord." (Joshua 24:15) Despite what it looks like today, inside is a confident assurance that God is working things out in your favor.

It is during this time that God's resurrecting power comes along to breathe life back into the wounded dead places of our lives. By His G.R.A.C.E., you are able to see a new path coming up out of the darkness. His light shines down to illuminate what you could not see before. The reality of all the assets He has equipped you with becomes more evident and your weaknesses become reservoirs for His glory. It's His amazing G.R.A.C.E. and it's active and available to you.

G. God's

R. Resurrecting Power

A. Actively

C. Changing and

E. Empowering your life

Is God Still Active?

All around us daily is evidence of God's activity. Everything in nature declares of His existence and power. But can you see God's activity within your personal situations? Is God active in your life? He desires to be an active part of your life, but sometimes our lives can become too busy for God.

Work, family, and even church obligations can become a substitute for time spent building our relationship with God. There are many ways that God moves within our lives, but the ways that bring the most contentment and peace require our active participation. Although God can work in our lives through changing our circumstances, His desire is to actively change us inwardly. Even right now as you are reading this study, God is drawing near to get His active Word deposited into your heart.

"For the Word of God is living and active. Sharper than any double-edged sword, it penetrates even to dividing soul and spirit, joints and marrow; it judges the thoughts and attitudes of the heart" (Heb 4:12 NIV).

Ways God is Actively Working in Your Life

1. God is actively guiding your steps.

"Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding; in all your ways acknowledge Him, and He will direct your paths" -Proverbs 3:5,6 (NIV) "Your word is a lamp to my feet and a light to my path" (Psalms 119:105 NKJV).

2. God is actively correcting you.

"I will instruct you and teach you in the way you should go; I will counsel you and watch over you. Do not be like the horse or the mule, which have no understanding but must be controlled by bit and bridle" (Psalm 32:8-9).

3. God is actively comforting you.

"Praise be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of compassion and the God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our troubles, so that we can comfort those in any trouble with the comfort we ourselves receive from God" (2 Cor 1:3-4).

4. God is actively refreshing you.

Jesus answered and said to her, "Whoever drinks of this water will thirst again, but whoever drinks of the water that I shall give him will never thirst. But the water that I shall give him will become in him a fountain of water springing up into everlasting life" (John 4:13-14 NKJV).

5. God is actively preparing you for victory.

"You intended to harm me, but God intended it all for good. He brought me to this position so I could save the lives of many people" (Genesis 50:20).

These five ways were best summed up by David in Psalms 23. God's desire is to become so close that your every move is directed by Him. His presence becomes your security in times of pain or disappointment. He becomes your comfort. His abundance becomes the source from which your needs are met. You lack for nothing because you dwell in His house. His plan is a good plan and one that you can enjoy the benefits of if you follow His leading.

Psalm 23

"The LORD is my Shepherd; I shall not want. He makes me to lie down in green pastures; He leads me beside the still waters. He restores my soul; He leads me in the paths of righteousness For His name's sake. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil; For You are with me; Your rod and Your staff, they comfort me. You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies; You anoint my head with oil; My cup runs over. Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life; And I will dwell in the house of the LORD Forever."

Active Participation

If you are like me, by now you are shouting "Sign me up!" This is the life plan we all desire. One that leads us to God's best. His individualized directions on your life laid out for you to follow. This is where your active participation is vital, yet this is often the hardest part. To actively participate you must learn how to be still and spend some time alone with God. Being still does not mean doing nothing. In fact, it can be the most important thing you do before a major life decision. Even Jesus found time to get alone, pray, and seek God before His journey to the cross. Silence and solitude have become replaced with multi-tasking and misdirected activity. God dwells in the Secret Place, a place of separation from others. To spend time with Him intimately, you need to go where He dwells.

Being still allows the channels of communication to be opened and your sensitivity to be heightened, so that you can hear His still, small voice. Sometimes it may manifest as a sense of peace about a situation you were questioning. Other times being still may lead to an idea or a solution to a problem with which you are struggling. Despite how He chooses to reveal Himself to you, the time spent together is always a time of activity as He moves you in the right direction. Spend this week actively pursuing Him while He actively pursues you.

"Look! Here I stand at the door and knock. If you hear me calling and open the door, I will come in, and we will share a meal as friends" (Revelation 3:20, New Living Translation).

Closing Prayer:

Lord, thank you for Your goodness and mercy in my life. I know that Your plans for me are good. I need Your guidance more than ever to direct my steps. Speak an active Word into my life. As I actively pursue You in stillness and solitude this week, open the door of my understanding. Align my desires and will with Your plan. Share Your heart with me. In Jesus name. Amen.

Discussion Questions

1. Can you recall a time when it initially appeared as if God had answered your prayer with a "no," only to realize later it was really a, "Not now, just wait for my best"?

2. In what ways is God actively working within your life? Can you see God moving within your personal situation? Has He been changing it, changing you, or both? God is always active, even when it looks like nothing is changing.

3. Spend today meditating on Psalm 23. What part of this Psalm is most relevant to your current situation? Set aside at least five minutes to sit in silence after reading it and allow God to expand your expectations of His activity within your life.

4. How have you been actively participating with God this week? Do you find being still difficult? How can finding more time for solitude improve your relationship with God?

5. What are some ways that God has revealed Himself to you this week? How is He sharing His heart with you?

Day 4

Scripture Focus: "Then I went down to the Potter's house, and there He was, making something at the wheel. And the vessel that He made of clay was marred in the hand of the Potter; so He made it again into another vessel, as it seemed good to the Potter to make" (Jeremiah 18:3-4).

In the Potter's Hands

Clay is not easy to work with. The other day my son came home from school with something white and sticky all over his clothes. I asked him what this was and he replied, "Sorry, mom, my clay was too wet." His class was attempting to make special cups as a surprise for Mother's Day, but someone had put too much water in the clay mixture. Instead of a firm, sturdy, but pliable clay that could be molded, what he had to work with was a sticky, gooey, weak mixture that refused to conform to the desired shapes.

Before clay can be put upon the wheel, it has to be properly prepared. It has to be supple enough to adapt to change, yet secure enough to not collapse under pressure. Just like clay, before God can begin remaking and changing you, there are some preparations that have to occur. Over the past few weeks we have discussed who God is, the resurrecting power He's made available to you, and His active participation within your life. Now we will discuss how God is able to change and mold us into new creatures in Christ.

God, the Master Potter, is always at work. He has the knowledge, skill, and ability to make any vessel He envisions; but like all potters, the clay has to be made ready. In Jeremiah 18, while working with this particular piece of clay, something happened. The clay did not respond as the potter desired and had a flaw. This was not due to the lack of skill of the potter, but rather to a defect with the clay.

Now the clay could still have been made into something without starting over, but the potter had a specific use in mind when he started. He did not set out on a whim to make just anything, but rather the one thing that met his purpose. He is patient and willing to take the time to rework the clay over and over again if needed for it to become what He intended. "God is merciful and gracious, slow to anger, abounding in love and faithfulness" (Psalm 86: 15). "Through His G.R.A.C.E. all things can be made new" (Rev 21:5).

G. God's

R. Resurrection Power

A. Actively

C. Changing and

E. Empowering your life

Changing into a New Vessel

In today's Scripture focus, God sends Jeremiah down to the potter's house to reveal more of Himself in a very tangible way. God still uses life as a classroom to guide us into His truths. Every event, hardship, failure, sin, and success is a part of our personalized lesson plan. Learning the lesson will require being able to see the situation through God's eyes. His ways are not our ways and His thoughts are not our thoughts (Isaiah 58:8). Seeing life through a heavenly lens puts it into a new perspective. Spending time in silence and stillness can open the door to God revealing to you what type of vessel He wants to make you into. Once you get a glimpse of God's vision for your life, you have to then be willing to go through His process for change. No vessel is so flawed that it cannot be changed. Each can be re-worked into a useful vessel in the hands of the Potter.

The 5 Stages of Godly Change

1. Broken

Brokenness is a prerequisite for a life change. It is a state of complete yielding to doing things God's way. You no longer desire for there to be any distance between you and God. You can feel the disconnection that comes from unconfessed sin in your life. Your desire is to turn away from whatever has marred you. You want nothing more than to be restored. I love how Scripture states it: "Marred in the hand of the potter." Even when you mess up the worst you can imagine, He still has not left you alone. Your life and destiny are always in the palm of His hands.

2. Crushed

Ironically, the journey to being remade, restored, and renewed starts with being crushed. The NLT states "But the jar He was making did not turn out as He had hoped, so He crushed it into a lump of clay again and started over." Isaiah 53:5 says "He was crushed for our sins." (NLT). Jesus shows us that being crushed is not a sign of defeat, but a part of God's plan for redemption. Accept God's invitation to take all past sins to the cross, nail them there and leave them, and then allow Him to place you on the Potter's wheel.

3. Molded

Once reduced to the point of wanting nothing more than the Potter's touch, you are ready to be molded. You have come to the end of yourself and what you feel you can do to change your situation. You now know that only His touch can mend the broken and crushed places in your life. "Yet you, LORD, are our Father. We are the clay, you are the Potter; we are all the work of your hand."(Isaiah 64:8). He knows the right amount of pressure to apply to your life and when to loosen His grasp as He molds you into a useable vessel.

4. Refined

Once your new characteristics begin to take form, you are moved into a season of intense heat. God's loving fire comes to strengthen you, leading to permanent change. This fire may not feel loving during the process, but as impurities are pushed out, you are drawn closer and closer to God. "If we confess our sins, He is faithful and just and will forgive us our sins and purify us from all unrighteousness." (1 John1:9). It is during this stage that God adorns you with the glaze of His glory and you become a living reflection of Christ.

5. Filled

Once taken off the Potter's wheel, you are still never alone. Rather than simply sending you off to fulfill your purpose, the Potter deposits a part of Himself inside of you. "Be filled with the Spirit." (Ephesians 5:18). He fills you with Living Water so that you may pour out His love and truth into the lives of others. It is not something that you can do on your own, but is a gift from the Potter. It is a sign that He is ready for you to be put into service. It does not suggest that you have reached perfection, but rather that you are now useable for the purpose for which He created you. He has never been interested in perfect vessels, only usable vessels. Do not be afraid of failure. If you become marred, He can make you over again.

Closing Prayer

Thank you, Lord, for your loving kindness towards me. Today I bring all of my broken pieces and I give them to you. Mold me into a useable vessel. Help me to yield those parts of my life that I try to shield from your refining fire. Purify me from all unrighteousness. I give you free reign to make me into the vessel you desire. In Jesus name. Amen.

Discussion Questions

1. What type of vessel do you see yourself as right now? What descriptive terms would you use to describe your current vessel? Be real with yourself and God.

2. Are there any areas of your life where you are resisting the hand of the Potter? How does holding back these areas limit the ability of the Potter to mold and shape you?

3. The refining process is often one of the most difficult. The heat is turned up and our faith is tested. Why is this process necessary for your spiritual growth? What are ways you can turn your time of refining into a time for praise and worship to the One who is in the fire with you?

Day 5

Scripture Focus: "The thief comes only to steal and kill and destroy; I came that they may have life, and have it abundantly" (John 10:10).

A God-Sized Vision

What has God been speaking into your heart over these past weeks? Has He given you a vision for your future that seems unobtainable? Has He implanted a desire in your heart for which you do not feel you have the ability to complete? Has God impregnated you with His plan and purpose for your life? Do you have a God-sized vision?

A God-sized vision is one that seems completely impossible and would be impossible without God's enabling power. If all your plans include things you can make happen within you own strength, then it is not a God-size vision. For each person that vision will look different. A God-size vision for one may be reconciliation with family members that refuses to talk to them, the salvation of their entire household, or restoration of their marriage. A God-size vision for another may be a national Christian speaking platform or full-time ministry. These are drastically different visions but each important and equally in need of God's power for it to happen. As one vision is brought to completion, God will enlarge your capacity to believe and give you your next vision. It is my prayer that each of us receives God-sized visions for our life.

"I waited for the LORD's answer, before explaining the reason for my complaint. Then the LORD told me: 'I will give you my message in the form of a vision. Write it clearly enough to be read at a glance. At the time I have decided, my words will come true. You can trust what I say about the future'" (Habakkuk 2 Message).

Why Does God Give God-Sized Vision?

The only type of vision God can give you is a God-sized vision. His vision is void of the self-imposed limits we place on what He can do in our life. He sees your life the way it was meant to be lived. Once you get God's vision for your life, it ignites a hunger inside of you. You begin to crave what your spirit desires but you have personally yet experienced. That hunger can lead to intense frustration when you are not automatically able to make the vision your reality. God does not give us God-sized visions as a means to torment us, but as a reminder to return to Him. It is one of the ways He draws us back to our G.R.A.C.E. place. Knowing Scripture is wonderful but it is not enough. God-sized visions require you to not only know the Word of God, but also be able to apply it to your life. It teaches you how to walk in the power of what you know to be true. It requires you to look past your situation and to look to God for guidance (Psalm 32:8). It forces you to stand on your belief that He who placed the vision within you is also faithful to do it. (1 Thessalonians 5:24).

Empowered by God

At times life can be hard (John 16:33). Things don't go as planned. Sometimes the manifestation of your God-sized vision will be delayed and you will have to wait on it (Habakkuk 2:3). God never promised us that we would live problem-free lives, but He does promise an abundant life (John 10:10). The abundant life is not merely focusing on finances and material possessions, but your capacity to draw from God's endless supply of G.R.A.C.E. Once you realize that your God-sized vision is bigger than you, it's time to seek Him. Tapping into His inexhaustible G.R.A.C.E. opens the door to peace, joy, love, contentment, creativity, and success in your endeavors.

G. God's

R. Resurrection Power

A. Actively

C. Changing and

E. Empowering your life

Imprisoned or Empowered?

How do you respond when you do what you thought was right and it does not work out? You tried to follow what you believed to be God's plan but it all ends up in a mess. You know you have a God-size vision but while trying to live it out doors keep slamming in your face. Your past keeps rising up to kill your hope. Old feelings of failure try to steal your vision and feelings of defeat try to destroy any progress. How can you overcome the imprisonment of hope deferred? You overcome it by finding your G.R.A.C.E. place.

God did not leave us without an example of how to find our G.R.A.C.E. place in the middle of despair. In Acts 16, Paul and Silas found themselves in a difficult situation. They had been doing the work of the Lord, sharing the Good News with everyone. Despite doing what they were called to do, they came up against opposition. The attack against them was so great that it resulted in them being imprisoned. As the doors to the prison cell slammed in their face, it looked as if all hope was lost. But at the midnight hour, the hour of revelation, they remembered that there is a G.R.A.C.E. place. They remembered that the name of the Lord is to be praised. They offered up their dying hope to the resurrecting power of Christ. They actively pursued the Secret Place through worship and God showed up to change their circumstances. They were set free to live free, empowered by the God of all power. Not only did finding their G.R.A.C.E. place free them, but those around them got loosed too!

Acts 16:25-26: "Around midnight Paul and Silas were praying and singing hymns to God, and the other prisoners were listening. Suddenly, there was a massive earthquake, and the prison was shaken to its foundations. All the doors immediately flew open, and the chains of every prisoner fell off!"

Your G.R.A.C.E. Place

It's God's desire to get glory out of your life. Despite past mistakes, despite what others think, despite your own fears and insecurities. When you feel overwhelmed and confused about how to proceed, go to your G.R.A.C.E. place. Allow Him to remind you of who He is and all His name implies. Sit in His presence as He breathes life back into the dying places of your heart. Actively pursue Him and watch as He opens the door of your understanding. Allow Him access to change and renew your mind. Feel the chains of oppression fall off. Then receive His enabling power and strength to proceed in your journey to freely pursue His purpose for your life. He who the Son sets free is free indeed (John 8:36).

Closing Prayer

Thank you for the freedom I have found in Christ. Thank you, Lord, for enlarging my vision for my life. May my God-size vision daily remind me to run to my G.R.A.C.E. place. Fill me with your Spirit. Equip me with the knowledge of your Holy Word. Empower me by your inexhaustible grace. May my life bring You glory and praise. In Jesus Name. Amen.

Discussion Questions

**1.** What has God been speaking into your heart over these past five weeks? Do you have a God-sized vision for your life? Spend today writing out the details of that vision in your journal.

**2.** Why do you believe God gives us God-sized visions? Is your God-sized vision a blessing or a stumbling block in your relationship with God? Do you believe it can draw you closer to God if you let it?

**3.** How do you view difficult times in your life? Have your problems left you feeling imprisoned or empowered?

**4.** How can praise be used as a weapon against your circumstances? Have you ever experienced the power of praise? Spend a few moments today in praise/worship, and feel the chains of depression/oppression/anxiety/fear fall off in His presence.

**5.** How can finding your G.R.A.C.E. place help you live an abundant life in Christ? What will be your personal strategy for finding your G.R.A.C.E. place in times of need?

* * *

Thank you for the opportunity to be a part of your journey to Finding Your G.R.A.C.E. Place. It is my prayer that this Bible study has encouraged you to continually seek after the One who first sought you. It is in that pursuit that you will find the enabling power you need to abundantly live your life to the fullest. Visit me at www.setfreetolivefreebook.com for a sample chapter of my non-fiction book **Set Free to Live Free: Breaking Through the 7 Lies Women Tell Themselves**.

Blessings to you all,

Saundra Dalton-Smith, M.D.

Chapter 32: Amy Deardon, The Story Template: Conquer Writer's Block Using the Universal Structure of Story

Reprinted from **The Story Template: Conquer Writer's Block Using the Universal Structure of Story** , by Amy Deardon. Copyright 2011 by Taegais Publishing LLC (http://www.taegais.com). Introduction used by permission of publisher.

Writing a novel or screenplay sounds like a great idea until you sit down to start. _Where_ do you start? Many different methods exist to write the story, ranging from extensive preplanning to venturing onto the first page without an idea. This book describes an approach to developing story—laid out as a sequential series of exercises to facilitate implementation—that you can use whether you prefer a structured or loose approach to writing. You can use it at the start to develop an idea fragment, or to rescue a partial or completed manuscript that doesn't seem to be working. The method works whether you want to write plot-driven (genre) or character-driven (literary) stories. It enables you to efficiently use your time and creativity by breaking down the process of story building into a logical plan. You will not waste time sitting at your keyboard, wondering what you should write and how you can organize your ideas into a complete manuscript.

The idea for this book originated from my own learning process in producing a novel. Having written scientific articles, newspaper columns, and other nonfiction, when I decided to write a novel I was surprised by how difficult it was to get the words down. I tried outlining, and I tried just going ahead. I had wonderful ideas, but although the scenes I wrote were exciting the story itself often seemed somehow "wrong." I threw out more pages than I care to remember. Through sheer grit I finished the novel, but when I thought about writing another my heart sank. I decided to first solve the problem of understanding how story worked.

I chose twenty entertaining, modern novels in different genres, and fifteen more-or-less recent films (and I've since confirmed my preliminary observations with tens of more stories). One at a time, I took them apart: I made a list of each scene, then did a word count or timed the scene, calculated percentages and other statistics, and graphed each story onto a five page chart. I studied each story's progression, then compared the progressions of different stories to determine common pathways. I also read all that I could on constructing stories. The writing how-to literature was heavy on techniques (plotting, point of view, characterization, dialogue)—all of which are important—but there wasn't much on blending it all together. Screenwriting how-to books were stronger on structure, but still didn't give me all I needed.

I studied story after story, puzzling out how they were built. First, I identified elements called story posts, and found that these posts fell reliably within the timing of the whole. Then I found consistent trends of progression in the plot, as well as consistent trends of development and interactions in the characters. My biggest surprise, in fact, was finding just how unvarying were the underlying levels of the story. I also identified a unit of story construction I call a "bubble" that bridges the gap between the high concept ideas for the story and individual scenes.

Once I had my background knowledge, I coached students to develop their stories, and thereby constructed an algorithm for the practical application of this theory.

So, what is this "story template" that is the title of this book? Is this a formula or blueprint you can mindlessly follow, like a paint-by-numbers canvas?

In a word, no. I like to call what I found a template since it describes the shape or progression, on a deep level, of virtually all stories. Recognizing this pattern in a story is something I liken to sketching a face. An artist will tell you that a person's eyes are about halfway down the head, and are separated by another eye width. The bottom of the nose is halfway between the eyes and the chin, the mouth is proportionally between the nose and the chin and extends to imaginary vertical lines drawn below the eyes' pupils, the tips of the ears hit about eyelid level, earlobe tips at bottom-nose level, and on and on. Faces are infinitely varied, yet if the artist ignores these rough proportions, no matter how carefully sketched the face will always look "wrong." Similarly, you will use the template to ensure that your story elements are proportionally correct and all present. The template gives you a guide, but never dictates, what you can write.

Getting the story shape right is the first, and (in my opinion) the hardest step to writing a gripping novel or screenplay. Without good structure, the story tends to meander without a point: although it may have high action, it is characterized by low tension.

You may want to first read this entire book to get an overview of story before starting with the exercises. Keep in mind that shaping a story is intensive work, and it will take you weeks or even months to get your story organized. This is normal. Don't get discouraged, and don't skimp on the exercises. Take your time to thoroughly work through each step. At the end, your story will be much stronger, and the actual writing will go like a dream.

This book is not sufficient for producing a finished story ready for publication or production. You will need to master further writing techniques such as characterization, description, dialogue, transitions, editing, etc. I will touch upon a few of these to give you some direction, but the only way to get really good is to practice. Fortunately, many excellent books are available for help. See Appendix One to start.

Outline of The Plan

I like to use the metaphor of constructing a house to envision building a story. To assemble a house, you move from larger to smaller elements to sequentially put something together. Only after you have worked through many tasks is it finally time to do the fine details of painting the windowsills and installing the wallpaper. Similarly, while you have ideas about character arcs and plot twists, and maybe you've even written some scenes, you will be well served to develop a direction before writing through your manuscript. If you write your first draft as the ideas occur to you, then this will comprise your story planning. You'll find that you probably don't have enough material to form an entire novel or screenplay, and even if you do it may not hang together. Believe me, this is a laborious and frustrating way to go.

_The Story Template_ gives a series of actions for you to do that will allow you to develop your story ideas with a minimum of angst and wasted energy. Some exercises will be quick, others will require a great deal of thought, and perhaps even a marination of thought, before finishing. Don't be in a rush—some of your best ideas will come as you play with character or event possibilities. As you continue to develop your story you will probably revisit different components of these exercises, going back and changing previous work, as you move through this programmed story outliner. That's okay. Just go with the flow, and have fun.

When you've finished with these exercises, you will be ready to start writing your manuscript, with ease and flow and speed, because you will have already done the hard organizational work. Even if you want to change the story as you're writing, you'll be able to do so with an understanding of how to balance the changes. You will have a detailed roadmap that will allow you to bring your vision—your book or screenplay—to completion.

Writing Tools

You are a writer. Before you start, you need to assemble the following items:

1. A tool with which to do your major writing, either a computer, an old-fashioned typewriter, or paper and pencil. If you do handwrite your notes, you may want to treat yourself to a special pen that you love, and is only to be used for your _magnus opus_.

2. A system to organize your template exercises. I prefer hard copy: printing out computer files, or writing on loose leaf paper, then placing the sheets in a three-ringed binder. This notebook may inspire you and give you a sense of accomplishment as you look through to see how much you've done. Not as recommended is keeping files only on computer because they're harder to flip through, mark up, and juxtapose ideas; or a spiral or bound notebook because you can't replace pages or change their order. But do what works for you.

3. A small notebook to carry with you at all times. Use this to jot down any thoughts that come to you.

4. Index cards. Get two packs, and we'll go over how to use them to story board. Also get a roll of masking tape and a permanent marker (thin tip) for bold marks. Finally, you may want to purchase an index card binder to permanently keep your cards in order.

Getting the Words Down

Here are some tips to help you get the words down:

1. Decide on a daily quota of words that is manageable. A good starting goal might be 300, but remember to keep pushing this number up as you become accustomed to the writing process. Create a log to record your daily output. Post this on your refrigerator or otherwise keep it prominent in your daily life.

2. Set aside at least fifteen minutes at a time in which you can remain undisturbed. Aim for an hour or more if you can.

3. Don't start your writing session by checking your e-mail or doing anything else except for writing.

4. Turn off anything that might distract you—music, radio, or television. Some people can write through these things, but try without for a few days to see if you do better.

5. If you're stuck, do free-writing where you talk to yourself on paper. Something like, "I'm trying to figure out what Jason's problems with Mike might be in this scene. I was thinking about..."

Let's get started.

TO READ MORE, you may purchase **The Story Template: Conquer Writer's Block Using the Universal Structure of Story,** by Amy Deardon at:

http://amzn.to/sE9eFM (Kindle)

http://amzn.to/uydWCW (paperback).

Chapter 33: Rose Allen McCauley, Regeneration, short story

Regeneration

A Short Story

by

Rose Allen McCauley

Amanda Callahan slipped out the side door of the beach cottage, guided by the amber light of the half moon. The sand chilled her bare feet, and the wind blowing in from the water caused her to snug the sweater around her shoulders. She shivered in spite of it. _I haven't felt warm since..._

She shook her head to stop her thoughts. _I will not dwell in the past. I will focus on the future._

My future. Those two words scared the beejeebers out of her. Up until last summer it had been "our future," and she and Charlie had loved rehashing their dreams. Their spare time had been spent making plans for the future—plans to purchase this beach bungalow and to travel more as soon as he retired.

Plans. That reminded her of one of Charlie's favorite Bible verses. "In his heart a man plans his course, but the Lord determines his steps." _Or lack of them._

A lump swelled in her throat, and she blinked back unbidden tears. She had prayed countless times for God to take the bitterness away, the questions that swirled through her consciousness and unconsciousness alike. _Why did Charlie have the heart attack? Why did he have to die from it when so many others lived? Why am I still alive, even though I feel dead inside?_

She stubbed her toe on something. Bending over, she saw a small starfish. She brushed the sand off, then placed it in her pocket to show the grandchildren later. As she continued on her stroll, a memory of a long-ago family walk played out before her.

In her mind's eye she could see the five of them, alternately chasing the waves, then scampering away from them.

Nan had run up and handed something to Charlie. "Look, Daddy. I found a starfish."

He held it up to the light. "And a fine one it is." Ever the biologist, he added, "It's not really a fish you know. It's an echinoderm."

Nan squinted up at him. "An echo what?"

Charlie's laughter boomed along the shore, drawing the attention of the other two children.

"What's so funny, Dad?" Michael panted as he joined them.

Elizabeth reached a tiny hand up toward her father, and he stooped to pick her up then settled her on his shoulders.

He held up the five-legged creature. "Nan found this starfish, and I was telling her about it." He gave the starfish to Nan then took her by the hand. "Let's walk and talk, shall we?"

Amanda and Michael brought up the rear, staying within earshot. Charlie often told "life lessons" sparked by everyday events. They were spectacular, even if spur-of-the-moment. Or maybe, because of it.

"All God's creatures are special, of course." He looked over his shoulder at her and Michael and winked. "But, the starfish is special in a unique way."

"It's shaped like a star." Elizabeth beamed.

"Right you are!" Charlie tilted his head back and rubbed her tummy with his hair.

Their youngest giggled. "You look funny upside down, Daddy."

"So do you, sweetheart." He swung her down to the beach then took each girl by the hand. "Anyone else care to guess how the starfish is special?"

"It has an echo?" Nan ventured.

Charlie nodded. "Ah, I see you were listening earlier. It is an echinoderm, a group of sea animals. It's in the same family as a sand dollar."

Michael pulled Amanda by the hand until they caught up with the others. "I remember, Dad. You told us about them last Easter. Some people say they tell the story of Jesus and His death on the cross."

Charlie grinned at his son. "Right-o, Michael."

Nan tugged on his hand. "I remember, but I want to hear about my starfish now."

"And you shall, my dear." Charlie looked out over the ocean. "In all of God's vast creation, only a few creatures can do what the starfish does.

Amber and the children all held their breath and their tongues as they waited for the answer.

"It regenerates itself."

"Re-what?" Michael asked.

"Re-gen-er-ates. It means to grow again. If a starfish loses a leg, it grows another one back. Even if it is cut in two, it can re-grow the other half of its body."

Michael's face lit up with wonder. "Cool. Like some of the super-creatures in my comic books."

"Yes, only this is for real, not make-believe."

They had continued on their walk. Another extraordinary ordinary day.

Amanda sighed. Every day with Charlie had been like that. She'd never known what he would say or do next, and she'd loved every minute of it. If only she could spend one more day with him, listen to his wisdom, couched in words even a child could understand.

She stood stock still. She _had_ just heard his words of wisdom in her heart. She thanked God for the memory. What "life lesson" did He have for her? Her hand closed over the odd-shaped object in her pocket. She fiddled with the starfish then slowly drew it out. In the process, a leg snapped off. She stared at the wounded creature then gave it a toss into the foamy waves. Would it regenerate a new leg? That was up to the starfish. And God.

She empathized with the wounded creature. She knew what it was like to feel broken, like a piece of her very being had been snapped off, lost forever in the tumultuous tide of life. Would she, could she, regenerate a new life without Charlie? She knew what Charlie would want and what God would have her do. The rest was up to her.

She turned just in time to see the spark of the sun rising over the water. The colors of the sky shifted like a kaleidoscope, first mauve, then pink, now a peachy orange, until the tip of a golden orb burst into view, filling her heart with sunlight.

She walked back toward the beach house, each step filled with joy and hope and life. The children and grandchildren would be here this afternoon. She had a lot of work to do to get the cottage ready. But, she knew without a smidgen of doubt that God's Spirit had already begun His work in her—her regeneration.

_You can reach her through her website_ www.rosemccauley.com _or blogsite at_ www.rosemccauley.blogspot.com

Chapter 34: B.J. Robinson, Hope Lives Even as a Last Resort, a devotional

A Devotional

Hope Lives even as a Last Resort

B.J. Robinson

"Brothers and sisters, we do not want you to be uninformed about those who sleep in death, so that you do not grieve like the rest of mankind, who have no hope. For the Lord himself will come down from heaven, with a loud command, with the voice of the archangel and with the trumpet call of God, and the dead in Christ will rise first. After that, we who are still alive and are left will be caught up together with them in the clouds to meet the Lord in the air. And so we will be with the Lord forever. Therefore encourage one another with these words" (1 Thessalonians 4:13, 16-18).

She and I stood in the front yard of the old apartment house. Lisa wore a light pink suit jacket, and her sad brown eyes looked directly into mine as she said, "I hope it's not cancer. I don't want to die." That visual image is sealed in my mind as vivid today as it was seven years ago when I lost my youngest sister. Bird-like hands clutched a shining gold star with a pearl-head pin. She handed it to me, "I want you to wear this." When she died, the heavens raged. Storm clouds covered the land and hurricanes blew in from the sea. That year, twelve blustery ones battered America's shores. The last, a storm named Lisa, tiny and non-threatening like her, eventually faded out over land. On September 13, a summons came for Lisa. Sent on a mission, angels ferried another angel home. As I fell to my knees bedside my bed and cried, I said a silent prayer. Then, I opened my Bible, and the Comforter sent me encouragement. I knew then, that even in death, hope lived, for I'd see my youngest sister again in heaven.

Dear Lord, thank you for Your encouraging Word and the gift of eternal life through Your son, Jesus. Thank you for opening my eyes so I no longer grieve without hope, Amen.

Lives disrupted:

You're a young adolescent girl and life is too competitive--the competition is being the thinnest.

It's so sad when people diet themselves to death. Many lives are disrupted with the loss of a loved one. In my novel, **Last Resort** , the main character Faith has lost her sister to an eating disorder. This was an important topic for me to broach because I lost my youngest sister in 2004 right after Hurricanes Charley and Frances. She wanted to share her story in hopes of helping others. Though my novel is romance, mystery, suspense, and intrigue entwined, this subject is one of several important messages I hope and pray benefits people. In school, the author's purpose is taught. If you read **Last Resort** , you'll find I had several, and this is one of the most important, but God's love is the most important of all. Without it, we'd all be lost. Even in death, there's hope, and I used this Scripture in my debut Christian romance novel **Last Resort** to encourage those who have lost loved ones through death.

Set in fictional Bridal Wreath and Key West, Florida, the backdrop of a strawberry farm turns dangerous for Faith, when she's stalked. **Last Resort** is a 79,000 word woman-in-jeopardy novel that tells the story of Faith Grace Roussell, who escapes an abusive fiancé and endeavors to start a new life filled with peace and contentment. She returns to her family home to farm strawberries only to discover it's not a safe haven. Where will Faith be when the smoke clears and will Faith and Matt's love survive? Five-star reviews on Amazon and B&N. Both men and women readers. Free sample. **She's pursued by an ex-fiancé, shattered dreams, an awesome God, and a cowboy farmer. There's only one place she can turn; there's only one last resort.**

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=juwF0dLLX6M&feature=youtube

Book Trailer for **Last Resort**

http://bit.ly/v5Fjyo

Read a free excerpt from the publisher. May also be purchased here as a PDF file to read on your computer.

Nook: http://bit.ly/w2Afor

Kindle: http://amzn.to/uTnVvQ

Scripture taken from the Holy Bible, New International Version. Copyright 1973, 1978, 1984, International Bible Society. Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved.

Visit B.J. at http://barbarajrobinson.blogspot.com.

Section 4

Non-Fiction
**General**

Chapter 35: Deborah H. Bateman, The Book of Ruth-A Story of Love and Redemption

Reprinted from **The Book of Ruth-A Story of Love and Redemption** by Deborah H. Bateman. Copyright 2011 by Christian Daily Resources. Christian nonfiction Bible Study. Used by permission of the author.

8 And Naomi said unto her two daughters in law, "Go, return each to her mother's house: the LORD deal kindly with you, as ye have dealt with the dead, and with me.

9 The LORD grant you that ye may find rest, each [of you] in the house of her husband." Then she kissed them; and they lifted up their voice, and wept.

10 And they said unto her, "Surely we will return with thee unto thy people."

Lesson 1

Alone Together

Ruth 1:1–10

Today we meet a family who left Bethlehem during the time of great famine and traveled to the country of Moab. This family of four was comprised of a man named Elimelech, his wife, Naomi, and their two sons, Mahlon and Chilion. They were Ephrathites.

After they had lived in Moab for a while, Elimelech died and Naomi was left alone to care for her two sons. Can you imagine how Naomi must have felt? She was a widow and a single mom in a strange country. Mahlon and Chilion grew up and married Moabite women. One of the wives was named Orpah, and the other was named Ruth. They lived in Moab about ten years, and then Mahlon and Chilion died. The famine must have spread to Moab and the men were unable to survive it. Naomi was alone, without her husband or her sons. The two young daughters-in-law were also without husbands. They were three lonely widows alone together. Can you imagine the heartbreak Naomi and her daughters-in-law must have felt?

Naomi decided she wanted to return to her homeland of Judah. She heard that the Lord had blessed them. The famine was over and they had plenty of bread. So she and her two daughters-in-law started on the journey. However, Naomi thought it would be best for the girls to return to their mothers' homes to live out their lives. She blessed the girls and said, "May the Lord deal kindly with you as you have dealt with my sons and me."

Naomi also said, "May the Lord bless you to find rest in the house of your husband." In other words, she wanted them to return home and find new husbands to live out the rest of their days with. Naomi kissed the girls, and they cried, "Surely we will return with you to your people and to your land." The daughters-in-law did not want to leave Naomi and let her return to her homeland alone. This was a tough time for Naomi and her two daughters-in-law. We will learn from these brave women that even when we go through tough times in our lives, God is always there to see us through.

Daily Scripture: Ruth 1:1–10

1 Now it came to pass in the days when the judges ruled, that there was a famine in the land. And a certain man of Bethlehem Judah went to sojourn in the country of Moab, he, and his wife, and his two sons.

2 And the name of the man [was] Elimelech, and the name of his wife Naomi, and the name of his two sons Mahlon and Chilion, Ephrathites of Bethlehemjudah. And they came into the country of Moab, and continued there.

3 And Elimelech Naomi's husband died; and she was left, and her two sons.

4 And they took them wives of the women of Moab; the name of the one [was] Orpah, and the name of the other Ruth: and they dwelled there about ten years.

5 And Mahlon and Chilion died also both of them; and the woman was left of her two sons and her husband.

6 Then she arose with her daughters in law that she might return from the country of Moab: for she had heard in the country of Moab how that the LORD had visited his people in giving them bread.

7 Wherefore she went forth out of the place where she was, and her two daughters

in law with her; and they went on the way to return unto the land of Judah.

8 And Naomi said unto her two daughters in law, "Go, return each to her mother's house: the LORD deal kindly with you, as ye have dealt with the dead, and with me.

9 The LORD grant you that ye may find rest, each [of you] in the house of her husband." Then she kissed them; and they lifted up their voice, and wept.

10 And they said unto her, "Surely we will return with thee unto thy people."

Prayer of the Day

Dear Heavenly Father,

As we read about Elimelech and his family in the book of Ruth, we see that they went through troubled times. Lord, help us when we go through troubled times to stay dedicated to you. As we look at Naomi and the great losses she experienced, our hearts feel saddened for her and her daughters-in-law. Help us to be compassionate toward others as they go through troubled times today. Help us to show them your love. We love you, Lord. Amen.

Things to think about:

If you were one of the daughters-in-law, would you be committed to your mother-in-law? On the other hand, would you want to go back home and find yourself another husband?

What was the name of Ruth's mother-in-law?

What was the name of Ruth's sister-in-law?

What was the name of Ruth's father-in-law?

Where were the two daughters-in-law from?

TO READ MORE, you can purchase **The Book of Ruth-A Story of Love and Redemption** by Deborah H. Bateman at:

http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/96550 (ebook)

http://tinyurl.com/3gwpfz2 (Kindle)

http://tinyurl.com/7xnogbf (Nook)

http://tinyurl.com/6be9lvj (amazon.co.uk)

http://tinyurl.com/3onrgvj (amazon.fr)

Chapter 36: Carol A. Brown, The Mystery of Spiritual Sensitivity

Reprinted from The Mystery of Spiritual Sensitivity: Your Practical Guide to Responding to Burdens You Feel From God's Heart by Carol A. Brown. Copyright 2008 by Destiny Image. Used by permission of Destiny Image.

Perspective

Jesus' dear friend Lazarus fell ill. In John 11:1-44 we read that his sisters sent word to Jesus, but rather than quickly going to heal his friend, Jesus stayed where He was for two more days. Lazarus died. When Jesus finally arrived, He walked into a cloud of grief. "When Jesus saw her [Mary] weeping, and the Jews who had come along with her also weeping, He was deeply moved in spirit and troubled" (John 11:33).

In John 11:35, "Jesus wept." In verse 38, Jesus was "once more deeply moved." Jesus had no reason to grieve his own tears; He knew Lazarus would rise from the dead. Indeed, earlier (John 11:14) He said, " _I am glad_ , for your sake, that _I was not there_ , so that you may believe. Jesus' display of emotion is most likely a result of burden bearing. He cam alongside His friends and drew some of their burden into His spirit and soul, thus lightening their emotional load. He felt what the sisters and friends were feeling—He was fully in sync with them. He felt their grief and sadness, and was moved to tears. Always in touch with the Father's heart, He was able to speak God's response of life to Lazarus.

So what, exactly is burden bearing? Let's back up for perspective.

"But I say to you..."

_Pure and undefiled religion in the sight of our God and Father is this: to visit [look after] orphans and widows in their distress_... (James 1:27 NASB).

Giving alms to the poor, providing for orphans, widow, the blind and lame have been accepted as appropriate ways to bear one another's burdens (Gal. 6:2)—ways to come alongside, to lighten the loads of others. The Lord began to teach a deeper level of understanding OF THE Scriptures in Matthew 5:17. He said He came, not to abolish the law, but to fulfill it. He said that your righteousness must surpass that of the scribes and Pharisees. Throughout chapter 5 and 6 of the book of Matthew, He offered examples that went beyond the currently accepted righteousness: "you have heard to it said that...but I tell you...," challenging every Christian to go beyond what is normally accepted.

In this same spirit of expanding upon that which is already right and good, I would say that all material and tangible means of lightening a person's load pleases God. But, He does not want you to stop there. Rather, He designed you and me to be highly sensitive, with a remarkable and quite human capacity to share in, carry, and thus relieve emotional and spiritual burdens as well. This is empathy, the foundation for the kind of burden bearing explored in this book.

_This type of "burden bearing" is a form of intercession that begins in the heart of God._ The burden forms in the heart of God as He sees a need in someone's life. Rather than barge in and fix it, He respects a person's free will and asks you, as His servant, to be part of His solution. He wants you to be the _person_ _through whom_ He draws the pain of a hurting person to Himself. He asks you to be Hid hands on earth to relieve physical suffering, and to stand for Him as an emissary of comfort and freedom from emotional and spiritual bondage.

To this end He designed your body, not only to be an instrument of praise, but of prayer. This type of "burden bearing" involves the body, the emotions, and senses all working together. I believe this is what the apostle Paul was talking about when he said, "Now I rejoice in what was suffered for you, and I fill up in my flesh what is still lacking in regard to Christ's afflictions, for the sake of His body, which is the church" (Col 1:24).

Empathy is key. Without empathy you cannot sense the heart of God where burden bearing originates.

Sadly, most are not aware of their capacity for empathy, nor imagine in their wildest dreams God's purposes for it. Most live unaware of the extent to which others' troubles affect them, and vice-versa. Everyone bears burdens because that is how humanity is designed, but many do it wrongly. God designed burden bearing so as not to harm a person. When sin entered the picture, humankind has been turned around, upside down, and operating only somewhat according to design—but there is something missing, causing us hurt.

There is much to be gained for the Kingdom of God when you bear burdens rightly, and much error and suffering when you bear burdens wrongly due to lack of knowledge. Our lack of knowledge caused us to live out only a portion of our "design capabilities." I believe burden bearing is an important part of His plan. You bear burdens because that is who you are, much as a gifted composer composes because he must. You are highly sensitive; you empathize and bear others burdens because you cannot do otherwise.

The Sensitive Human

God designed your with a broad capacity to relate, to connect with others (but especially Him), and to experience something of what others experience. This is a primary function of your human spirit—that eternal part of you that will return to God.

The neural hardware you are born with determines your conscious capacity for sensitivity. This neural hardware is responsible for how much data you take in. It simply is—it has nothing to do with personal worth or value, and varies person to person. It is part of what makes you a unique individual.

Empathy is the ability to feel what another person experiences by matching their inner state of being and energy level. This is possible because of our neural hardware. Life experiences (family, school, work, etc.), positively or negatively affect your ability to function empathetically. Your ability to connect empathetically can be even further diminished to the extent sin separates you from yourself, and distorts your sense of who you are in relation to God and others. Conversely, you strengthen you empathy muscles when you experience nurture, acceptance, support, seek hard after God and develop a deep personal relationship with Him—a deep, mature prayer life.

Synchronization is another term for the brain's ability to match the state of mind and/or energy level of another person by means of communication from right brain to right brain. This communication happens at such a speed that you seem to experience another person's state of mind or energy level simultaneously. High sensitivity is pivotal for the ability to synchronize with another; it is the core of empathy, and empathy is the core of burden bearing. It is a physical, mental, emotional _and_ spiritual activity.

God designed people physically and biologically for relationships. Every human being is born with the raw materials needed for empathy, and all experience it to one degree or another. When you actually "touch" what other people think and feel, you gain a "knowing" about them that is deeper than if you simply identify with, imagine, or feel sorry for how they might feel. Empathy allows you to begin to share in the emotional life of another.

Have you ever experienced a horrible feeling in the pit of your stomach, like you were going to be ill, and at the same time "know" a loved one was in some kind of trouble? Later you learned that was—a car accident, a marriage crisis, or perhaps a severe illness.

A son sadly confides in his father that he "knows" the coach is going to cut him from the team. He cannot say why he knows. Soon the coach, with grief in his voice, admits he must bow to the pressure of politics and drops the young man from the team. The boy felt the coach's grief; he felt his burden and that was how he "knew" his coach was about to cut him from the team.

A wife working at home or elsewhere may experience weariness or anxiety as her day progresses that she cannot explain from her circumstances. She finds later that her spouse had a very frustrating and unproductive day at work.

My friend shares a story about the time when her mother called the school because she felt certain something horrible had happened. At the time my friend was attending junior high school and was wandering the halls near the principal's office in tears after receiving her very _first_ low grade on a math test. Her mother felt her daughter's distress.

Certain individuals or places give you "creepy" feelings. You instinctively know to avoid some people but have no concrete reason to do so. Sometimes you do not trust people who are "so sweet." What do you sense below consciousness? The Holy Spirit plays an important role in unraveling the mystery of spiritual sensitivity.

The Oxford Dictionary 10th edition says that empathy is the ability to understand and share the feelings of another. But I define it a bit differently, to be more pertinent to burden bearing. Empathy is "receptivity to the sensory and emotional experiences of another to the point that you feel what they are experiencing." This is not extrasensory perception (ESP). Scripture is quite clear that God speaks to His people as written in the Books of Joel, Acts, and specifically Job 33:13-14.

Sometimes God speaks audibly. For such cases, He built us with physical ears to hear Him. But, usually He speaks inaudibly. For those times, He built us with spiritual ears. It is not evil to have such "ears." But it is indeed evil to turn them toward any other source than the Holy Spirit. Turning spiritual ears toward a source other than the Holy Spirit is called extrasensory perception.

ESP is using God-given abilities without the boundaries and protection of the Holy Spirit. In the use of these abilities a "spirit" may unknowingly aid some; others consciously use a spirit other than God. Dependence upon a source other than God is what you are _not_ to do! No one cares for you more than God. He knows what is in your best interest. Such dependence is an open door for forces of darkness, and such use of high sensitivity is divination.

The Oxford Dictionary defines divination as "the art or practice of obtaining hidden knowledge from supernatural powers" other than God. A second definition is "unusual insight; intuitive perception." I would add to that definition by saying that it is unusual insight and intuitive perception without God's authorization or protection. In other words, peering where not invited, out of curiosity, seeking status, control or personal gain—such as fortune telling, taro cards, Ouija boards, séances, etc. God does not endorse such practices. Scripture is clear that believers are not to be involved in such practices. (See Deuteronomy 18:10, 14; First Samuel 15:23; and Second Chronicles 33:6).

Burden bearing is different from ESP. To burden bear rightly, you die to you ability to see, sense, and feel and instead ask God to allow you to see, feel, or sense only through the direction of the Holy Spirit. Your abilities are crucified, resurrected, and harnessed to God's will. It is no longer you who is doing this work, but the Holy Spirit in you. The Holy Spirit is central to burden bearing rightly. Without the Holy Spirit, burden bearing rightly does not happen.

The Holy Spirit uses your resurrected and redeemed ability to empathize and connects you with those who need His love, help and healing touch. This is one expression of the gift of "word of knowledge" (1 Cor. 12). At the Holy Spirit's direction you feel their pain. Their pain alters you to their needs and informs your prayer so you will accurately and compassionately invite the Lord to heal that hurting person. Like a neural synapse in the brain, the Holy Spirit forms a "spiritual synapse" from a hurting person to one who can help lighten the load.

For whom do you empathize?

Worth a Thousand Words

Your neural hardware makes it possible to subconsciously receive spiritual, physical, and emotional information—state of being information. As an infant you learn how to interpret and respond to that information. Empathy is to the spirit and emotions what words are to the mind. Words can be inadequate sometimes when you try to express emotion or your state of being! You try to express yourself with zero success, and have a sinking feeling as you watch your loved one walk away. You think, "They don't have a clue about what's going on with me." The problem intensifies when you, yourself, do not know what is churning around inside.

Imagine the value of the empathetic friend or loved one who somehow knows you better than you do, and can put words to your feelings. When you learn to recognize, interpret, and respond appropriately to state-of-being information gathered by means of empathy with others, they receive the gift of companionship, and at a deep level—a sense of connection. Empathy is good as far as it goes, but it is not yet burden bearing, not until it is crucified, resurrected and dedicated to the Lord's service.

Angie (not her real name) was receiving ministry from my husband. Her emotions were one massive ball. At any given time she didn't know how to express what she was feeling. David invited me into some of their sessions, and the Lord connected me to her. My function was to empathize with Angie and giver her vocabulary. She experienced feelings, but had never learned the label associated with the feeling. The Lord connected us so completely that I would call her outside of the sessions when I suddenly had a headache that I knew was hurting Angie. "Do we have a headache?" I'd ask her on the phone. "Uhhh..." "Right side of your head? Right above your eye?" Angie would respond, "Yes, yes, you are right!" And so it went with other feelings and symptoms.

This is burden bearing, but if we had stopped at this point, it would have been "unredeemed" burden bearing. I would have been bearing the burden in my body by my own strength for another. However, Angie and I went on to ask the Lord for prayer direction. Often physical pain calls us to attention, but the problem the Lord wants to address lies elsewhere. Listening to the Lord's directions and praying accordingly, the Holy Spirit gathered all the burden from all the places it lodged in my body (and Angie's life) and lifted it out of me, drawing that burden brought me and onto the cross of Jesus.

How Light the Yoke?

Jesus said His yoke was easy and His burden light (Matt. 11:30), but how easy, how light? Actually experiencing the feelings, thoughts, or attitudes of another can confuse the heck out of you! The biggest problem is to learn to recognize when these things are not your own, to know when it is not your pain, your heartache, or headache, as much as it hurts—to recognize when the burden is Holy Spirit initiated.

The wife who felt a seemingly baseless anxiety throughout her day was surely confused. Not until her husband came home from work did she recognize she had been experiencing all day long his emotional burden, stress, and pressure. She lightened his emotional/psychological load so he could continue to function in his workplace. However, if understanding is all the further she processes the burden; she is burden bearing in her own strength, without the aid of the Holy Spirit. This is not God's original design for burden bearing. But, it is exactly what happens to far too many people.

This woman needs to build in the reflex of turning to the Lord and asking why she feels as she does, and interceding as the Lord directs. As she seeks the Lord's direction and prays accordingly, the Holy Spirit draws her husband's burdens through her, neutralizing them on Hid Cross, keeping her from becoming exhausted. With no prayer involved, without the Holy Spirit drawing the burden through her to the Cross, the residue becomes a weight upon her spirit, emotions, and body. Burden bearing rightly, which works into us the nature and character of Christ, is discussed at length in a later chapter.

Empathy confuses the mind because most of us are not skilled in identifying and acknowledging our emotions. Unfortunately, as children many of us learned that feelings are not safe or acceptable to have, and we erected barriers to them— these barriers carried over into adulthood. Some put uncomfortable feelings away and escape into whatever will distract them. Some keep a full or over-full social or work schedule that will eliminate the time to feel. Emotions are left unidentified when pushed out of the way. Most people condemn what they do not understand. Most people remain woefully ignorant of what is inside.

If you are fearful of emotions, you will try to barricade empathy from your life. Family and society teach you not to pay attention to emotional information—your own and other's. All too often, you do to yourself what someone did before—disbelieve, minimize, and repress. As an adult, you think you are unable to sense what another feels. Or, you may admit to being empathetic but not to being able to sense. However, empathy is part of the human package, and cannot be suppressed altogether; it will manage to operate to some degree. When you do not understand empathy, most of the time you do not know what is happening. Almost certainly, you will not at all like being so sensitive. You do your best to cope anyway.

Coping With Emotional Pain

Everyone develops coping mechanisms to protect against the onslaught of our own sensitivities as well as others' reactions. We _have_ to develop defenses. _At a foundational level, people tend to avoid emotional, psychological, and spiritual pain, trouble, and turmoil._ We find ways not to be where emotional pain is; we huff and puff to make it go away and leave us alone, or try to fix the person or the problem and make the pain go away. When we fix a troubled person, and lower their distress level, we feel less distress ourselves. When done rightly, in Jesus and for His sake, lowering someone's pain is good—but when done only to escape feeling it, it is not good.

Avoidance by Creating Distance

Your parents may have use emotion (anger or sadness) to shut down expressions of emotion so the force of the combined energies of the family would not overwhelm them. As an adult you may use the same technique to create distance from the source(s) of turmoil.

Another way to avoid emotional pain and troubles is to _fade quietly away_. You create distance by staying around the fringes of life. In doing so you may _appear_ shy, timid, or introverted when in reality you may not be shy at all, but rather, unwilling to come close to people. You learned that interaction is burdensome, confusing, and even painful. Some continually battle with the desire to withdraw from life.

At the far end of the spectrum, some natural burden bearers develop a hermit-like existence, shutting out the world in an attempt to escape the turmoil they cannot turn off. You can become so overwhelmed you want to escape from life. You can walk a mile through the forest and not be tired, but walk 100 feet through a mall or market and be exhausted. For others, malls and markets are OK, but parties are torture. These places become problematic because your spiritual pores are open. You soak up all the trouble, tension, and anxiety around. You quickly become exhausted and flee to whatever refuge you have. This will be the case until you learn to call on the Lord to be your filter. He can block out everything except what He knows you can bear.

God designed you to be a "people" person, able to be with hurting people and carry a portion of their load to Jesus. Many do not understand themselves or know how to function properly, so they color themselves "gone," and quietly withdraw from people and life. Everyone loses when a burden bearer resigns.

Avoidance by Stifling Others

Some "avoiders" appear to be insensitive because they stifle others' expressions of distress. They fill up with emotional freight until they cannot bear one drop more. My husband, David, and I knew such a woman—Jane (not her real name).

With one big generous breath, Jan would do incredibly loving things, go out of her way, and use great quantities of energy and money to care for other people. However, her next breath could be harsh, critical, resentful and insensitive. Her moods were as stable as wind in a storm.

A couple in Jane's church volunteered as youth leaders. Their first-born child died three days after he was born due to complications during the birthing. A year passed and it was Christmas time. We were rehearsing Christmas music, a beautiful lullaby about Mary and the baby. Quiet tears began to roll down the woman's cheeks. Jan saw the tears and said, "Oh, are you _still_ crying about _that_? Don't you know your baby is better off in Heaven?" The mother was devastated. The grief that she had been quietly giving to the Lord was rudely jammed back down her throat. The message was that her grief was unacceptable and in appropriate.

We discovered later that Jane's first husband had died 20 years before and she had vowed never to cry. She felt she had to be strong for her children. She had not allowed herself to cry since then. The mother's quiet, appropriate grief called to Jane's grief which threatened to spill out in her own tears. _That_ was what was unacceptable to Jane. In her childhood she learned that only weak people show tender feelings. Jane was unconsciously trying to protect herself from her own grief by stifling the grieving mother's.

Avoidance by Denial

Some choose to separate, or dissociate, themselves from their feelings and hide, often in the intellect. Books, ideas, and concepts do not talk back or lash out. Libraries, laboratories, and research are wonderful places to avoid interaction with people, and what interaction there is can be objective and non-personal. Logic causes and effects, rules and formulas appeal. Your mind can wrap itself around science and logic. That is much easier to manage than the irrational, illogical world of feelings and emotions.

Consequently, many highly sensitive, creative burden bearers can be found with their legs wrapped around laboratory stools, among the musty tomes of libraries, hiding behind computers and Petri dishes, seeking welcome refuge from trouble and confusion. These are sociall acceptable and often lucrative hiding places! For many the body exists to carry the head from one place to another. Some disdain those less successful in coping with or hiding from spiritual, emotional or psychological pain. I can understand why a person would choose this refuge; I did for a long time. Nonetheless, it is an escape; fleeing from the good works the Lord designed focus to accomplish.

Avoidance by Hiding in Hobbies

Losing yourself in a hobby or avocation is another socially acceptable refuge from relationship. Those who choose this avenue concentrate on the hobby and block out cries for help, silent or otherwise. If you acknowledge someone's cry for help, you will feel obligated to do something. You create your ruts, and appreciate people who do not intrude, who do not show you a larger picture of life, or call you out. You feel justified in hiding.

Avoidance by Narrowly Focusing

Avoiding the ocean of need by focusing on one small wave narrows your focus. Sometimes the "fix it" response is an attempt to rescue people and become their savior. This way you can narrow your focus and concentrate only on one slice of life, not all of it. Focusing narrowly allows you to push the clamor for attention into the background. The subconscious rationalization for not responding to all you sense and feel is that if you spend all your time and resource on one person or cause, you have neither time nor resources to attend to anything else. You cannot do everything, but you can do this. You cannot be everything for everyone, but one bit you can do.

Saving someone from his or her situation is not always pure selflessness. It can be an attempt to lessen other people's pain not so much for their benefit but to lessen the intensity of what you feel empathetically. There is a payoff in lowering the intensity of someone else's pain. You may very well be concerned for that person, but at the same time indulge a self-serving motivation.

For example, I could feel Deedee's distress over a looming work deadline. Helping would shorten the time I had to feel her distress. If I did not want to endure those feelings, all I had to do was step up—a self-serving motivation. My choices were to help do her work—actually do some of her work—or not help and pray that the Lord strengthen her so she could endure the stress of learning the lessons she needed to learn so that deadlines did not become crises. For me, it was an opportunity to learn when and how to intercede and encourage rather than enable dysfunction. I could have been her savior and stepped in to help, thus lowering my stress level, but doing so would deprive her of an opportunity to mature.

The Sponge Effect

The burden-bearing design is such that, like a sponge, you sop up a portion of someone else's emotional load. A sponge retains dirt after water evaporates. As I said earlier, you retain residue from another person's trouble even though time and distance separates you. This is true whether it is a positive or a negative load. You probably know people who are light and bright and you always come away from times with them feeling lifted up. It is a blessing to absorb and retain some of their positive emotion.

In the same way, when you are around negative people—you come away feeling heavy, sad and confused, angry or depressed. This is true of Christian and non-Christian alike—empathy, that drawing, absorbing, retentive quality of your spirit operates whether you realize it or not. Any created being must operate according to its design—fish swim, horses gallop, birds fly, and your spirit connects through empathy whether you like it or not, whether you believe it or not, and whether you intend to empathize or not. It is something your spirit knows to do and does. Like gravity or the law of physics, the absorbing qualities of your spirit operate whether you know, understand, or believe.

Whoa!

Whoa! This is way too much sensitivity! When you are unaware that you absorb what is in other people, you walk around like a sponge with your spirit open and unprotected. You indiscriminately attract all sorts of things, such as other people's emotion, trouble and turmoil—and it feels like your own! When you look at your home life and work life you see no reason for the feelings you have. Your family life is relatively smooth, your schedule isn't crazy—yet you feel grief and sadness, confusion, anxiety or rage. The confusion from the disparity between what you feel and what you intellectually know your circumstance to be multiplies the feelings, which compounds emotion to the point of excruciating intensity. People look at you and shake their heads when you share such feelings. They say, "It's not all _that_ bad!" "What is your problem?" The problem is the weight of an overwhelming, crushing load you did not even know you were carrying!

For example: I met my friend Vivian for coffee. We talked through a series of her losses. On this particular day she was numb with grief. She spoke in monosyllables, her face was emotionally flat, her eyes were dull, but she insisted she was fine. It was obvious she was not fine. For half an hour, I tried to engage her and finally flashed with an intensely impatient irritation. I was only conscious of feeling compassion for the state she was in. My reactions were entirely in appropriate and surprised both of us. I apologized and ended the visit. I went away shaking my head—what was that all about? I wanted to comfort my friend, not be angry with her. She needed comfort, and I made matters worse. I felt like a lousy friend.

Damage to Others

When you absorb a portion of someone else's crushing load and do something that is _appropriate to that load_ , your behavior can still be inappropriate for you—like my irritated response to Vivian. Y response was inappropriate; it did not express my feelings of care and compassion for her. Even if I had been irritated because she would not share, irritation would not help her. However, if Vivian were the one being angry over her loss, that would have been appropriate. I expressed anger that she was not yet in touch with. Inappropriate responses would and confuse others. God wants you to soak up pain and trouble and pray it to the Cross and thereby help people, bringing them closer to their source of healing.

Be aware that satan will turn these potentially healing encounters into hurt and division. When you are inappropriate, you can wound a person who is already hurting. When your responses seem insensitive, wounded people will not come your way again with any expectation of comfort, help or healing.

"What is wrong with me?"

Even for the strongest, carrying heavy loads can result in chronic energy drain. Making empathetic connection with others consumes large amounts of physical emotional and psychological energy. Collecting, and carrying everything you collect, requires even more energy; thus, many burden bearers are tired beyond their circumstances. You may wonder why you are constantly weary, and succumb to the growing sense that there is something drastically wrong with you. "I can't cope. I am so lazy. I must be crazy." Condemning thoughts affect your self-esteem and color how you see yourself, in some cases to the extent that they threaten you mental health.

Why Is it Killing Me?

If God designed me to empathize, why is it killing me? Are you supposed to walk around soaking up "stuff," filtering the spiritual environment? Yes and no. Any filter left unattended clogs, resulting in great damage to the system. You can hurt yourself by doing too much for too long. Isn't God supposed to protect us? Yes, but... He also gives you spiritual armor. Wouldn't you assume He expects you to become adept in its use? He gave you intelligence and common sense for the same purpose. He respects the free will He gave you to operate as an individual. You are in a war not of your own making. The Lord protects, but He also wants you to stop walking around wounded in a war zone.

The Lord gave me a word picture to help me understand His desire to redeem empathy. What do I mean by "redeem empathy?" Jesus' death was the price, the ransom paid for your release from sin and its effects in every aspect of your life. However, out of respect for the free will He gave you, you must ask for that redemption to be applied to your gift of empathy as well. When you ask Him to redeem your ability to empathize, it means you ask Him to crucify it—allowing you to die to that ability. To redeem it means the Lord then resurrects that ability to empathize, even as He resurrected Jesus. It means that Jesus will be in charge of this resurrected ability.

When emotional, spiritual, and psychological freight builds up without discharge, weight collects until something breaks inside. You withdraw or block out awareness of anything more. For the sake of your relationships as well as your health, ask the Lord to redeem and be in charge of your empathy and your burden-bearing capacity. This ability, like all other aspects of your humanity, needs to come under the Lordship of Jesus Christ.

When He is in charge, you have access to His wisdom, light, life, and power. When He manages the functioning of your spirit; He will provide protection and direction. This ability is a blessing under the management of the Holy Spirit. Empathy operating without the safeguards of the Holy Spirit can result in burnout, depression, physical breakdowns, and can damage the relationships the Lord meant to bless and refresh. Empathizing can feel like a curse when you don't know how it works. Although you can "feel" a person's trouble, you alone can do nothing about it. Because you merely sit in the pain with them after a time you come to resent people, for you know, on a subconscious level, that they are the source of your distress.

Working Together

Empathy and natural areas of strength work together. Some capacity for empathy is resident in everyone regardless of natural strength. Your natural strength is something you do well and easily, like teaching, mechanics, administration, music, etc. You easily channel compassionate responses to information from empathy into the area of your expertise. Empathy advises and compassion moves a mechanic, a nurse, or a doctor to volunteer their services. You are at ease using the information your spirit gives you to guide you into action in many areas of service. Though these "sensings" are quite subjective, you have used them so objectively for so long that you think nothing of acting assuredly on subtle nuances.

A trained speaker or teacher senses and reacts to subtle nuances of acceptance and rejection in audiences. It becomes so automatic he thinks nothing of it. He can easily sense when his audience is becoming fearful in reaction to what he is teaching or proclaiming, and check or counterbalance statements to ease their hearts. This is a function of empathy, to inform and guide him about how and what he says.

However, even though we trust and use empathy on a daily basis, most are woefully untrained and ignorant about what may happen when empathy turns to burden bearing. That same speaker, so adept at adapting to his audience, may become confused or frightened when the Holy Spirit begins to draw the fear of many in the audience through to Himself. The speaker has given himself to the Lord; therefore, he may feel the fears of the people streaming like a river through him to the Cross. If he is theologically, biblically, and experientially untrained, the fear that he senses has now become so much more intense than simple empathetic sensitivity that he becomes confused; he cannot understand it and begins to tremble, or stutter, or lose his train of thought. Satan can take advantage of this situation to haul things up from bad memories to convince him that all the fear is his own, that he ought to quit trying to be a teacher for the Lord.

"Blessed is the man who finds wisdom...then you will go on your way in safety" (Prov. 3:13-23). "The fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom; all who follow His precepts have good understanding. He will have no fear of bad news" (Ps. 111:10; 112:7). We need God's wisdom to rightly understand and use our empathetic muscles to bear one another's burdens.

God's design is for your spiritual gifting and natural talents to work in Harmon. When the Holy Spirit is in charge of your empathy, you find yourself drawn to a person or situation. The Holy Spirit connects you with wounds in another by empathy If you train yourself to do so, you can pray specifically and intelligently because you feel what the person is struggling with. You may also be motivated into other appropriate actions. Compassion, born of empathy, can more easily move a person to action in the area of their natural gifting.

If I am a mechanic and I sense sorrow or pain in you, I want to help, so I ask if there is something I can do. How can I bless you? Can I work on your car and thus take a load off? On the other hand, if I am financially blessed, empathy informs me of need, and compassion moves me to respond by helping financially. Empathetic sensing works to call you into action through you natural gifts. God wants you to have compassionate, practical, and tangible responses to information gathered by empathy He does not want you to stop with reading each other, with gathering information, absorbing and retaining emotional energy.

Rather, He wants to add to what you are currently doing. He is asking a new thing of you, but at the same time is repeating the call to the Church to "act justly and to love mercy," (Mic. 6:8) and to set captives free (Isa. 61:1). In other words, He wants you to lighten emotional and spiritual loads and connect people with Jesus in this way _in addition_ to the practical helps.

I believe the Lord wants you to develop a prayer reflex to people's burdens and to be consciously aware and understand your responses to these burdens. The Lord wants you to know what you are doing and become skilled at it. When feelings, mood swings, and sensations come out of left field, He wants you to have an informed, intelligent prayer response, a burden-bearing response to such information rather than assuming all such things originate within you.

The human design includes empathy. It will operate, but if you are ignorant of this aspect of your being, you will not know "what comes over you" from time to time. You will respond as if what you feel is your own and you may cause hurt to others and yourself. You can inadvertently damage the very relationships you cherish, and the person the Lord wants you to help will not receive the aid He intended, because it feels so natural, so full of common sense, you are probably not aware of God's heart at work in stirring you. Too often people respond in appropriately and miss the call to lighten someone's burden by bearing a portion or aspect of their burden to Jesus and on to the Cross. God does not want you to stop doing the practical. He is calling you to go beyond material help and bear a portion of others' loads to the Cross, be they spiritual, physical, emotional, or psychological. In this way you imitate Jesus and function as a child of God, which is what He designed you to be.

Sin separates and divides. Empathy connects. Burden-bearing intercession for another overcomes the division, clarifies the mind, and restores a person's capacity to see options and make wise choices. Burden bearing goes over and through the dividing wall between God and a person. Sin is defeated. Empathy connects, allowing you to know what others experience, Responding to what you perceive empathetically by bearing that burden to the Lord provides the opportunity to mature and develop into God's plan for your life—your destiny.

The ability to sense and identify with what is in another connects us in our spirits and makes us corporate beings. Without empathy no one can function optimally as a child of God, for empathy connects us to each other. It binds us together corporately as families and groups. It is our greatest hope because it enables us to be in relationship with God and each other. We have lost awareness of our connectedness—of our corporate nature. Empathy is our greatest resource to restore awareness, rebuild relationships, and renew our sense of being part of something bigger than "me."

Footnotes:

Your neural hardware determines your soul's capacity to communicate, soul to soul, but does not affect your human spirit's capacity to communicate human spirit to human spirit. This explains why those born with developmental delays, retardation, or autism can still have an amazing capacity of spirit. The human spirit does not have the same limitation as the soul. For more information see Arthur Burke's http://wwwtheslg.com for connection to Sapphire Leadership Group, Inc., with its links to Plumbline Ministries (tools to discover and develop your identity and express it powerfully in community) or Amthest Healing Concepts (resources to heal and nurture the human spirit).

See appendix B regarding the development of the cingulate cortex.

http://www.m-w.com/dictionary/divinations; retrieved 11/1/06.

TO READ MORE, you can purchase The Mystery of Spiritual Sensitivity: Your Practical Guide to Responding to Burdens You Feel From God's Heart by Carol A. Brown at:

http://amzn.to/vDo2D2 (paperback).

Chapter 37: Sana Edoja, Knowing God

Reprinted from **Knowing God** , an inspirational self help study book by Sana Edoja. Copyright 2007 by Createspace.com. Used by permission of author.

1 Corinthians 1:21-For since in the wisdom of God the world through its wisdom did not know Him, God was pleased through the foolishness of what was preached to save those who believe (ESV). (Acts 2:38-"Repent and be baptized every one of you in the name of Jesus Christ for the forgiveness of your sins, and you will receive the gift of the Holy Spirit. (ESV) _)_ So that we should know the things having been graciously given to us by God. 1 Corinthians 2:12 (ALT) Know therefore this day, and lay it to thy heart, that Jehovah He is God in Heaven above and upon the earth beneath; there is none else. (Deuteronomy 4:39 ASV) The secret things belong unto Jehovah our God; but the things that are revealed belong unto us and to our children for ever, that we may do all the words of this law. (Deuteronomy 29:29 ASV) It is this, the Word which I spoke, that will judge him in the last day. There is a Judge for the one who rejects Me and does not accept My words; that very Word which I spoke will condemn him at the last day. (John 12:48, ALT, ESV)

To know God is to know that which through the Spirit He has given us to know of Him and His ways through the Word, that is the Bible. In John 7:17, Jesus says that "If anyone chooses to do God's will, he will find out whether My teaching comes from God or whether I speak on My own" (NIV). We can read a lifetime of books, but the only way to our salvation is found in only one book, that is the Holy Bible. If we read nothing but the Word of God, we have read all that pertains to life and godliness, and have need of nothing else. (2 Peter 1:3 - His divine power has given us everything we need for life and godliness through our knowledge of him who called us by his own glory and goodness). ( 2 Timothy 3:15-17 - and how from infancy you have known the holy Scriptures, which are able to make you wise for salvation through faith in Christ Jesus. All Scripture is God-breathed and is useful for teaching, rebuking, correcting and training in righteousness so that the man of God may be thoroughly equipped for every good work).

Study this book as you would any other, or as you would listen to any man's thoughts-with the Word of God opened and before you, and your heart humbled, testing to see that all that is taught herein is in fact the Truth as seen through the Scriptures (Acts 17:11 – Now the Bereans were of more noble character than the Thessalonians, for they received the message with great eagerness and examined the Scriptures every day to see if what Paul said was true. 1 John 4:1 - Dear friends, do not believe every spirit, but test the spirits to see whether they are from God, because many false prophets have gone out into the world).

Please note that all the Scriptures have been taken from the New International Version Bible http://www.bible.com; The Holy Bible, English Standard Version, copyright 2001 by Crossway Bibles, a division of Good News Publishers. http://www.gnpcb.org/page/esv_copyright/; American Standard Version of 1901; and the Analytical-Literal Translation of the New Testament of the Holy Bible. Copyright 1999-2001 by Gary F. Zeolla of Darkness to Light ministry (www.dtl.org/).

1: God, the Creator

Exodus 33:20 – But," He said, "You cannot see My face, for no one may see Me and live." God is so holy that no man in his sinful state can see God's face and live.

It is difficult to see God in the world we are living in. God is very spiritual and His glory is so great as to physically change the appearance of the face so that it glows. Exodus 34:29 – When Moses came down from Mount Sinai with the two tablets of the Testimony in his hands, he was not aware that his face was radiant because he had spoken with the LORD. We live in a very physical world and thus, we cannot see Him, we cannot feel Him. However, the Bible says that the creation speaks of the beauty of God. Hebrews 11:3 - By faith we understand that the universe was formed at God's command, so that what is seen was not made out of what was visible.

There must be something higher than our conscience as everybody is born with a natural yearning for love. Our conscience sometimes condemns us when we do something wrong. Where does this love come from? Who gave us consciences and made us different from the animals? God: Genesis 1:27 – So God created man in His own image, in the image of God He created him; male and female He created them.

God is like the wind. We cannot see the wind physically but we can see its effects like the leaves of trees moving; the amazing feeling in our hair and skin. Romans 1:20 – Ever since the creation of the world His invisible nature, namely, His eternal power and deity, has been clearly perceived in the things that have been made, so that men are without excuse.

God was thinking of us when He created the earth to enable us to live a life without lack in any area. This has been proven by the sun being at the right temperature in order not to burn the earth. There is enough water, oxygen, and food. Humans have thoughts and feelings to enable us to perform our daily tasks. Everything is in perfect order and harmony. Therefore, there must be a Creator behind this whole orchestra.

Genesis 1: 1 In the beginning God created the Heavens and the earth....And God said, "Let the earth put forth vegetation, plants yielding seed, and fruit trees bearing fruit in which is their seed, each according to its kind, upon the earth." And it was so.... And God said, "Let the waters bring forth swarms of living creatures, and let birds fly above the earth across the firmament of the Heavens." 21 So God created the great sea monsters and every living creature that moves, with which the waters swarm, according to their kinds, and every winged bird according to its kind. And God saw that it was good. 22 And God blessed them, saying, "Be fruitful and multiply and fill the waters in the seas, and let birds multiply on the earth.".... 26 Then God said, "Let us make man...And it was so. 31 And God saw everything that He had made, and behold, it was very good. And there was evening and there was morning, a sixth day."

To know God, is to know His Son, to know His Son is to know life. We are able to learn of Him when we watch His creation, and study from His Word-the Bible. 2 Tim 3:15-17- and that from childhood you know the Sacred Writings, the ones being able to make you wise to salvation through faith, the one in Christ Jesus. All Scripture is God-breathed and is beneficial for teaching or, doctrine, for verification or, reproof, for correcting faults, for instruction in righteousness or, the behaviour that God requires, so that the person of God shall be fully qualified or, perfectly fit, having been completely equipped for every good work.

TO READ MORE, you may purchase **Knowing God** by Sana Edoja at:

http://amzn.to/rCvIt5 (Kindle)

http://amzn.to/ul7vzK (paperback)

Chapter 38: Anita Estes, When God Speaks

Reprinted from **When God Speaks—40 Days and Nights of His Promises** _,_ a devotional nonfiction book by Anita Estes. Copyright 2005. Reprinted by permission of the author.

DAY 1

GOD PROMISES

DIVINE GUIDANCE

Some people only trust themselves and feel they need to make their own way in this world. While planning has its place, trusting God with our life is far more fool proof. Yet how can we trust Him to lead?

Trust in the Lord with all your heart, And lean not on your own understanding. In all your ways acknowledge Him, And He will direct your paths. Proverbs 3:5-6

Trust—think about it. It's a rare commodity in society today. With all that's going on, especially with the increase in terrorist attacks, how can we? On top of it, there are so many shady characters in the world itching to strip us of our money, our family, or our life. In an untrusting world, it's difficult to believe in a trustworthy God. How do we overcome our natural inclinations?

In the light of God's love and His presence, fear melts away. It is replaced by a trusting relationship that grows daily. We come to know God personally in this way through prayer and reading His Word, and He instructs us. As a good teacher, He trains us—like a horse and rider. Let's take a look.

At first the trainer places the unbroken or wild horse in a paddock to restrict their movement. When the time is right, they place a bridle on the horse's head and a bit in its mouth. This is like many of us when we first come to Jesus. He restricts our activity for a while, then harnesses us and takes the reins. Wild as some of us are, we may chafe at such a yoke, but God intends it for good. He wants to direct us over the hurdles and around the pitfalls, rather than falling into them. But it's human nature to want to be in the saddle holding the reins. Many of us gallop away, going our own direction.

Yet those who submit to training are a wonder to behold. When horse and rider are in unison, it is a beautiful sight. They become one as they jump the hurdles, race around the track or gallop down the trails. The horse responds to the slightest movement of the reins, the pressure of the rider's legs and their stance. Together, they know where to go and what to do.

If we can learn to trust Him like this, we too can be guided by the One who sees the whole picture and knows what is best. We may veer off the path, but He can redirect us back. As we walk together with Him in trust, we can learn to avoid some pitfalls. We can sense His guidance through His words and His direction when we pray.

We don't need to rely on our limited perception when we are in tune with God. We can trust Him is situations that don't make sense—when we are in pain, lose a job, a house, a loved one, or when friends fail us. God can direct us through darkness, peril and loss as well as through joy and light. When we trust Him, we can detect His presence no matter what the circumstances. Do you? If not, there is no condemnation. Start training now.

Prayer

Dear Father,

Teach me how to trust You. It's not easy to let You take the reins in my life. What if You want me to jump a high hurdle? Will You be there with me? Help me to trust that You will go with me and guide me through all manner of difficulties. Be my leader and my guide. In Jesus' Name. Amen.

Application

Have you entrusted your life to God? If not, then take the time now to give your heart to Him. _"Behold, now is the accepted time; behold, now is the day of salvation" 2 Corinthians 6:2_. If you desire to know more, read day seven on Salvation.

If you do know Him, then think about a time in your life recently when you didn't trust Him with an important issue. How would you do things differently given the opportunity? In what situation of your life do you need to trust Him? What steps can you take? Write down three ideas and implement one each week.

Night Time Reflection

Your ears shall hear a word behind you, saying, 'This is the way, walk in it.' Whenever you turn to the right hand or whenever you turn to the left.

Isaiah 30:21

"How do you hear from God?" People ask me. God rarely speaks audibly, but if you listen you can hear His still small voice. He desires to give us guidance, and if you ask, He will lead. He speaks to us through His Word, the circumstances and people He places in our lives, and through prayer, but you must spend time with Him to hear. Talk to Him this evening and listen. Give Him time to respond. Record what He speaks into your heart. Check if it aligns with Scripture. He will guide your life if you allow Him.

DAY 2

GOD'S WORD PROMISES US

TRUE IDENTITY

Many people run around searching for who they are and trying to prove their value. However, our true identity and worth are found as children of God.

_For you did not receive the spirit of bondage again to fear, but you received the Spirit of adoption by whom we cry out, "Abba, Father_." _The Spirit Himself bears witness with our spirit that we are children of God. Romans 8:15-16_

For many years I lived in bondage, yet unaware of its subtle hold on me. I had to be busy all the time— pleasing others, God and myself. I filled my life with constant activity: working, writing, taking care of the house, the children, meetings, Bible study and so on. I wanted to be a fruit-bearing tree, yet I grew too leafy.

Until one day the Master Gardener noticed how bushy my branches looked and how small my fruit. His heart longed for me to be what He originally planned, so He took out His pruning shears and began cutting. First He pruned a few leaves, a hobby here and there. It only hurt a little. Then He chopped off a major branch that cut deep—my career. Ouch! I didn't understand what He was doing. After that, limbs fell off left and right.

I felt stripped bare. For the first time in twenty years, I didn't have a teaching job or ministry. Except of course, taking care of the family. That clung like a lonesome leaf in winter. Other than that, I felt useless; though I realized in my spirit that God must be at work. I just didn't know at what!

During that time I prayed a lot and cried out to God. I thought for sure I'd get another position by September, since I went on several interviews. However, God had other plans in mind. He wanted me to learn something far more important than furthering my career, and He longed for me to be secure in Him. For this to happen, there were some things I had to confront.

I came face to face with myself.

If I wasn't a teacher, then who was I? The question loomed like an ax, ready to swing. Was God going to completely chop down my tree and start all over?

Left with a lot of free time, I busied myself with cleaning, driving the kids around, decorating the house, writing and the like. "I'm a homemaker," I declared, but the teacher in me wilted.

As the weeks wore on, my dilemma deepened, the bills piled up and my self worth plummeted. I sensed God telling me to rest in Him, but I found that difficult.

Weeks turned into months, and I felt adrift. "If I can't teach, then what can I do?" I convinced myself I was a complete failure, even though I knew it wasn't true. I believed in God's promises and clung to them. Yet, my feelings declared war with the spirit of God within me.

I joined an excellent Bible study group, which helped. Sharing the deep insights of the Word with other women made me feel valued. Still the emotional battles raged on.

After months of asking, "Why Lord?" the heart wrenching questions stopped. My spirit quieted, and the Heavenly Father now revealed a simple truth. You're identity isn't in being a teacher, a mother, a wife or even a Bible study leader—you're my child. His child.

The full impact of that revelation made my heart leap for joy! God's child. Simple, yet amazing. I needed to be still in Him. Bathe in His love. Let it sink deep into my spirit. Allow Him to feed me.

I knew God loved me, but after twenty-five years of being a Christian, I still hadn't completely settled it in my heart. Due to my upbringing, I believed I needed to earn God's love through good deeds, even though I knew that wasn't biblical. He wanted me to truly experience His deep abiding love, regardless of what I did for Him.

For years I felt I needed to do great things for God. At the end of my life, I wanted God to be able to say, "Well done, good and faithful servant." God understood this. He knew my heart, yet He showed me: "Don't worry. Be anxious for NOTHING" ( _Philippians 4:6_ ).

That hit like a lightening bolt. God simply wanted me to rest in His unconditional love. What a relief. No more worrying about being a good Christian. I felt released, set free from a life long struggle.

Though good deeds are important, God's more interested in our core person. I can show God my love by what I've allowed Him to do in my heart, and by allowing Him to love me. It's His work, not mine.

As a type A personality this is a difficult process, although I'm making progress. I'm learning to rely on His love and not depend on what I've accomplished. Good deeds will spring out of my love for Him, but there are times to be still.

Though now I'm just as active as before the pruning, He set me free from my own faulty expectations and striving. Resting in His love, I am who He wants me to be—a child of God in His loving arms. He revealed my true identity.

Prayer

Dear Heavenly Father,

Let us not forget the important lessons You have taught us. Help us to realize the full impact of Your love. It will sustain us through all circumstances, whether in abundance or lack. Teach me to abide as a child under Your wing of protection. In Jesus' precious, loving Name. Amen.

Application

Do you struggle with your identity? If so, look up the appropriate verses that include promises for the children of God. (You can do this with a concordance in the back of your Bible or on-line with web-sites like Bible Gateway.) Dwell on the inheritance you will have as God's child. Ask God to bring you fulfillment in whatever role you are in at the present time. Seek direction for your future career or endeavors and most of all—trust God to take care of you.

Night Time Reflection

Dear God,

_It's been a busy day with everything I needed to do, and I almost forgot about praying until I had a mini identity crisis in the doctor's office. Yesterday, my daughter went back to college and during vacation we watched home videos of her childhood. It sure was great raising her, but now I ask myself, "_ _How did I get this old so fast?"_ _I'm not ready for empty nest syndrome. I felt better when the doctor looked over everything and told me I'm doing well. It made me thankful for the blessing of good health, and served as a reminder that no matter how old I am—You will take care of me. I'm still your child. I can run to You no matter what my needs, whether I have children home or not, whether I'm beautiful or not, fat or skinny, healthy or sick, married or not. You're here for me and everyone who is Your child. I pray that all may know their true identity in You. Amen._

_DAY_ 3

GOD'S WORD PROMISES US

RESURRECTION LIFE

But if the Spirit of Him who raised Jesus from the dead dwells in you, He who raised Christ from the dead will also give life to your mortal bodies through His spirit who dwells in you.

Romans 8:11

Here in the Northeast where I live, spring is awaited like a bridegroom for the bride. After a long hard winter of battling freezing cold, snow and ice, the warmth of sunshine defrosts body and soul. Buds form on trees, flowers burst into life, and children are seen playing outside once again. The icy grip of winter is replaced with glorious life.

For the believer, this new life is available every day. The resurrection power that raised Christ from the dead is the same Spirit given to us. Think about that. Jesus suffered terrible physical and emotional pain that led to a torturous death. Yet, evil's kiss of death could not stop God's astonishing resurrection power. And we who are children of God have that same life in us!

Christian, lay down your burdens of sorrow and despair and do not look for the Holy One in the tomb. He is no longer there. Christ has conquered death so that you may "have it (life) more abundantly." John 10:10.

Are there trials and sorrow in life? Surely so, but we do not need to be destroyed by them for Christ has given us the victory. "Yet in all these things (tribulation, distress, persecution, famine, nakedness, peril and sword), we are more than conquerors though Him who loved us" Romans 8:37.

As a young Christian I liked to think of myself as a conqueror, though I was riddled with envy, self-pity and pride. I didn't even know I felt this way until I started facing difficulties, which brought all of these feelings to the surface. As I began to endure some fiery trials of loneliness, rejection and near poverty, I learned how to walk, step by step, in victory. During this time I buried myself in the Word of God and prayer. I learned about the true nature of God, not what others said about Him, and what He wants for me.

It is God's love that brought me through. Like Paul, I became convinced that nothing "shall separate us (me) from the love of God" Romans 8:15. We cannot only endure our furnaces of affliction, but come out on the other side with pure gold. For these challenges are not intended to kill us, but to burn off the waste products or dross in our lives.

If we can have this view of trials, then bitterness, envy, malice, hatred and strife can be put to death, for these are the enemies of resurrection life. It is these among others, our sin nature, which nailed Christ to the cross. Yet God did not allow sin to keep His Son buried, neither does He want that for His other children. The power of God's love is strong enough to reach down into our tomb where all our secret sins lay hidden and expose them. Sons and daughters put your sins on the cross where they belong, and allow God's life to quicken your mortal bodies.

Arise and throw off the grave clothes of depression and despair. Spring has dawned upon the land, and new life will burst through the ground. Behold the first signs are already there. The seed has taken root, and it's pushing through the earth. The first rays of sunshine can be felt.

Gather your strength Christian, aided by the Son of God, and pick up your head, seedling. A new world full of His Son-shine awaits you!

Prayer

Dear Father,

Help me to live life as You would want. Sometimes I get distracted by the things of the world or discouraged by the battles. Teach me how to live in Your presence and draw from Your Son's life. I want to live an abundant life. Show me what that truly means. In Jesus' Name. Amen.

Application

Has something been draining the life out of you lately? If so, ask Jesus to renew the resurrection power that should be in you. Focus on those promises that help you overcome depression and despair. Type them and hang them up on your mirror. Shake off those things of this earth that keep you down on the ground when your spirit belongs in the heavens.

Night Time Reflection

Christ in you, the hope of glory.

Colossians 1:27 NIV

Christ living with in us? It's astounding to think, but the Word of God promises it is true. What hope this produces for the spirit. Yet, it gets better than just living with the hope of life here and in eternity. It is a hope of glory—magnificence, splendor, and wonder beyond our imagination. We shall behold the glory of God. Moses only glimpsed God's back for a few moments and the prophet glowed for days. We will live in His glory. Now that is hope beyond compare!

DAY 4

GOD PROMISES US

HOPE

Hope sustains many, especially in difficult times, but what is our hope attached to?

Not only that, but we also glory in tribulations, knowing that tribulation produces perseverance, and perseverance character, and character hope. Now hope does not disappoint, because the love of God has been poured out in our hearts by the Holy Spirit who was given to us. Therefore having been justified by faith, we have peace with God through our Lord Jesus Christ, through whom also we have access by faith into this grace in which we stand, and rejoice in hope of the glory of God. Romans 5:1-5

Hope is an essential ingredient in the human condition. With it, many have endured unbearable circumstances and terrible atrocities. Without it, mankind easily sinks into the pool of despondency. As the saying goes, "Hope Floats." But what does it float on?

There are many things we can put our hope in—a better job, a good marriage, a dream vacation or winning the lottery. Some of these may come true, but they are mere wishes. Hope that bounces along the tides of our desires is merely a bubble that can pop at any time. True hope is different.

Hope that is based on the Word of God is an anchor of the soul. Its life emanates from the Creator to the created. As God breathed life into Adam, so the Holy Spirit breathes spiritual life into us. As Edna St. Vincent Millay wrote in her timeless poem, "Hope is a Thing with Feathers." It gives wing to our innermost yearnings. Yet hope that is anchored in the Christian faith is not a flighty creature. It not only promises a return, but delivers one.

As in years past, many Christians today are persecuted and tortured in other countries. They have endured starvation, beatings, imprisonment and even death, but their hope shines forth because of the grace of God. I met such a blessed one at a writer's conference.

She shared with the audience her story of cruelty and captivity. While it was a heart rendering and painful one, there was hope in her eyes as she shared. The seeds of her faith sprouted while in prison, and she grew in perseverance and character. Hope grew within her even in desperate circumstances, as she prayed for a miracle to be set free. Then she explained that she was miraculously released because of a clerical mistake, and now appears before Congress on behalf of her imprisoned brothers and sisters in Christ. Her hope of freedom was not wishful thinking; it was rooted in Christ.

Even if she had remained jailed or her body starved to death, her hope rested in the promise of everlasting freedom. As the verse says, "Now hope does not disappoint because the love of God has been poured out into our hearts." If our hope is rooted in God's love, everything that comes our way can be transformed...trials and tribulations become tools for hammering out perseverance, which forms character and yields hope—a hope that takes flight on the wings of God's eternal and steadfast love. And that's not a bubble that bursts.

If you are interested in learning more about the persecuted church, you can find information from Voice of the Martyrs or Open Doors.

Prayer

Dear God,

Sometimes situations seem hopeless in the natural realm, but Your ways are above the world's. You are a God of hope and promises. Help me to believe them, to claim them for myself and others. I lift my spirit up to You. Please breathe Your hope into my heart. Amen.

Application

Perhaps you are in the midst of a trial. Be sure of this, God loves you. Allow Him to work hope into the fabric of your being through the very thing you may despise. Let His hope lift you up and give wing to your heavy heart. Recall a time in your life when God had the victory, and your hope was renewed. Write it down. Now believe Him for a miracle in this.

Night Time Reflection

Come to me all who labor and are heavy burdened and I will give you rest. Matthew 11:28

What hope is implanted in this promise—knowing we can come to God and rest from all our labors, aches and pains, trials and tribulations. What a joy to know that I'm not bearing this burden of life by myself. Jesus is by my side, laboring alongside me. God is also directing us and offers refreshment. He beckons to us. Come to Him and rest in His love this evening.

TO READ MORE, you can purchase **When God Speaks—40 Days and Nights of His Promises,** by Anita Estes at:

http://amzn.to/tDufAe (Kindle)

http://amzn.to/vckBnD (paperback)

Chapter 39: S.E. Gregg, The Christian Olympics, Going for the Gold Crowns

Reprinted from **The Christian Olympics, Going for the Gold Crowns** , a Christian living non-fiction book by S.E. Gregg. Copyright 2006 by S.E. Gregg, published by Xulonpress.com. Used by permission of author.

The Opening Ceremony

According to the _World Book 2000_ , the most dramatic event in the opening ceremony of the Olympic Games is the moment that the Olympic flame is lit. The fire is always ignited in Olympia, Greece. In a torch relay, runners transport the flames from Greece to the site in the country that is hosting the games. Finally, the last runner reaches the stadium and lights the kettle. The flames burning remain until the closing ceremony, and then they are extinguished.

There are many preparations that take place before the Olympic Games begin. Contestants have been in training for at least four years and have to abide by strict regulations.

The International Olympic Committee approves of the sports and events to be included in the games. They also determine the host cities, the Olympic competitions, and the eligibility of the athletes.

_Webster's New World Dictionary_ defines the Olympic Games in ancient Greece as a festival with various contests held every four years at Olympia in honor of Zeus, which is the origin of the modern Olympic Games of international athletic competition. The modern competitions were held every four years at a selected city, the first at Athens in 1896. In the 1990s the summer and winter games were divided into cycles so they could be two years apart.

Just as the ancient Olympic Games had their first opening ceremony in Greece and was centered on religion, the Christian Olympics began about two thousand years ago in Jerusalem fifty days after the resurrection of Jesus Christ, on the day of Pentecost. The disciples and other followers of Christ were sitting together when suddenly the sound like a rushing mighty wind came from heaven "...and it filled all the house where they were sitting." (Acts 2:2). And they saw tongues that looked like flames of fire that rested on each of them. Then they were filled with the Holy Spirit, who enabled them to speak in other tongues (languages), one of the wonderful works of God (see Acts 1 and 2).

This was the "divine" opening ceremony. Just as the modern Olympic Games begin by lighting a flame of fire, the fire that symbolizes the Holy Spirit opened the Christian Olympics. Jesus Christ had ascended bodily back to heaven just ten days before the Holy Spirit came from heaven to baptize believers into the body of Christ and to dwell in the followers of Christ. Christianity and the Christian Olympics then began. On that day about three thousand people became Christians and entered the Christian race or Olympics. They confessed and believed in their hearts what they heard, that Jesus Christ, the Son of God, died for their sins, was buried, and rose bodily from the grave (1 Cor.15:3–4, Rom. 10:9).

Then they were initiated into the Christian race through water baptism, a public declaration that their old self or nature was crucified with Christ. When they came out of the water, it was a symbol that they had risen with Him and had a new life in Christ.

Now, about two thousand years later, people from every nation are becoming Christians and entering into the Christian Olympics daily. During the apostle Paul's missionary journeys in Greece he planted churches in cities such as the ones in Philippi, Thessalonica, and Corinth. (Acts 16:12; Acts 17 and 18). The Holy Spirit divinely inspired him to write epistles (letters) to these and other churches, which appear in the New Testament in the Bible, including the first epistle to the Corinthians, the second epistle to the Corinthians, the epistle to the Philippians, the first epistle to the Thessalonians, and the second epistle to the Thessalonians.

While he was in some of the cities, he would watch the ancient Greek contests and games that took place in their stadiums or arenas. While watching, The Holy Spirit revealed to him that this is what the Christian life is like. It is similar to the Greek contest; it is a Christian race or Christian Olympics **.** Paul began to preach and teach what was revealed to him. Throughout his letters to the churches, he would make mention of these contests and games by comparing them to the Christian life and walk.

Get Ready, Get Set, Go

The Christian race is a running and fighting competition. By having an understanding of these games we can glean more insight as to what the Christian life or race is all about. Whereas the athletes have to practice disciplining their whole being to enhance their athletic abilities to win the prize, Christians have to discipline their hearts, souls, minds, and strength towards faithful, loving, service toward God to win the prize.

TO READ MORE, you can purchase **The Christian Olympics, Going for the Gold Crowns** by S.E. Gregg at:

http://amzn.to/tSegc5 (paperback)

Chapter 40: CJ and Shelley Hitz, Forgiveness Formula: Finding Lasting Freedom in Christ

Reprinted from **Forgiveness Formula: Finding Lasting Freedom in Christ** by CJ and Shelley Hitz. Copyright 2011. Used by permission of author. Christian inspirational, nonfiction.

The Greatest Mathematician

Do you recognize any of the following names? Earl Nightingale, Zig Ziglar, John Maxwell, Tony Robbins, Richard Simmons, Deepak Chopra, Lou Holtz, Oprah Winfrey. If you do, you know there's one common theme in this list... _motivation_!

Whether you agree or disagree with their viewpoints and methods, these folks have been known around the world as some of the most inspiring and motivational people of our day. From their best-selling books and CDs to their highly rated TV shows, these movers and shakers have certainly had success in getting people off their couches and into the game of life.

While this is merely a short list, would any list of motivational speakers be complete without mentioning a guy by the name of Matt Foley, played by Chris Farley on _Saturday Night Live_? From his use of props, including flattening living room coffee tables by falling on them, to instructing teenagers on the ills of "smoking doobie," most would agree that this man who "lived in a van down by the river" knew how to motivate in a style all his own.

Was Jesus Motivational?

In the summer of 2000, I (CJ) realized in a way like never before that Jesus Christ was more than just a "motivational" speaker. He wasn't simply a "good moral teacher" as some have described him. He wasn't merely "inspirational" as many believe him to be. The word that describes the way I began to see Jesus that summer was... _brilliant_. In my eyes he became the most brilliant mathematician who ever lived-not because of the elaborate formulas he came up with like Isaac Newton or Albert Einstein. In the most authentic way, I discovered that this Jesus of Nazareth knew 2,000 years ago and he still knows today what _adds up_ to a _FULL_ life. You might even say that I experienced more freedom as a human being than I ever had in my previous twenty-seven years.

CJ's Story

It was that summer of 2000 that I would meet for the first time my stepdad. You see, my parents' marriage crumbled after twenty-six years, ending in divorce in the summer of 1999.

Some Background

You need to know that I grew up in a household where both my parents loved me _very_ much. My dad worked hard to provide for his family at a nearby plywood mill, the same one he's been employed at for over thirty-eight years. He worked countless hours of overtime in order to buy my brother and me the extras we took for granted many times. My mom was a stay at home mom. She was (and still is) an outstanding seamstress who made many articles of clothing for us through the years. Both of my parents made every effort to attend the many sporting events we were part of, many times driving three-plus hours each way in order to get there. They provided a loving home for Jason and me and gave us as many advantages as possible growing up. We weren't wealthy, but we weren't dirt poor either. We had everything we needed.

My Reaction? Anger

I first found out that my parents' marriage was falling apart in May of 1998, only three months before my own wedding day with Shelley. Kind of ironic that one marriage was falling apart while another one was just beginning.

It would be just over two years from the time I was given this news before Shelley and I would meet my new stepdad (mom was remarried in December 1999) and I would need every second of those two years to undergo a true transformation on the inside.

You see, I found out that my stepdad _pursued_ a relationship with my mom, a married woman.

I realize that my mom and dad's marriage didn't fall apart overnight. I realize there are many other issues surrounding their divorce. However, at the time, it was easy for me to put the entire blame on my mom and stepdad. It was easy to feel anger towards them. I always tell people it was probably a good thing there were over 2,400 miles separating me from my stepdad...roughly the distance between Findlay, Ohio and Roseburg, Oregon.

Everything in me wanted to physically harm him. I'm not sure what I would have done had I been face to face with him at that time. I literally had thoughts of murder going through my mind as I dwelled on the events leading up to my parents' divorce. Out of my anger, I also said some very hurtful things to my mom that I later regretted. Have you ever said something to someone that you wish had never left your mouth?

One such statement I recall making to my mom was one that she said ripped her heart in pieces. I told her with every ounce of venom I could muster, "If you choose to stay with this jerk, you'll lose a son and cease being my mom! You let me know what you decide _._ " For two agonizing weeks, I let that statement torture my mom before I sensed the Lord asking me to apologize. My mom would later say that those two weeks seemed to take years off her life, due to the anxiety I caused her.

Words cannot describe the pain and anger I felt as I began to think about the implications of my parents' divorce. Holidays and family gatherings would never be the same. Instead of seeing Mom and Dad in one place, Shelley and I would have to make the effort to see both of them in separate towns and then be careful not to show any favoritism. This was very delicate in the beginning as feelings were easily hurt and everyone tried to adjust the best they knew how.

I had been a follower of Jesus at this point for over six years but never had I been tested like this in putting his teachings into practice. More on this in a moment.

What Teachings?

Before we look at a few of them, we need to go to a passage in the Bible near the end of Luke 6 where Jesus asks his listeners a very important question:

So why do you call me 'Lord,' when you won't obey me? Luke 6:46 (NLT)

Let's pretend you and I are in that group of listeners Jesus is speaking to. If we were to answer Jesus' potent question, we might respond by saying, "Well, Jesus, that's a fine question you ask and we're pretty much all in agreement in our answer for you." The crowd grows tense as the spokesperson continues, "Look Jesus, have you been listening to yourself lately? The reason we call you 'Lord' and don't do what you ask is because you're teaching some really weird stuff...as a matter of fact we're all wondering where you came up with this babble?"

When you look back at what Jesus has been teaching this crowd earlier in Chapter 6, you realize he's been teaching some ludicrous-sounding stuff to folks. These things were new to his listeners and possibly caused them to question much of what they had been taught up to that time. Jesus' opening statement to this group will get things started with a bang:

God blesses you who are poor, for the Kingdom of God is given to you. Luke 6:20 (NLT)

Another way you could translate this would be " _Lucky_ are you who are poor." Can't you just hear the people cheering, "Woo Hoo! Where do I sign up, Jesus?" Does anyone really want to be poor?

And for his next statement, Jesus says:

God blesses you who are hungry now, for you will be satisfied. Luke 6:21 (NLT)

Fine piece of advice Jesus, but what about this growl in my stomach that I can't seem to ignore? I want to be satisfied _now_! Let's look at another ridiculous-sounding teaching:

God blesses you who are hated and excluded and mocked and cursed because you are identified with me...When that happens, rejoice! Yes, leap for joy! For a great reward awaits you in heaven... Luke 6:22-23 (NLT)

So let's get this straight. You want us to throw a party and get silly whenever we're made fun of, belittled, excluded, picked on and spit upon because of our association with you? Not sure if you've noticed, Jesus, but each time you open your mouth and say things like this, there's a sudden drop in weekly attendance.

Luke 6:24-26 has some "peculiar" teachings as well but I'd like to skip down to a section where we really begin to see Jesus "going off the deep end," so to speak:

But if you are willing to listen, I say, love your enemies. Do good to those who hate you. Pray for the happiness of those who curse you. Pray for those who hurt you. If someone slaps you on one cheek, turn the other cheek. If someone demands your coat, offer your shirt also. Luke 6:27-29 (NLT)

Choosing To Love My "Enemy"

In the two years that went by from the time I first found out about the affair to the day I would meet my stepdad, I had plenty of time to cry out to the Lord for help. As a follower of Jesus, I wanted to demonstrate a love and forgiveness for my enemy that I could never muster up on my own. I remember praying, _Lord, you have to give me a supernatural love for my stepdad that I don't feel right now. There will be a day when we have to meet one another for the first time and I don't want to make a fool of myself. Please take all my feelings of anger, hatred and condemnation and replace them with your love, mercy and acceptance. I trust you'll do this transforming work inside me as I stay connected to you. And may Shelley and I be used by you to be agents of healing and restoration in the lives of my mom and stepdad. Amen._

And so, I found myself praying something like this on a regular basis leading up to that summer of 2000. And you know what? God began to answer that cry of my heart. It was as if he was draining me of hatred day by day and slowly filling me with his love from head to toe. It's been said that time heals all wounds. Instead, I'd rather give credit where credit's due: Over time, _God_ heals all wounds. This was certainly the case regarding the wound in my own heart.

The time finally arrived for Shelley and me to fly out to Oregon and meet the new additions to the family. My dad also remarried a nice gal named Betty, which meant I had the special bonus of meeting two new stepparents on one trip...what a treat! On the day I met my stepdad, I felt an unusual peace and calm inside.

I truly sensed the Lord wanted to do something special and I actually began to feel excited about meeting my new stepdad. This was evidence of God's transforming work since I would NEVER have felt this way previously.

We knocked on the door and my mom answered. With a smile, she welcomed us inside where I saw my stepdad for the first time. I could see he looked somewhat nervous and awkward, not sure exactly what to say. As we both reached to shake one another's hand, I sensed the Lord saying to me, Give him a hug. Really? I thought. Okay, Lord, you know what you're doing. And in a split second, my cordial handshake turned into a truly heart-felt hug. Everything seemed to be going in slow motion from that moment. My imagination began to take off. This could end up being a really awkward moment, I said to myself. Sort of a _Tommy Boy_ meets the _Godfather_ -like moment.

It was something I can only describe as God-inspired. He showed up. He answered my prayer in the most faithful of ways. Like an electric current, I felt a love well up from deep within me as I embraced this man I once had visions of beating with a crowbar. Almost immediately, I could sense him relax as he realized my intentions weren't to harm him.

I went to bed that night full of renewed faith in a God who amazed me in a fresh way. He took me outside my comfort zone and asked me to do something truly outside myself. He proved in a way I had never experienced that he's the greatest mathematician of all time. He knew then and he still knows today what adds up to a full life. It didn't seem to add up in my small mind at the time, but looking back, now it makes all the sense in the world.

One of the most freeing feelings in the world comes when we choose to love and forgive our enemies. Jesus has known this all along. He's given us teachings that we have to put into action by obeying, even when we don't know exactly how things might turn out. I'm happy to say that, nearly a decade later, my stepdad is no longer my enemy. I now call him a friend.

Early Enemy Encounters

When I was in third grade, a kid named Chad began going to my school after his family had moved into our small town of Myrtle Creek, Oregon. Almost immediately, Chad made it known to everyone that he was now the new king of the hill and would put anyone in their place who thought otherwise. He wore this jacket that looked puffy all over and pushed the sleeves up to make it look as if his arms were as big as Arnold Schwarzenegger's. To a third-grader, this was downright intimidating!

In the beginning, some of us had warmed up to Chad because we saw him as an asset for the football games we would play on recess. He was taller and stronger than most of us which served him well. But over time, Chad began to lose friends both on and off the field due to his dominant and bullying attitude. As he grew more unpopular, his violent behavior only worsened. A blanket of fear now covered every part of the playground as Chad picked on any one, any time. Someone had to stand up to Chad...but _who_?

David and Goliath?

Though I was probably three inches shorter and twenty pounds lighter than Chad, I was arguably the fastest kid on the playground. So I devised a plan and decided to use my speed as a weapon to inflict some serious pain on this unruly Neanderthal.

I waited patiently to carry out this devious deed and finally had my prime opportunity one day when my team was playing against Chad's in a game of "touch" football. As we were getting ready to kick off, I gathered my team into a huddle and gave them the following directive: "Leave Chad to me!" By this time, whenever Chad's team would receive the ball, it was common knowledge that Chad would be the one to catch the ball...almost guaranteed. The grass field where we played our games had a slight slant to it and on this kick off our team was running downhill which made the conditions for "The Plan" even more ideal due to the momentum being in our favor. I remember kicking the ball as high as possible to create more time to execute Chad--I mean--the play.

From the moment the ball began its ascent into the air, everything would seem to unfold in slow motion. At this point, the best picture I can give you is to imagine a scene from the movie _Braveheart_ where William Wallace (played by Mel Gibson) is leading his men on a barbaric charge across the battlefield to encounter the Englishmen. On this day I was William Wallace. And I yelled all the way down the field as we pursued our enemy with a vengeance.

I mentioned "touch" football earlier and that's what we were supposed to be playing according to playground rules. But on this play, the rules stayed inside the classroom. Though my own team had no idea what I was about to do, they would find out soon enough.

Sure enough, as if it was choreographed, Chad caught the ball and had little time to escape "untouched." At this point, I was at full charging speed and less than ten feet from my nemesis. Chad fully expected me to slow down and begin my attempt to simply touch him but when I didn't slow down, his eyes began to widen as big as saucers. I took one last step in full stride and leaped into the air, similar to a lion as it pounces on its prey. As the full force of my weight and speed hit Chad, I had decided to wrap my legs around his waist in order to ensure a controlled tackle and also to add more trauma as we hit the ground with me on top. As we hit the ground in that epic moment and I saw the back of Chad's head hit the ground with tremendous force, I found myself being thankful we were on grass and not concrete. As Chad lay there dazed and confused with a bloody lip, I rose up and stood over him in a dominant stance and yelled, "IN YOUR FACE, CHUMP!!!"

For a split second, I felt an elation and triumph that words cannot describe. But this emotion was much shorter lived than I had anticipated. I thought surely I could feed off this sweet victorious nectar for a week or more before it wore off. But this was not to be. As I looked down at this whimpering fellow third grader with fresh bruises to both body and ego, I was suddenly struck with the reality that I had hurt another human being. I felt cold inside and realized that the best part of me had not been displayed there on the field. As Chad slowly rose to his feet, I found myself apologizing profusely (and also pleading with him to not tell the teacher on duty). When he saw my sincerity in asking him how he was doing, he accepted my apology and nodded his head with a respect I hadn't been shown by him previously.

Was I a hero in the eyes of my classmates that day? Sure I was. Had a bully been humbled? Sure. Did I feel good about that? Oddly, no. You see, I believe even at the age of eight, I could see and feel the difference between my own math and the mathematics of Jesus. My math left me feeling empty when I thought it would add up to the correct answer.

But Jesus knew then and he still knows today what adds up to a _full_ life.

He knew then and he still knows today what leads to a clear conscience. He knew then and he still knows today how to diffuse a bully.

Bono, the lead singer of the rock band U2 was attending a ceremony where the band would be receiving an award for their album titled _How to Dismantle An Atomic Bomb._ Another musician came up to Bono and asked him arrogantly in front of others, "So tell us Bono, how DO you dismantle an atomic bomb?" Bono humbly responded, "Love. You dismantle an atomic bomb with love." What Bono may or may not have realized is that Jesus is the author of this anecdote. When Jesus said, "Love your enemies...do good to those who hate you," he was giving us the blueprint to dismantle "atomic bombs" all around us.

When I chose to use my own math that day on the playground, I was merely adding gasoline to an already out of control wildfire. By using the math of Jesus, we become "firefighters" who help push back the flames of hatred and violence rather than fan those flames. The writer of Proverbs says it well, _Hatred stirs up quarrels, but love covers all offenses. Proverbs 10:12 (NLT)_

I wish I could go back to that day in third grade and use the math of Jesus instead. In fact, I wish I could do many things over again in my life. Don't we all? But I love the word "today." Today, we have some grand opportunities to let these brilliant teachings of Jesus shine. Next time that guy cuts you off in traffic and you feel like applying your own math to the situation, just remember the greatest Mathematician...You might end up diffusing an atomic bomb.

TO READ MORE, you can purchase **Forgiveness Formula: Finding Lasting Freedom in Christ** by CJ and Shelley Hitz at:

http://amzn.to/forgivenesskindle (Kindle)

http://amzn.to/forgivenessformula (paperback)

Chapter 41: Paulette Harper Johnson, Completely Whole

Reprint from **Completely Whole** a non-fiction, inspirational book by Paulette Harper. Copyright 2010 by Thy Word Publishing. Used by permission of author.

Lord, I Am Made Whole By My Experiences

Wouldn't life be so much better if we could tell God how to do His job? Or maybe we could assist Him or give Him some advice on how to deal with our issues. Wouldn't we simply make sure we avoided much of the pain, sorrow, and disappointment life brought? The answer is a resounding yes! Avoiding hardship, pain, and heartache would be our primary solution in dealing with everything that life brings our way. If we could just sit back and live in complete harmony and joy, wouldn't that be wonderful? Who wouldn't want this kind of life?

Unfortunately, the world in which we live doesn't allow this type of ease. We call this kind of world imaginary, make-believe, or a fairy tale. Fairy tales are fables created for children with the illusion that the world is an ideal and wonderful place, a place, where there is no care or worry, and a place that is free or exempt from negative external influences. The truth of the matter is the world in which we live can be disappointing and cruel with plenty of let downs. Yet, depending on our attitude, the world can also be a place of limitless successes, great achievements, abundant blessings, and untold happiness. Each day that God blesses us to experience is a day in which some type of lesson is going to be taught. The question is: Are we willing to learn?

Many times we ask God, "Why? Why must we endure the things we do?" By nature, we do not embrace new experiences because most experiences require us to give something of ourselves. The truth is we don't want to give anything without a guarantee of a return. We are not willing to surrender, submit, and give God what He asks for in the midst of our circumstances.

We must remember that when we accepted Jesus Christ as our Lord and Savior, we placed ourselves under His authority, His care, and His direction. Laying down our will and yielding to God's will must come from a heart that has complete trust and confidence in His ability to sustain every situation, and resolve every conflict.

When we face a trying dilemma, our question should be, "What is God trying to say to us and teach us?" In life's experiences, if we learn the lessons that God is attempting to teach and convey to us, we will gain valuable understanding, which makes us comprehend more clearly _what_ is happening and _why_.

Oftentimes, we do not like how God picks those experiences for us. There are some experiences in life that I can't go through because God knows my makeup, temperament, and personality; the same with you. Some experiences are more difficult to handle than others; yet God, in His infinite wisdom, knows exactly the kind of experiences each of us can bear.

No Easy Way Out

As children of God, we want an easy life without interruptions and difficulties; yet we live in a world where our homes, jobs, families, government, and churches are engulfed in turmoil. We often seek the easy road to circumvent the hurdles. Hurdles hinder our progress; unfortunately, we cannot simply go around them. Whatever you are trying to evade, whatever you are plagued with, remember this: You are not the only person who has petitioned the Lord for deliverance. In the Bible, we see what the apostle Paul wrote as he pleaded for God to set him free from his situation:

" _And to keep me from being puffed up and too much elated by the exceeding greatness (preeminence) of these revelations, there was given me a thorn (a splinter) in the flesh, a messenger of Satan, to rack and buffet, and harass me, to keep me from being excessively exalted. Three times I called upon the Lord and besought [Him] about this and begged that it might depart from me; but He said to me, My grace (My favor and loving-kindness and mercy) is enough for you [sufficient against any danger and enables you to bear the trouble manfully]; for My strength and power are made perfect (fulfilled and complete) and show themselves most effective in [your] weakness"_ (2 Corinthians 12:7-9 AMP).

In this passage of Scripture, we learn that Paul suffered with a nagging, tormenting aliment that he called a "thorn." The dictionary defines a thorn as: "Something that causes pain, irritation, and discomfort." It's that annoying, frustrating, and bothersome irritant that always seems to raise its ugly head at the worst possible moment. This "thorn" is a constant, painful reminder that we still reside in the flesh; yet we attempt to live, behave, and conduct our lives by the Spirit. It's that issue that relentlessly wars against our soul. Is the apostle Paul telling us that we will live with and carry some type of thorn or nuisance all the days of our lives? It certainly gives us reason to ponder.

According to the Scriptures, Paul's thorn was given to him to keep him from becoming arrogant, conceited, and prideful because of all the awesome things God was doing in and through him. Paul could have easily developed an egotistical attitude since he was chosen to write most of the New Testament. As we know, God used Paul more than any other individual during his time. He heralds this testimony:

" _Though for myself I have [at least grounds] to rely on the flesh. If any other man considers that he has or seems to have reason to rely on the flesh and his physical and outward advantages, I have still more! Circumcised when I was eight days old, of the race of Israel, of the tribe of Benjamin, a Hebrew [and the son] of Hebrews; as to the observance of the Law I was of [the party of] the Pharisees, As to my zeal, I was a persecutor of the church, and by the Law's standard of righteousness (supposed justice, uprightness, and right standing with God) I was proven to be blameless and no fault was found with me"_ (Philippians 2:4-6 AMP).

Paul petitioned the Lord three times to remove the agonizing thorn, but God refused to honor his request. Could it be that what Paul saw as a weakness was in reality the strength of God being made perfect through his infirmity? God's response to Paul's plea is the same response He conveys to us: His grace is sufficient. Almighty God demonstrates His strength and power in what men describe as weaknesses, flaws, or disadvantages. Our weaknesses and inabilities are canvases that God uses to show His might, power, and strength. You must understand that what God is doing in and through you has nothing to do with you, but it is more so for others. We are only empty vessels that He fills with His Spirit to accomplish supernatural acts, perform miracles, and change the world.

Both Paul and the prophet Jeremiah realized that in spite of the miracles God worked through them, the focus of the praise and glory belonged to God and Him alone. As it is written, " _Let him who boasts and proudly rejoices and glories, boast and proudly rejoice and glory in the Lord_ " (I Corinthians 1:31 AMP). The Scriptures also state:

" _Thus says the Lord: Let not the wise and skillful person glory and boast in his wisdom and skill; let not the mighty and powerful person glory and boast in his strength and power; let not the person who is rich [in physical gratification and earthly wealth] glory and boast in his [temporal satisfactions and earthly] riches; But let him who glories glory in this: that he understands and knows Me [personally and practically, directly discerning and recognizing My character], that I am the Lord, Who practices loving-kindness, judgment, and righteousness in the earth, for in these things I delight, says the Lord_ " (Jeremiah 9:23-24 AMP).

All the tributes these men of faith received belonged only to the One who had called them, appointed them, and ordained them to carry out their assignments. It doesn't matter how skillful, wise, or influential one may be. Accolades mean absolutely nothing compared to the knowledge of Christ.

We must continually deal with recurring events in spite of our praying, fasting, and Bible study. There are reasons, some beyond our comprehension, which God allows thorns to remain. The apostle Paul revealed the purpose of his thorn: It was to keep him humble. Some thorns come to bring awareness of how much we must rely on and trust God. Other thorns have been placed in us as corrective methods to discipline us and to keep us tethered to His will. David proclaimed, " _It is good for me that I have been afflicted, that I might learn Your statues" (Psalms 119:71 AMP)_. Psalms 119:67 (AMP) states, " _Before I was afflicted, I went astray, Your word do I keep [hearing, receiving, loving, and obeying it._ "

If God does not allow afflictions or thorns to bother us at times, we might fail to seek Him. In order for us to remain humble and not become arrogant, God knows exactly what He needs to do to keep us from experiencing the repercussions of a haughty spirit. I'm sure David believed that the affliction was a great annoyance and brought much suffering. Later, he realized _why_ God afflicted him. Eventually, David humbly admitted that he brought the affliction on himself by his own selfish behavior.

Here, David attempts to offer insight on the cause of his affliction. First, David admits that he went astray. His affliction was divinely designed to get him back on track and on course with God's will and purpose. God will permit painful experiences to get us to align with His will, especially when we clearly lack a sense of focus. This is the primary reason the enemy places distractions in our path. Distractions are designed to derail us, to sidetrack us, and to redirect our attention, ultimately causing us to miss our mark. Distractions can create the illusion of being important issues, but in reality they aren't. They're merely illusions.

A distraction can be anything from a previous issue resurfacing to perhaps an old boyfriend, girlfriend, or business acquaintance fighting to recapture your focus. Have you ever experienced a former acquaintance calling you from out of nowhere? These kinds of distractions can trigger an emotional imbalance, causing you to entertain thoughts that are far from the truth. Distractions will take your focus from what God is doing, thereby causing confusion. The enemy knows that if he can divert your attention away from the Father, he can draw you away, causing you to meditate and ponder on things that only have the _appearance_ of reality.

Have you ever been driving, minding your own business when all of a sudden an animal dashes out in front of your vehicle? Immediately, your first response is to avoid hitting the animal by sharply veering away from it, which steers you away from your original course. Unfortunately, we are sometimes unsuccessful in our attempts, and we hit the very thing we tried so desperately to avoid. We kill "something" that didn't belong in our path. This is the same way God expects us to deal with our distractions. We must "kill" them quickly, without hesitation. Recognize the distractions for what they are and eliminate them immediately! As long as you continue pondering on the distractions by giving them your attention, they will remain.

David's affliction drew his attention back to God's statutes. He later spoke of his affliction as a good thing. What a transformation of his attitude! Most of us would not view our afflictions as good. Prior to David's troubles, it appeared that learning about God's statutes was not on his list of priorities. Afflictions, heartaches, and difficulties have an amazing way of highlighting what things matter most in life. When we begin to examine why God allows us to experience those things we consider difficult, we find that when we seek the presence of the Lord, He will begin to show us reasons why things happen the way they do.

God knows what is best for us, and He will use different methods to speak to us-methods we don't understand-to draw our attention from what we are doing and redirect it on Him. Because we can be so consumed with our own accomplishments and pursuing our own desires, we often shut God out. Was this David's mindset? Was he completely lost by planning the direction of his life and not inviting God into his decision-making? When we have gone this far, God must do something very drastic to get us to "come to our senses."

What is your thorn or affliction in life? What causes you the greatest irritation? Is it your ex who has nothing better to do than harass you? Is it someone at work who continues to nag and pester you? Is it your constant picking of the wrong mate time and time again? What experiences in your life keep recurring? The very same issues reappear, over and over, day after day, week after week, even year after year. In some cases, the same issues appear in generation after generation. These are uncomfortably familiar patterns and cycles.

"You cry out to God, can I get a reprieve, a little relief somehow, some way?" Could it be that this thorn, this nagging, annoying, persistent thorn is what God is using to draw you into His presence and closer to His heart? Maybe this thorn is really what you need to strengthen your faith; maybe, just maybe, this is what it will take to bring out the best or the Christ-likeness in you.

You may or may not like the situation you are currently in. God understands exactly how you feel and He knows you want out. However, He will _not_ abort His ultimate purpose and deliver you prematurely.

God's ways of dealing with us individually are unique. The final results are yet unseen as He guides us on these journeys. He's promised that the outcomes will definitely be greater than the beginnings if we continue to allow Him to carry us to our appointed place. Ecclesiastes 7:8 (KJV) reads, " _Better is the end of a thing than the beginning thereof._ "

There are avenues and detours we might take (or make!) as we try to maneuver ourselves out of circumstances; however, trying to find ways out of difficult situations only stifles our growth. We want to get from A to Z without the bumpy roads, flat tires, setbacks, and accidents. But in order for God to get us where we need to be, getting to Z may require pain, hurt, and disappointments. At times, our journey can bring us joy and happiness.

You ask again, "Lord, does it have to be this way?" Again, the answer is yes. God is telling you to learn from every experience, embrace every challenge, conquer every test, and move every mountain by faith. Here is how you must face every challenge: Know that you are already victorious. According to the book of John, victory is won through our faith: " _For whatever is born of God is victorious over the world; and this is the victory that conquers the world, even our faith" (I John 5:4 AMP)_.

Can you recall the worst times in your life? Can you reflect on how God handled your situations? Would you agree that you would have handled it in an easier and faster way? The answers are probably yes. For reasons beyond our own comprehension, God chooses to deal with us and our problems through long-suffering. Here is how Moses describes God:

" _The Lord is long suffering, and of great mercy, forgiving iniquity and transgression, and by no means clearing the guilty, visiting the iniquity of the fathers upon the children unto the third and fourth generation_ " (Numbers 14:18 KJV).

The dictionary defines long-suffering as "patiently enduring pain or difficulties;" it is the ability to suffer long. Moses is describing the nature and character of God, who is long-suffering and patient. God is tolerant and accommodating with us even though; He knows how long it will take us to choose and live in right-standing with Him. He will sit and wait until we get tired of the way we have chosen to live. God will not over ride our will; rather, He will allow us do what we desire, even though He knows it might kill or destroy us! Selah! Pause, think on that.

Let's look at some characteristics of God's children: lethargic, indecisive, faithless, timid, rude, procrastinating, judgmental, critical, and the list goes on. Despite God knowing how long it will take us to change, He endures our rebellion and disobedience because of His great love for us.

For many of us, God waited patiently while we were intent on destroying ourselves with drugs, alcohol, or other destructive lifestyles. Some of us have been incarcerated because we've violated the laws of the land. We've lived our lives totally contrary to the will and order of God. We have deliberately polluted our bodies by engaging in homosexuality, adultery, fornication and other forms of sexual perversion. We have completely abandoned ourselves to the filthy, lustful desires of our carnal, fleshly nature. Yet our gentle, loving Father God watches, patiently waiting for us to come to ourselves and run into the safety of His outstretched arms. David said this: " _The eyes of the Lord are in every place, beholding the evil and good" (Proverbs 15:3 KJV)._

When we were out partying and enjoying our sin, God was patiently beholding every lewd, disgusting act, listening to every curse word, and watching every foul thing we did. Yet, He waited until we had enough of what this world had to offer, and adopted us into His wonderful family, granting us rights and privileges as sons and daughters of God. If God is willing to put up with us, surely we must be willing to accept the way He chooses to purify us and bring wholeness to our lives.

You might think you are the only one in a state of anticipation, but you are not alone. God the Father is waiting on you to come to Him; waiting on you to realize your need of His guidance; waiting on you to come back home; waiting on you to come to the end of yourself. Friend, are you there? He is waiting for you to acknowledge that it's not your good deeds that are acceptable; it's your heart He requires. Are you still on the throne of your own heart? Is it still all about you? Have you gotten all of your degrees and made all of the money and still find yourself feeling empty? Have you considered God?

Prayer

Father, I come to You in the name of Your only Son Jesus Christ. I understand now the lessons You were trying to teach me. I admit I did not trust You in my situations and circumstances. I accept Your will for my life. I submit my will to Your plan and purpose. When I didn't see You carrying me, You were. I choose to walk in holiness and purity. I want to be made whole through the experiences You have allowed me to go through. Although things might get painful and I might not understand what You are doing, I choose to trust, rely and hope in You. I can't do anything apart from You.

I thank You that through my experiences, I am a better person. Lord, please help me overcome areas in my life that continue to be a problem for me.

Today's confession: I confess today that I choose to walk and live in Your plan for my life. Purify my heart, cleanse my mind, and make me complete in You. I am completely made whole by my experiences.

TO READY MORE, you may purchase **Completely Whole** by Paulette Harper at:

http://tinyurl.com/3bc36vd (ebook)

http://tinyurl.com/3novrjg (Kindle)

http://www.songsfromtheword.com/NewChristianBooks/store (PDF and paperback)

http://tinyurl.com/425euh7 (paperback)

Chapter 42: Ray W. Lincoln, INNERKINETICS TM

Reprinted from **INNERKINETICS™** , by Ray W. Lincoln. Psychology/self-help. Copyrighted 2011. Used by permission of author.

You're In Control

Determine Your Future

Men are born to succeed not fail.

\--Henry David Thoreau

For what is the best choice for each individual is the highest it is possible for him to achieve.

\--Aristotle

Does the word success make you feel queasy? Has it been contaminated with the idea that it's all about money or social status, fame or even dishonest practices? Has it become trite?

How about rescuing the word and filling it with your own meaning? What is your idea of success? Is it reaching your personal potential in a chosen field? Is it creating loving, harmonious relationships? Is it making a difference in the world for yourself and others? Perhaps, achieving a dream? Is it simply being the best you can be? Whatever it is, you must know what success is for you before you set out on the road to find it.

The very word succeed (or success) may kick start your efforts at defining it personally for you. It's a great word and comes to us from the Latin and French words that mean "to go after, to go up or to follow." Go after your passions; go up to the summit of your potential; and follow your beliefs, values, and heart, and you will define your success more effectively and optimistically.

The Wrong Definition

Maybe you've been trying to succeed by following your friend's advice, not that doing that is all bad. However, embedded in your friend's advice is their goal and their path, not yours. Make sure to define this word success for yourself. You must deliberately carve the shape of your destiny and not let circumstances or others do it for you.

At one time my success was being dictated by others. I was answering every call for help, and my own goals and needs were shunted to the back burner. I had to learn to take control of my schedule and, as a result, to take control of my life. You take control of your destiny by first defining success for yourself and then making room in your busy life for it to happen.

Your Definition of Success Must Fit

Success goals must feel as though they fit. Get rid of all the goals that you know in your heart are not yours: goals you have chosen because you are copying someone else. Perhaps you have read how someone has succeeded and you want to succeed like him or her, so you adopt his or her goal. That's a common cause of failure. Goals that fit will arise from within you, not from some other person's experience.

Maybe you've read many books on success, but still nothing has happened for you — nothing really significant, that is — or worse, you have become frustrated and wondered what it is that others seem to have that you don't have. They succeed and you don't. The fact stares at you. Perhaps you've agonized over why you can't seem to succeed like others? You seem to be different. The reason could well be that you are chasing after a hazy goal of success. If your definition of success is not clearly defined, you will not reach it. You would not know you had reached it even if you had. Clarity sharpens not only the goal but also our motivation.

Too many of those frustrating experiences increase our feelings of worthlessness. That's a real shame, since it damages our self worth and lessens our chances to achieve our goals. The attempts become increasingly counterproductive if our goals are not clear and they don't arise from within. Could following someone else's path be wrong? I think so, and I'll show you why. Each of us has an individual road to an individual goal. That's what this book is about.

Answering "Who Am I?" Leads to Better Goals

Philosophers have pondered this deep, personal question of identity from the days of Plato and even before. "Who are we?" they have asked. We are all asking for the same reason. How can we know what is the real goal for our lives if we have no idea of who we are or whether our defining of who we are is adequate?

Defining success for yourself from within means from the knowledge of self. For one of my clients, his goal was found by listening to his inner longing to bring healing and wholeness to the world. The Temperament Key confirmed his desire. Starting with the identification of this powerful drive in his temperament, he began to sculpt a goal that would be realized in stages and bring him to his highest feelings of fulfillment as he made a significant difference in healing the woes of others. He found his path.

The success for those who have discovered themselves has been remarkable, and people keep expressing happiness and relief at finding how they were made in the hidden corners of their inner being. Both finding who they are and then discovering the goal that fits this discovery is what motivates them.

This self-knowledge that you will gain is accurate too. I always hear from those I have coached, "How do you know this about me?" People are always amazed when they understand themselves and feel the relief it brings. The accuracy of the Temperament Key even surprised me early on in my practice.

Self-Verification

As we follow this proven way of self-discovery, you will see for yourself whether it fits. I promise, this book will not try to force upon you some explanation of who you are or the goal you should adopt. Rather, you must verify all conclusions for yourself, and you can do this. If you conclude that you have discovered your inner strengths after taking the Temperament Key and verifying it, read on, because I will teach you how to release those "God-given powers" within you and follow the purpose for which you were made all the way to your self defined success. You will discover not only if your temperament fits, but whether your ideas of success fit, and how and why they fit.

To be the best person, parent, leader, helper or whatever you generally desire to be, you must take this journey deep inside. As machines take over more of what we did with our hands and feet, it becomes more important to develop the strengths of our inner lives and define our goals more precisely to find success at anything. Our success in ALL things lies with an inner self understanding.

If no drum beats relentlessly within your spirit, thumping out the passion that says, "Oh, to God that I could be successful as I define success, cease to be derailed by my own weaknesses, find the power within me that drives my desires, discover and live in my own strengths, and be the best that I can be," this book is not for you — not yet.

Desires Can Help Define Success

If you are still saying, "Honestly, I don't know who I am, and that bothers me. I need to find myself before I find my goal," you are right. You will find yourself as you discover the Real You in chapters 5 through 10. Then your goals will come into sharp focus, and your definition of success will be further refined by your temperament's strengths an urges.

However, for now, consult your desires, some of which are a direct result of your inner drives, your strengths. Your desires are more "you" than the success others want for you. You will need to know your real desires anyhow. They are one important pointer to your goals and an indicator of your true inner drives. Your InnerKinetics™ produce the desires that motivate you, so there is a direct cause and effect connection.

Begin your awareness of what your true goal in life should be now by consulting your desires, and later we will test them against the real indicator, your temperament.

No doubt you have dreamed of being successful, perhaps even daydreamed about it. Your desires, as expressed in these dreams, indicate something about what you define as success for you. Do you dream of rewarding relationships or being significant or creating a perfect family? Ponder your desires and your personal definition of success — even if they seem unrealistic — and ask what it is that these dreams are telling you about your goals and the direction of your life.

Let's Start Defining Success YOUR Way

Success for one is failure for another. My ideas of success should not be forced on you, nor yours on me. So go ahead and write down what you define as your goal for success now. It will be instructive to see the changes to your definition, if any, as we go along.

Consider the following as you define success for yourself:

Is my definition of success one I got from someone else?

Is it to satisfy me or someone else?

Does it make me feel as though I will have to become someone else to achieve it?

Does it feel as though it fits?

Does it inspire me?

Is it too hazy, lacking sharply defined boundaries?

Is it an adequate goal?

Does it support my values?

My initial goal or definition of success is:

Can I Do Anything — Anything At All?

When I was young, I was told I could do anything I wanted to with my life. They didn't lie, but they did deceive me. "Can I do anything?" is the wrong question to ask. Some use this question to avoid facing the tough task of defining their goals of success. The attitude that you can do anything can lead to doing "anything." "Just follow your desires," is the in-fashion cry. However, to reach your potential you must do the homework and consult more than your desires, because when misunderstood they can seriously deceive you.

Wrong question means you will get the wrong answer. Yes, of course, you can do anything you want. That's not the answer that will lead you to personal success though. What if you want to do something for which you are not gifted? Will you be able to do it? Probably, but not to the same degree of success as someone who is truly gifted to accomplish that goal. Why would you want to fashion your life around something for which you are not designed to excel?

So your questions should be:

What's inside me?

What am I built for?

In what direction does my greatest potential lie?

Would the real me please stand up?"

TO READ MORE, you may purchase from **INNERKINETICS™** by Ray W. Lincoln at: http://amzn.to/uGfGbv (paperback).

Chapter 43: Patty Mason, Transformed by Desire: A Journey of Awakening to Life and Love

Reprinting of **Transformed by Desire: A Journey of Awakening to Life and Love,** nonfiction inspirational Christian living, by Patty Mason. Copyright 2010. Published by Liberty in Christ Ministries. Used by permission of author.

The Journey that Changes Everything

"May he give you the desires of your heart..." (Psalm 20:4).

What are the desires of your heart?

What do you yearn for? What are the longings that you ache to fill? What have you kept buried within your soul that needs to be uncovered? Everyone has desires. No matter who you are, or where you come from, you carry desire deep within your heart. But have you allowed those desires to surface? Have you shared the desires of your heart with Jesus? Have you ever answered the question: _What are the desires of my heart?_

I recall the day when this question was first presented to me. In a pre-Bible study assignment, I was asked to write a letter to Jesus and share with Him the desires of my heart. At first I thought it was an unusual request, one that I hadn't thought about before and certainly didn't expect from God. Nonetheless, I saw this question as a unique opportunity, and I took on the challenge, eager to see what God had in mind.

What are the desires of my heart? I pondered the question; and the more I thought about the possibilities, the more excited I became. Suddenly my mind began to fill with thoughts and dreams. Like a powerful wave crashing on the shoreline, the desires of my heart began to flood my soul. Some were childhood desires I had long since forgotten; others were fresh, still they were longings I had never shared with anyone. It was like a secret part of me just waiting to be revealed. Until that day, I had no idea how I had repressed the desires of my heart; but now, God was touching a place within me that begged to get out, to be set free, to spread it wings and fly.

That day, as I sat at my computer, a sense of determination arose. I wanted much. I wanted more out of life than I was getting. I wanted to love and be loved. I desired deep, significant friendships, rather than superficial relationships. I wanted to dive into the deep end of the pool...to laugh...to grow...to dance. I wanted to be free and embrace more fun in life. I wanted to know God, not just things about God. I hungered to know every line of His face and the number of hairs on His head. I yearned for meaning and a sense of purpose in my life. I wanted to have more passion, to live the life I was born again to live.

I didn't worry about how my desires surfaced. I didn't fret over whether or not they were perfect, or correct. I didn't concern myself with whether or not God would answer my letter, and give me everything I longed for. I just wrote—with great passion, I might add—about everything I wanted out of life and my relationship with Him. It was liberating.

When I finished, I folded the letter, placed it in an envelope, and tucked it in the back of my Bible study book. I didn't look at the letter again until the end of the study. On the last day, I broke open the seal and began to read those desires, the ones that easily poured from my heart several weeks earlier. To my amazement, Jesus took my requests and gave me more than I could have imagined. Tears streaked my face as I read aloud each desire that had received His touch. I couldn't believe it. Jesus took every aspiration and began to fill them. He wasn't filling my longings in exactly the way I thought He would, but He was certainly taking them beyond my wildest expectations. It was then that I received a far greater image of the God I serve. Laying my desires at Jesus' feet, and seeing Him respond to those desires, completely changed my walk with Him, and subsequently, changed my life.

Others noticed the change in me, and soon I began to share this life-altering message with other women. It was wonderful to watch the Lord move in the hearts of others, to witness the miracles of transformation as He moved each of them into deeper levels of intimacy with Jesus.

Many of them had been walking with the Lord for many years, yet they had no joy and felt spiritually dry. Once they shared with Jesus the desires of their hearts, He completely transformed them with His love, bringing floods of joy and purpose into their lives.

Another woman God brought into my life was extremely depressed; she wouldn't leave her home, and she had lost the will to live. But once she opened her heart to Jesus, He revealed to her His desire to embrace her in a loving romance. The effects of that romance transformed her life into one filled with purpose. She is now out of the house and ministering to other women who are hurting as she once was, bringing them encouragement and hope.

Another precious woman I knew was drowning in self-hatred. She felt ugly, and she thought others found her undesirable. She longed for acceptance. Once she opened her heart to Jesus, He transformed her life by revealing His heart toward her, showing her how much He loved and valued her. Now she walks with confidence, knowing she is precious and dearly loved.

As we journey together, I will continue to share stories of personal experience; stories from sojourners just like you, who experienced an awakening ignited by desire. Each one of these ladies came from a different background, dealing with varying hurts and life situations, and each one was in a different place of relationship with Jesus, when she presented her desires to Him. But, in each case, one thing was the same: none of them wanted to stay where they were. Each one was looking for more out of life and her personal walk with Jesus.

Beloved, a journey of desire means discovering the transforming power of God's love for you, as He reveals the passion of His heart to transform you into His likeness. It's the awakening of your soul and the renewing of your mind, as God unfolds the true desires He implanted deep within your heart. Therefore, open your heart and mind; share with Jesus those deep desires of longing. Dare to dream; dare to embrace the truest desires of your heart; dare to be all of whom you were created to be in Christ Jesus. Dare to answer the question: "What are the desires of my heart?"

Ask—Seek—Knock

"Ask and it will be given to you; seek and you will find; knock and the door will be opened to you. For everyone who asks receives; he who seeks finds; and to him who knocks, the door will be opened" (Matthew 7:7-8).

Ask—seek—knock. I love these intriguing words, because they awaken desire. They invite you to come and open your heart and experience the promise of something more. When God created you He implanted specific desires in your heart that only He could fill. He longs for you to open your heart and ask, so that He can help you discover those desires, bringing them out into the light of His love. For example, in the story of the two blind men, Jesus said to them, "What do you want me to do for you?"(Matthew 20:32). Jesus already knew what these men needed, but He wanted them to express their desire to receive their sight.

Just like these blind men, you, too, need to express to Jesus the desires of your heart, even the ones you may have kept buried since childhood. Jesus longs for you to open your heart and offer Him your deepest desires. Like a little child, He beckons you to come and freely give Him that part of yourself.

As children, we are full of dreams and desires, and, as children, we feel a freedom to express ourselves—a liberty that bursts with delight and a playfulness that is unhindered. Unfortunately, as we travel along this road called "life" we lose that freedom. We become burdened with heartache, worries and problems that drown our desires. We become filled with the things that keep us bound and chained to a life of emptiness. We were created for more, much more, but in order to experience all God has in mind, we must come with the heart of a child (Matthew 18:3).

Hear Jesus say to you: "Ask and it will be given to you; seek and you will find; knock and the door will be opened to you. For everyone who asks receives; he who seeks finds; and to him who knocks, the door will be opened" (Matthew 7:7-8).

It is an incredible thought, but Jesus is waiting and greatly yearning to fill your truest desires. But, many times, you don't receive because you don't ask. James 4:2-3 says, "You want something but don't get it. You do not have, because you do not ask God. When you do ask, you do not receive, because you ask with wrong motives, that you may spend what you get on your pleasures." Beloved, if you want to receive the truest desires of our hearts you must be joined to God in a loving relationship and bold enough to ask for what you crave. You need to be willing to let go of fear and unbelief, and trust Him completely; then, you shall receive what you asked for in prayer (see John 15:7).

In our prayer lives, we ask the Lord for many things, good things; but we don't ask Him for what He truly longs to shower upon us—the best of all things, the richness of Himself. Strive for something of greater worth than gold (see Psalm 73:25). God is not Santa Claus, available to grant your every request, but He does long to fill the voids in your heart. He wants to give you what only He can give you.

I have been given the privilege of some of the most unimaginable riches of intimacy with Christ because I asked, sought after Him and knocked. Allow me to encourage you to do the same. In Matthew 7:11 Jesus told His followers that the Father gives good gifts to those who ask Him. Therefore, ask—seek—knock.

To aid you on your journey, at the end of each section, I have given you journaling opportunities to share the desires of your heart with Jesus. You may not be a writer. You may not like to write, but I believe that if you make the effort to save the moments that you share with Christ, He will help you to store those moments like precious pieces of gold and silver. Through this process, you will also be able to look back and see how the Lord responded to the desires you laid before Him.

Journal Response

So, let's get started. Seek Him, knock, ask and believe. Tell Jesus your deepest desires, even the ones you may have kept buried. Come with the heart and expectancy of a child. Be bold. Be specific, and lay those desires before Him.

Dear Jesus,

The desires of my heart are...

The Journey of a Lifetime Begins with Desire—yours and God's.

"Delight yourself in the LORD and He will give you the desires of your heart" (Psalm 37:4).

As you walk with Jesus through this journey of desire, make it your pursuit to delight the heart of God, and give Him the room to share with you the desires of His heart. Jesus has desires too; therefore, be willing to ask Him the same question, "Lord, what are the desires of Your heart?" If you open your heart, He will share His passions with you. He will make Himself known to you in a very real and special way, revealing His glory, His life and His love in your life.

The journey of a lifetime begins with desire—yours and God's. Therefore turn toward Jesus; give Him the opportunity to share with you the desires of His heart, as He continues to invite you to share the desires of yours. As He responds to you in each chapter, revealing the longings of His heart, take the time to respond back to Him. Make good use of those journals; take every occasion to connect with Jesus through pure desire—yours and His.

Don't worry about want others may think or say. Your journey of desire with Jesus is a personal one, customized to your specific needs and longings. Do not compare yourself, or your journey, with any others. Do not become upset if your journey is not a carbon copy of the one I share in this book.

Each journey is a unique relationship—a personal dance. Jesus responds to each of us individually. He knows what will move our hearts in-line with His own. There can be common experiences for those who are in tune with Christ; but based on individual backgrounds, personal hurts and rejections, levels of hunger, and commitment to Christ, experiences will vary.

For some, once they made the decision to ask, seek, and knock with their whole heart, the transformation came rapidly. For others, the changes and revelations came slowly—more gradually. That's okay. Don't get frustrated. Christ knows your heart, and He understands the longings of your soul. Give Him the room to move freely; unhindered and without any preconceived notions of what this journey is supposed to look like, or how it will turn out. Let go, and let God reveal to you the desires of His heart, as He births the desires in yours.

Jesus, help me to...so that our journey is...

The desire of my heart is...

TO READ MORE, you may purchase Transformed by Desire: A Journey of Awakening to Life and Love by Patty Mason at:

http://libertyinchrist.net/

http://amzn.to/rA3kKr (paperback).

Chapter 44: Kimberley Payne, Fit for Faith – 7 Weeks to Improved Spiritual & Physical Health

"Reprinted **from Fit For Faith, 7 Weeks To Improved Spiritual & Physical Health**, by Kimberley Payne. Copyright 2007 by WITHIN REACH. Christian self-help. Used by permission of author.

Welcome,

**Fit for Faith** is a unique workbook program. In addition to learning about the three components of fitness – cardiovascular exercise, strength training and stretching – your relationship with God will be strengthened through daily prayer, Scripture reading and daily journal writing.

God created you as a whole person, therefore take care of your whole self, not just the individual parts. A direct relationship exists between physical, emotional and spiritual health. A healthy body gives you the energy and enthusiasm to carry out the purposes that God has for your life. Practicing healthy living glorifies God.

This workbook is an invitation for you to discover for yourself the joys of treating your body with respect, learning to love yourself and connecting with God on a deeper level. You are invited to take a fresh physical and spiritual attitude on a daily basis.

You will learn that God truly cares. He is personal and He is intimate. God does listen to your prayers and is there for you. When you rely on God totally, for everything – including such things as losing a few pounds – He will bless you. God loves you and He wants you to love yourself. He did not create you to look at your body in disgust, but rather God saw all that He had made, and it was very good (Genesis 1:31).

Each day, follow the outline provided and start with a simple prayer. Read the question in the reflection section and write your own response. At the end of the day, answer the three questions about your activity and healthy eating habits. Test your knowledge with the myth. Finally, close each day by meditating on the scripture verse.

The Fit for Faith Review is a personal record of your week. It is a self-evaluation tool that reflects your strengths and defines areas that need improvement.

You need to be faithful about doing something each day in order to realize the full potential of God's plan for you. You are invited to develop physical well-being and grow spiritually to deepen your relationship with God. Prayer, Bible study and journal writing are to your spirit what exercise, healthy eating and stretching are to your body.

Blessings on your journey to health!

* * *

Exercise your body + Exercise your spirit

Cardiovascular exercise & Strength training + Prayer

Think of exercise as either cardiovascular activity or strength training. Cardiovascular activity helps you to increase energy and keep moving. It is good for your heart, lungs and circulatory system. Strength training (also known as weightlifting) helps you keep your bones and muscles strong, reduces bone loss and improves balance and posture.

Prayer helps you to enter into a spiritual communion with God.

What cardiovascular exercise and strength training do for building a strong body, prayer does to build spiritual strength. Your body requires exercise and food, and it needs these things regularly. You cannot just take care of it at the beginning of the week and forget about it. Your spiritual life is similar to your physical body in that way. You cannot pray just once and have a healthy, growing spiritual life.

In strength training, you start by lifting small weights, and as you grow stronger, you can lift heavier weights. It is the same with prayer. You start by praying a short amount of time, and then as your desire grows you can spend time in prayer every day.

Just as exercise strengthens your body, prayer strengthens your spirit. Similarities between exercise and prayer include:

To be physically and spiritually healthy requires discipline. You need to practice both daily and use this strength or you will lose it.

The effects can be both immediate and/or long term. You may see the results right away or the effects can be cumulative.

Both exercise and prayer improve balance in your life, improve your quality of life and boost your mood.

With a pure motive, both delight God.

Exercise your body
What it is

Don't you know that you yourselves are God's temple and that God's Spirit lives in you (1 Corinthians 3:16)?

Exercise rejuvenates your body. Cardiovascular exercise equips you to sustain an activity for a long period of time. It causes you to breathe more deeply and work your heart harder. When you are strength training you use resistance to strengthen your muscles.

What it is not

Cardiovascular exercise is not only going to the gym and participating in an aerobics class. It does not make any difference whether you go to a gym or what equipment you use. Try to figure out where activity fits into your life. Any physical activity is better than no exercise. You need to do only about 30 minutes of moderate exercise daily and that half-hour can accumulate in shorter pieces.

Strength training is not only for men or for younger people. Women of any age can also benefit, particularly those most likely to suffer from osteoporosis.

Benefits of exercise

Elevates mood

Improves balance and mobility

Maintains a healthy weight

Increases energy level

Builds strength and tones muscles

A pure motive delights God

Discover the many benefits to exercise, including feelings of accomplishment and well-being, increased energy, reduced stress and improved sleep patterns.

Research indicates that activity reduces the risk of heart disease, falls and injuries, obesity, high blood pressure, adult onset diabetes, osteoporosis, stroke, depression, colon cancer and premature death. The U.S. Surgeon General has determined that lack of physical activity is as detrimental to your health as smoking a pack of cigarettes a day.

Regular cardiovascular exercise (aerobic exercise) helps you burn calories faster, even when you are sitting still. It does this by raising your metabolism (the rate you burn calories) up to 15 hours after exercising.

Strength training (weight lifting) helps you to better deal with everyday tasks, improves posture, increases firmness of muscles, and helps prevent osteoporosis. It also helps you build muscle so that even if you do not lose pounds, you may lose inches.

You need to include both cardiovascular exercise as well as strength training into your exercise program.

Exercise strategies that work

Take it slow and steady

Remember that fitness is not a "quick fix." With a lifestyle change you may experience setbacks and plateaus. Think of this program as a start to a whole new lifestyle.

Schedule exercise in

Take an honest look at how you spend your days. Schedule exercise in your daily planner just as you would a business meeting or a doctor's appointment.

Track your progress

Keep a chart of your progress and take notice of small improvements.

Follow the 10-minute rule

Decide to do only ten minutes of exercise and then you can stop if you want. Generally, once you start exercising you will not want to stop.

Team up with a friend

A partner can make workouts more fun and push you to try harder. You will be more likely to stick to your plan if you have a partner. Join a walking club, a sports team or an aerobics class.

Do something else at the same time

You can read or listen to books on tape while riding a stationary bike. You can also watch television, listen to music, talk to God or think about a Scripture reading. If outdoors, carry a trash bag with you and collect garbage along the road or trail.

Create space

Create an area to call your own and make exercise so accessible that you have no excuse. Buy some low-priced equipment: an exercise bike, a resistance band, a set of dumbells, a stretching mat, a jump rope and an exercise video.

Look the part

Put on workout clothes – do not just change into running shoes. If you look the part, you will feel the part. Keep workout clothes in the car or beside the front door.

Time it right

Remember, if you do not have the time for a full workout each day, break down your workouts into three or four smaller chunks of ten minutes each. You can do different things in each of these times.

Vary your routine

You may be less likely to get bored or injured if you change your routine. Walk one day and bicycle the next.

Have fun

Take the "work" out of workouts. Try something new and experiment until you find one that you like doing. The best fitness plan is one that you can easily include in your busy schedule and not just another thing to add to your "to-do" list. Give thought to activities you enjoyed as a child, a teenager and as an adult.

Celebrate goals reached

Every time you reach a goal, celebrate. Reward ideas may include making a long-distance phone call, treating yourself to a long bubble bath, getting a pedicure, facial or massage, buying an extravagant bouquet, or subscribing to an exercise magazine.

Make fitness a family activity

Plan a weekend hike, sign up for line-dancing together, coach your child's sports team, go ice-skating at the local community centre, plan a canoeing vacation, take an after-dinner walk, sign up for a mother-and-child exercise class, or go sledding together.

Learn to include simple activities into your daily routine. Park your vehicle over a block away from work. Once at work, favor the stairs over the elevator. Pull out your bicycle and ride to pick up your mail. Roller-blade around the neighborhood with the family dog. Hike through the fields and pick wild flowers to make floral arrangements for gifts. Join the children after school for a session of jump rope skipping or smash a birdie over the backyard badminton net.

If your schedule is full of everyone else's extra-curricular activities, incorporate personal fitness during these times. For example, kick the ball around the field at your child's soccer tournament. Or toss a ball on the sidelines at your spouse's baseball game. You may want to help out a worthy cause by joining a walk-a-thon. A mother-child walk is an example of one way to combine fitness with family bonding.

Walking is one of the most flexible and relaxing activities. You do not need any special equipment or skills – just a good pair of shoes and sensible clothing. You can do it anywhere and any time with a friend or by yourself. Walking offers less risk of injury, with many of the benefits of more strenuous activities.

Sample

Day 24: January 8, 2012

Prayer

Dear God – I pray that You instill in me a responsibility to care for my body, to nourish and sustain it. In Jesus' name, I pray.

Reflection

What events are coming up in your life that may require pre-planning?

My sister's wedding. I plan to keep a drink of water in my hand at all times so that I don't pick at the buffet with a free hand. I plan to not stand near the buffet table. I plan to fill up on healthy choices first.

Exercise

What type of activity did you participate in today?

Walking: 45 minutes

Strength: program B - 30 minutes

Flexibility: video 15 minutes

Healthy Eating

What healthy food choices did you make today?

I ate one extra piece of fruit today

How many glasses of water did you drink today?

8 glasses

Fit Tip

Myth: If you exercise a lot you need to have extra protein in your diet.

Fact: Most people get more than enough protein in their diet. The average person, even if she exercises a lot, does not need a high-protein powder, drink, tablet, capsule or bar. Feeding your body more protein than it needs won't help. Excess protein is converted to energy and then burned up or stored as fat.

Bible Truth

The Lord is not slow in keeping his promise, as some understand slowness. He is patient with you, not wanting anyone to perish, but everyone to come to repentance. (2 Peter 3:9)

Day: Each day record the date at the top of the page.

Prayer: A prayer has been written for you. You may read this prayer, reflect and meditate on it, or you may choose to offer your own prayer to God

Reflection: You are offered a question to meditate on and respond to, or you may be more in the mood to write about your own experiences.

Exercise: Record the type of activity that you do, the time and intensity. This is an awareness program that holds you accountable to active living.

Healthy Eating: Each day, you will be asked about what healthy food choices you made that day and the amount of water that you drank.

Fit Tip: Each day offers a fit tip to dispel common health and fitness myths

Bible Truth: A verse from Scripture is provided for you to keep you in the Word. Ask God to reveal truths and speak to your heart through the readings.

TO READ MORE, you can purchase Fit For Faith, 7 Weeks To Improved Spiritual & Physical Health by Kimberley Payne at:

http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/49552 (ebook)

http://tinyurl.com/3vprlxc (Kindle)

http://tinyurl.com/3qzqjed (paperback)

Chapter 45: Scott M. Shafer, Receiving Authority

Reprinted from **Receiving Authority** , religion and spirituality, by Scott M. Shafer. Copyright 2011 Smashwords Edition. Religion and Spirituality. Used by permission of author.

" _And the Lord will cause the voice of His authority to be heard"_ (Is. 30:30a NASB).

As I finish this manuscript, much of North Africa and particularly Egypt, Libya and other nations are in chaos. Protestors have demanded that Hosni Mubarak after being in power for some thirty years as the "dictator" of Egypt, step down from his position and rule over the nation. In light of what you will be reading throughout this book, it is of particular interest to observe these events unfolding in Egypt and other countries that have experienced the oppressive rule of governments and regimes such as Mubarak's and Muammar Gaddhafi's.

The scriptures tell us that the natural things speak of the spiritual. These uprisings speak to me of a profound intolerance of people to accept self-serving, unjust, corrupt and oppressive authority. At this point in time the sentiment seems to be spreading to other countries in North Africa and the Middle East and no doubt striking fear into the hearts of leaders who have held their position by such tactics as fear, intimidation, murder and corruption. This all reveals important lessons for the topic of authority and how it is expressed of which we will undertake in this book.

By way of introduction, I would like to give a little background as to how this message has come about. First, it is born out of the initiative of God and second it is my personal conviction that the topic of authority is far too little understood, or perhaps even better said, largely misunderstood (and therefore misapplied) today. At the very least, these kinds of mindsets and other erroneous ideas about authority cloud the truth. I have wrestled as to the title of the book, whether I should call this work, Understanding Authority instead. This certainly would sum up what I hope to accomplish by writing it, if indeed the reader begins to experience new light and the illumination of the topic of authority by the Spirit of God.

Admittedly, it is a long-term process to gain greater awareness and sensitivity to the subject matter of authority. I have reflected on the topic now for some seven years since the time the Holy Spirit first began working this message into me. That is a conservative estimate of the amount of time since I first began zeroing in on and thinking about the whole of the topic matter of authority. In retrospect I now recognize how God, at given points in time had been planting seeds in me over the last two decades or so as part of this unique process. It has personally been an ongoing discovery of the topic of authority by means of experience, study, observation and reflection.

This book is also an aspect of the revealing and unfolding of a vision ultimately for the release of greater measures of authority in and upon the whole universal and global body of Christ. More specifically, it is a vision for recovering (perhaps 'ancient' or 'old' are not inappropriate terms to be included here) true authority in relation to the gift of prophecy in the new covenant context. The vision is for this kind of authority increasing in and upon communities and individuals who value the demonstration of the works of God, prophecy, and seek to hear the voice of God in the various ways that He speaks in the present day.

The goal or end result of this vision is for the glory of God (Rev.19:10) first and foremost, and only second, is to have a greater and more effective impact and spiritual influence. This impact being accomplished by means of demonstrating the works (and the greater works promised) of Jesus, the supernatural of God and through prophecy in their geographical region and unique sphere of influence; be it in families, relationships, business, government, or the church.

Warnings and Discernment

Our safety from abuse is obviously in relationships and for every member to be abiding in Jesus, the Head of the body who Himself is revealed as being full of grace and truth. Remember what the apostle John wrote, that "you have received an anointing from the Holy One and that anointing teaches you all things" (1 John 2:27).

In the case of how scripture uses the terminology of what is "false" we must understand that it is generally pointing to someone or something with an evil intent to deceive. Deceit and deception in this case is malevolent. Deception can happen in various ways and on various levels but these references of warning are plain about the issue of a clear intent that leads one away from the person of Jesus Christ, the Head.

As one such leader, theologian and former pastor with a wonderful mind that I respect, has said to me, (simple yet profound), "just because something is spiritual does not mean that it is of God". I have reflected on this statement quite a bit, curiously considering why he even made that statement to me.

Many today with the 'supernatural' in vogue err in that it is self focused, sensational, puffing up the mind and bearing little if any lasting fruit in other's lives or related to the Kingdom of God. We must guard against these types of subtle yet clearly recognizable abuses. It shifts our focus away from Jesus Christ.

My hope in doing this kind of examination is not to be unnecessarily critical of experiences, nor suspicious as such, but simply to grow stronger in distinguishing what is truly of God and what is the right thing to do with what is of Him.

There is a fine line between suspicion and true discernment. Suspicion is born out of the mind, out of fear, criticism, opinion and a calloused negativity. Discernment is of the Spirit, pure and untainted by any exterior bias or influence other than the revelation of the Spirit of God. Furthermore, I want to separate what is quite possibly not of God. As time progresses to its prophesied end, it is essential that we attend to these kinds of details for the purpose of safety.

"And without controversy great is the mystery of godliness: God was manifested in the flesh, justified in the Spirit, seen of angels, preached unto the Gentiles, believed on in the world, and received up into glory" (1 Tim. 3:16) "emphasis mine".

Exploring Authority

Authority is especially relevant in this time or season in world history for numerous reasons. One, notably, is due to the revelation of increasing lawlessness (referring to the world) in the last days (Matt. 24:12). Please understand me when I am referring to lawlessness that I am not advocating that believers live any other way than totally and completely under grace with no mixture of the law. Yet, as I have mentioned, authority seems to me to be greatly misunderstood, ignored and, tragically, the topic appears even to be resisted. We will discuss how that abuses and twisted doctrine as such contribute to people resisting the topic all together and as it were shutting it out of their consciousness. Unfortunately, this negative kind of response leads us to not experiencing the fullness of the inheritance that God has for us as His people. Perhaps because authority is not considered much or well thought through it therefore represents a topic largely neglected and therefore a severely limited perspective remains within many circles. This limited perspective unfortunately leads to confusion and an embracing of flawed mindsets and incomplete paradigms by default.

The spirit of the anti-Christ, which operates to reduce the person of Jesus to a lesser status than He truly possesses, is no doubt a major contributor to this ever-increasing lawlessness in the world. Lawlessness is described in scripture as sin (written to Gnostics), or in other words all sin is lawlessness (1 John 3:5). As the Spirit is poured out and revival spreads in the earth, we can expect that God will be deeply interested in a people progressively becoming a more pure representation of Him via a pure expression of and dependency on the eternal and finished work of the cross of Christ. We can surely expect a work of the abundance of grace being on the heart of God in this next move and outpouring of the Spirit. We might be tempted to think because we have heard the message of grace before that it is basic. This is part of the transition we will experience as we all are receiving the Spirit of God in new ways and dimensions.

Extremes

It seems to me that at least two extremes exist today in the church at large. One, tragically, is the abuse of authority. Jesus needed to address this with His immediate followers in His earthly ministry, to establish a new and distinctive kind of person and demonstration of authority in light of the Kingdom of God. He did this by way of contrast of genuine servanthood with the view of authority that the Gentiles exercised and demonstrated. As a tree produces fruit after its kind (Gen.1: 11), so authority produces fruit after its kind. Some to abuse, such as control and some to a self-less, no strings attached true and genuine servanthood/authority.

Ye know that the princes of the Gentiles exercise dominion over them, and they that are great exercise authority upon them. But it shall not be so among you: but whosoever shall be great among you, let him be your minister; And whosoever will be chief among you, let him be your servant: Even as the Son of Man came not to be ministered unto, but to minister, and to give his life a ransom for many (Matt.20: 25-28)

It shouldn't surprise us that we too will encounter abusive expressions and misrepresentations of authority in today's current church culture. That is not to say that it is in any way acceptable, nor should we tolerate it. There may be numerous explanations for this troublesome condition, and we will seek to address this by examining more closely the nature of the abuse of authority and why it continues to exist at all within the church as a whole. This is one area we cannot afford to dismiss, overlook or oversimplify by giving cliché explanations. To be fair, and by way of contrast, we must not confuse styles of leadership with abuse. Various styles of leadership will express their personality, and their way of leading uniquely, which might by some be mistaken for abuse.

The second extreme that I have observed is the common belief and erroneous assumption that because Jesus has been given "all authority in Heaven and in Earth" (Matt. 28:18) that we too as His followers, or those 'in Christ', by default also then have authority over everything.

We could safely say that this incomprehensible, eternal and infinite measure of heavenly and earthly authority is reserved for Jesus exclusively and not for everyone to possess. That is not to say that we don't have access to the abundant measures of authority Jesus Christ gives for the purposes of the Kingdom of God that He has defined and ordained. As Jesus himself said to his disciples "you can do nothing apart from me" (Jn. 15:5).

That said, I do think there are much higher levels of authority present in the anointing and in the outpouring of the Spirit for the church and all it's various functions. My concern is the flawed logic that this extreme position previously mentioned represents and the largely ineffective and, perhaps spiritually dangerous, practices it promotes.

Intercession seems to be at least one place where many carry their wrong ideas of authority into potentially harmful and damaging approaches to spiritual warfare. We must seek to rightly understand the exclusive authority given to Jesus Christ the only begotten Son of the Father.

Trying to Kill a Bee with an Axe

This model and extreme example of flawed thinking and its practices were brought to my attention in a dream some years ago. Without going into the detail of the whole dream, I will share the relevant aspects that highlighted a remarkable truth. Let me first summarize the dream.

I walked into a beautiful large old building characterized by beautiful old wood inside. I was told very directly, as if a strong command, by a voice that I knew to be the owner of the building (whom I did not see) that I had twenty minutes to speak. By the tone of this voice it was as if I did not have a choice. I began to consider what I was going to speak about. I did not arrive to the building expecting or thinking I was there for a speaking engagement. It had caught me completely by surprise.

I was up in the main auditorium, and former President George W. Bush came into the meeting with secret service agents near him as he was passing through the crowd. As I sat alone thinking of what I was going to speak on, President Bush walked so close to me I could feel him brush by my right shoulder. I felt him first then I looked up seeking to respond to what I had so clearly and uniquely felt.

After this I had noticed a folding table in the distance with numerous and various colored sticky note pads on it. I went to the table and began to reach out my right hand to take a sticky note pad to write some of my thoughts or main points on what I would speak about. This was a large auditorium and many people were in attendance, the energy level was high and so I had to quickly prepare. As I reached for the sticky notes, a bee painfully stung me on my right hand index finger. I pulled my hand back immediately. There were a number of people who were standing around this table. Out of this crowd of people around the table, a man jumped out with a long handled axe and began to swing the axe wildly back and forth trying to kill the bee that had just stung me.

I realized later that the bee and its sting in this case represented an aspect of very strategic and specific attack of spiritual warfare. The man swinging the axe represented a type of practice that I believe is found today of ineffectiveness, dangerous thinking and an act of profound non-sense. What this man did not only endanger him but also the many other innocent bystanders who were near this table.

This is exactly the type of "spiritual warfare" activity that takes place when flawed thinking on authority comes into play. It becomes like "trying to kill a bee with an axe". This represented a warning to me about some of the practices of those "beating the air" as it were.

Where Are We Headed?

My goal in sharing some of these concepts that I have been meditating on for some years now does not include covering every single aspect of authority. Primarily, we will be dealing with some common misconceptions about authority. We will be looking to re-examine scripture and more current revelation to hopefully gain the Holy Spirit's renewal, illumination and perspective in order to inform our knowledge, practice and application of higher levels of authority. I am limiting myself to only cover the aspects of authority that I feel are the points that God has been highlighting to me and directing me to rethink and focus on.

For example, it is not my intent to cover things such as civil authority or subjection in the church, relationally or in marriage. though these are worthy topics for consideration. That said, it is difficult to isolate one area of authority and not cover another area. I will refer to these previously mentioned aspects from time to time. It is not my intent to do an exhaustive examination of them but to only give clarification, definition, and refer to them by way of example. Let's together prayerfully move forward by seeking God's light on His word and on our own thoughts about the release of greater authority.

TO READ MORE, you can purchase Receiving Authority by Scott M. Shafer at http://amzn.to/mVgQ29 (Kindle).

Chapter 46: Joyce Schneider, Sticks and Stones May Break My Bones But Words Can Kill My Spirit

Reprinted from **Sticks and Stones May Break My Bones but Words Can Kill My Spirit** , an inspirational creative nonfiction book by Joyce Schneider. Copyright 2011 by Tate Publishing Company. Used by permission of the author.

The Stuff That Gets Stuck Inside

I was talking to my sister on the phone one day and she was telling me about an acquaintance of hers who jumped from the Skyway Bridge in St. Petersburg that afternoon. Then she asked me, "What would cause someone to do such a thing?"

I did have an answer for her, in fact, it was just one word.

Hopelessness...

When a woman loses her hope, well, she loses her desire for life. And this poor woman took that one step farther and actually ended her own life.

As I talked with my sister, trying to comfort her, my thoughts kept returning to my own days of hopelessness. How many times had I considered taking my own life?

Sometimes it was simply a fleeting thought. Other times a plan was actually conceived, but, for whatever reason, never found completion, thank the Lord. Drawing from my own experience, the one word that was at the root of such discouragement and depression is hopelessness.

Despondent is a synonym of hopelessness and this description pretty much says it all: "Despondent always suggests melancholy and depression; it refers to an emotional state rather than to an intellectual judgment," Webster's Dictionary tells us. It is an emotional reaction, not an intelligent assessment.

So the question arises again, how does a person get so emotionally overwhelmed that she is willing to give up everything, including her own life?

I actually have an idea as to how that can happen.

We get lies or false beliefs stuck inside of us that can distort our vision. We don't see life as it really is, rather we see the world through a veil of deception, and this causes serious problems in all areas of our lives. And the saddest part of this is we don't even know we are being deceived.

My hope in writing this book is to help others realize that it's natural to have lies stuck inside us; the world is a very cruel place. It loves nothing better than to beat us up, but it's very important to understand this concept and get to the root of the deception, the sooner the better.

I like to use this illustration in explaining this concept. Imagine that you were shot with a BB gun when you were a small child, and the BB was lodged in your calf. For whatever reason, you chose to leave that BB in your body. Maybe you were afraid if you told your mother you were playing with a BB gun, the consequences of that would outweigh leaving the BB inside of you, in your mind.

After some time had passed, the wound entrance would heal and no one would really know that you carried a BB around in your leg. But your body would know it; your leg would not function properly, and before long that BB would fester inside of you. Eventually it would cause serious damage to your leg and possibly the rest of your body.

That BB must come out for you to be whole. It will be painful removing the BB, and you will have an open wound for a time, but one day the leg will be completely healed if the BB is removed.

The same holds true of the lies that get stuck inside us. The lie might be something as innocent as your brother calling you fat when you were a child, something that is quite common in sibling relationships. But that lie, that you are fat, might find a home inside you and create a lifelong issue of eating disorders for you.

Or maybe you were molested as a teenager, and the shame and guilt of that travesty follows you throughout your life, destroying any chance of a true, meaningful relationship.

There are so many scenarios that illustrate this point, I could not begin to list them all, but what I can say is this: each one of us has struggled with bad habits, hurts, and hang-ups, and these negative behaviors and emotional states are often the result of some falsehood that we've allowed to control our emotions and thoughts, which then interfered with our healthy mental and spiritual development.

I believe that once we remove the original root lie or issue, we can begin the healing process to become whole—emotionally, spiritually, and even physically. Because our physical body houses our emotions, it would only be natural that once our emotions are based on what is true and are no longer a destructive force, our physical bodies would have the opportunity to be healed as well.

This book isn't filled with scientific jargon. I've never been able to read that stuff, so I most certainly can't write it. But what it is filled with is personal experience—why I believe what I believe and the positive results that I've experienced in my own life by rooting out the lies and letting Jesus heal my hurts once and for all.

This journey towards healing all started one evening by a simple statement on my part, followed by a personal observation. "I'm fine."...

But...if I'm fine, why do I feel so empty inside?

Have you ever voiced those thoughts? Do you wonder what is wrong with you? You know you're not right inside, but you have no clue what is wrong. I spent so much of my life saying, "I'm fine," that I actually began to believe it. And why not? My mind was filled with one lie after another to the point that I could not even begin to decipher the truth.

And the really crazy part of it all is I am a normal, (well somewhat normal) wife, mother, friend, Christian. I am the girl next door, the soccer mom, the Sunday school teacher. I am just like you (maybe a little shorter).

It all started when I realized that I was living a lie. I wasn't fine, but I had no idea why I was so miserable inside. I knew the Lord, and I was on fire to learn all I could about him, but it seemed like regardless of the head knowledge I was acquiring, I remained tormented inside and felt as though I was living in a vacuum.

One day Bobby finally asked me, "Joyce, how long are you going to be like this?" I didn't have to ask him what he was talking about. I simply shrugged and answered, "I don't know."

I was living in a state of anguish. I didn't know why, but I needed to know. I wasn't being a good mother to my boys, a good wife to my husband or a good follower of Jesus. I began to seriously ponder my life, and I finally realized part of what was going on. I was still suffering terrible grief over two prior miscarriages, and I had unrelenting shame and guilt built up inside that had been festering for almost twenty years over things in my past. I had lived a very wild life before I was married. I was drinking and doing drugs at age fifteen.

When I went away to college, I started sleeping with guys. I found myself pregnant and alone at age twenty-five. I really didn't know what to do; I just knew I needed to be un-pregnant, so I ended up in an abortion clinic one morning, ending my baby's life.

I knew in my head that was the wrong thing to do, but I wasn't thinking clearly. Drugs, alcohol, and a constant stream of men in my life had really taken their toll on my emotional and mental state. I made many wrong decisions during this season of my life, but the abortion seemed to be the one thing that I could never forgive myself for.

It constantly ate at my spirit and my mind, although I would never discuss it with anyone. It was my secret sin that ate away a bit more of my soul each and every day. I realized I needed help and that I wasn't going to be able to pretend this away, and I confessed to a good friend that I was still suffering extreme grief from my past miscarriages, although at that point, I still wasn't ready to share my abortion story with her.

My friend suggested we meet for prayer, and we simply asked God to reveal to me what was holding me back from having true peace and joy in my life.

What was the band-aid on my emotions covering up?

The last thing I really wanted to do was sit down with someone and spill my guts, but I was desperate for help, and when we are desperate, we do uncomfortable things. But because I stepped out of my comfort zone, I was able to experience God's healing power in my life, true healing not the pretend I'm fine variety that I was so used to portraying.

You see, I had confessed my sins to Jesus when I accepted him as my Savior, and I knew he forgave me. But I was so filled with guilt and shame over my past that I had never forgiven myself; I had never allowed God's forgiveness to penetrate my heart, never allowed the healing process to begin.

But that night during prayer time, the disgusting band aid of self-condemnation that I had let cover me for so long was finally ripped off. I felt as if a great weight was lifted from me! Chains were broken. I was set free! I went home that night, opened my Bible and came upon a verse that says, "Come near to God and He will come near to you." (James 4:8)

I knew that was true; as I came nearer, God would be there for me. This was the beginning of my quest for truth within. It's been an interesting journey, though admittedly, a painful one. It hurts to dig out those BBs, and just when I thought they were all out, another one would begin to surface.

But what I've learned through the process is this: We must root out the lies; we must let Jesus heal our hurts, if we are to live happy, healthy lives for him.

Jesus did not die on that cross for us to limp through this life, to be defeated and discouraged and hopeless, to throw ourselves off bridges or overdose on drugs or hide behind the façade of I'm fine. No, he came so that we might have come that they may have life, and have it to the full. (John 10:10)

My prayer for you is that as you read through this story, you will examine your own life and start asking the Holy Spirit to reveal the root of your issues, to show you if there are lies distorting your vision or BBs stuck inside you, hindering your healing. And once those lies are revealed, I pray the Holy Spirit helps you to understand how to replace them with God's truth so that you can live a healthy, whole, productive life for him.

Some of these stories are painful to share. But I've found through my journey that if I share my experiences, I always find others going through similar challenges. And when these people hear that someone else is as messed up or more messed up than they are, well, somehow that just helps.

It helps us to see how the enemy can use innocent statements to distort our thinking and play with our emotions. And how, by placing truth in front of those lies, they immediately vanish.

Someone once asked me how these results could happen so quickly. I know it sounds too good to be true, but think about this scenario:

Suppose you are taking a walk and up ahead you see a snake on the path. Your heart would probably start beating rather quickly. I know I would be shaking. But as you get closer, you realize that the snake is really just a branch that blew off a nearby tree; it cannot harm you. Immediately, the fear of the snake vanishes. Your belief that a snake was lying in your path was based on faulty understanding, and when the truth is revealed, the fear is immediately dispelled.

The same concept applies to the lies inside us—when they are replaced with truth, the veil of deception is lifted, the BBs are removed, and healing can begin.

Yes...there is hope for us. And his name is Jesus!

The happiness which brings enduring worth to life is not the superficial happiness that is dependent on circumstances. It is the happiness and contentment that fills the soul even in the midst of the most distressing circumstances and the most bitter environment. It is the kind of happiness that grins when things go wrong and smiles through the tears. The happiness for which our souls ache is one undisturbed by success or failure, one which will root deeply inside us and give inward relaxation, peace, and contentment, no matter what the surface problems may be. That kind of happiness stands in need of no outward stimulus.

—Billy Graham

TO READ MORE, you can purchase **Sticks and Stones May Break My Bones but Words Can Kill My Spirit** by Joyce Schneider at:

http://tinyurl.com/3he5lzh (Kindle)

http://tinyurl.com/3v4p7k5 (paperback)

Chapter 47: Yvonne Pat Wright, From Spice to Eternity, Discovering the Main Ingredient to a Life of Fulfillment and Purpose

Reprinted from **Spice to Eternity: Discovering the Main Ingredient to a Life of Fulfilment and Purpose** , by Yvonne Pat Wright. Copyright May 2010 by Vanguard Press. Used by permission of Vanguard Press.

Incomparable Love

Vanilla: What a flavour! It is probably the most exotic of all the spices, and this is no wonder as the vanilla beans are the pods of the tropical orchid plant Vanilla Planifolia. Vanilla is called 'The spice of love'. The deep rich flavour of the vanilla extract so distinctly enhances what it flavours that it could be compared to the blush and bloom of a maiden in love.

Vanilla Planifolia is a beautiful, unique plant, cultivated not for its orchid blooms, but for its pods. This particular member of the orchid family is the only one to produce an edible fruit – the much loved vanilla bean. True vanilla is very expensive and is available in pod form, as a powder or an extract. The pure vanilla extract, is the result of ageing for up to six months and is stronger and more expensive than the more commonly available vanilla essence.

Vanilla, the spice of love, is used mostly to flavour sweet dishes such as cakes, porridge, and ice cream. As a rich tasting, intensely aromatic essence, vanilla has a special flavour all of its own which enhances other foods. Used with chocolate, it brings out the rich its flavour. When combined with sweet milky mixtures like ice cream the taste is distinctively delicious. Creative uses for vanilla extend to aromatherapy, potpourri, and air fresheners, producing soothing and sweet smelling scents.

* * *

Like the long process of curing vanilla, love affairs – especially those that endure – develop over a long time, the longer the process, the more precious the love that ensues.

Falling in love at least once should be a must for everyone. As a young girl, I would define love as the racing heartbeat experienced every time I got another tiny blue square of paper with my name written on it. They were love letters from my heart throb, which he had carefully copied from an autograph book or love story. These encounters of the heart were short-lived and the feelings faded as quickly as they had developed.

It was at another of those weekly teenage dance parties where I met an incredibly handsome young man. It was love at first sight. Nothing could tell me that it was not love for a lifetime. His slow, measured pace as he came towards me set my pulses racing. The extended hand indicating his request for a dance, ended with me literally falling into his arms.

Only the lilt of the slow waltz kept me in touch with reality. Words were kept to a minimum. I looked into his eyes and thought I would drown in the depth of those dark brown globes.

I can recall vividly the way I was affected. The first thing my friends noticed about me was my new confidence as I walked around the grounds of my alma mater, one of Jamaica's leading Catholic girls' schools. I convinced myself that this experience was different. I loved and felt loved in return. He boldly held my hand when we walked down the street – not in our school uniform mind you.

Our favourite outing was walking through the lush grounds of the Hope Botanical Gardens in the beautiful suburbs of Kingston and St. Andrew. The trees with wide overhanging branches and verdant green lawns provided the perfect place to sit and talk.

My thoughts were filled with memories of our times together and my dreams were all about him. I fell asleep with his name on my lips, and the first name I uttered in the morning was his. As the friendship and the love grew I found out more about him and I regaled my friends with the details of this treasure.

When the friendship ended I was crushed. His exit from my life was far less gracious than his entrance, and as he left, he took a piece of my heart. I thought I would never get over my heartbreak and I vowed never to fall in love again. But I got over it. On reflection, I realize that it was not true love.

Later in life I met and married David. I loved my husband and adored our two beautiful daughters. Their smiles would light up my world and again I treasured every action, every word that came from them. Love was definitely evident. The love for my precious family did not diminish, but I began to have a yearning for something more.

That yearning was filled many years later when I had an experience that changed my life forever. There was no music or stars or breathless feeling. Instead, I was enveloped with a deep abiding sense of joy, peace, and security. Kneeling beside my bed in prayer one morning, an awesome feeling of calmness came over me. In my mind's eye I'd become a tiny figure, nestled in the palm of a huge hand. I felt perfectly safe and at peace. I knew in that moment that I was loved, but I could not grasp that this love was being showered on me by the great God and Creator of the universe.

In disbelief I muttered, "You love me?" Tenderly I heard the words – 'Yea I have loved you with an everlasting love.' Jeremiah 31:3. KJV. Jesus Christ loves me in a way no one else ever could or ever will. I surrendered my life totally and completely to Him. Thirty years later, we are still in love, and daily I am amazed at how much I am loved even when I am so undeserving.

It was, and still is, a wonderful joyous feeling. I often recall the words of the Irish blessing which in part reads, 'May God hold you in the hollow of his hand' and wish that every person could have an experience similar to mine. Falling in love with Jesus was the best thing I ever did. This time, it was the last name I muttered each night before I fell asleep, and the first on my lips each morning. Soon I was telling everybody about Him and when no one wanted to listen, I talked to the trees and the flowers. I would spend long hours in His company, reading the Bible and talking to Him in prayer. I'd tell Him all the myriad things that affected me, things I could share with no one else. It was bliss. But as humans are, wont to do, I became restless. I read the Bible less, and my prayer time grew shorter and shorter, until eventually, God was no longer my main focus. Worldly things filled my heart and mind.

For weeks at a time, I would flounder about, too ashamed to talk to God. I wandered down unknown and unsafe paths. I knew that I needed Him, but was too ashamed to turn to Him.

Finally, in desperation, I called out to Him, and tenderly He reached down, picked me up and placed me in the palm of His hand again.

Instead of rejection, I received acceptance without condemnation, love without reproach. As He gently drew me back to His loving heart, I discovered that all the time I was running from Him, He was pursuing me. Then I understood that the Almighty Creator of this universe craved a personal relationship with me, above and beyond my own feeble attempts to love Him. He loved me and wanted me to be his own.

The enduring, unconditional love that I found in Jesus, has never failed. It's been the great mystery of life that changed me completely.

His love will do the same for anyone who reaches out to Him to accept the gift He offers freely.

'Real love isn't our love for God, but His love for us. God sent His Son to be the sacrifice by which our sins are forgiven.' 1 John 4:10. CEV.

Rainbow Parfait

Ingredients

1/3 cup strawberries

2 teaspoons raspberry sherbet

2 teaspoons lime sherbet

½ cup vanilla ice cream

1 teaspoon multicoloured sprinkles

2 teaspoons vanilla extract (not essence)

Whipped cream

Method

In a parfait glass, layer as follows:

a third of the strawberries

1 teaspoon raspberry sherbet

1 teaspoon lime sherbet

4 tablespoons vanilla ice cream

a third of the strawberries

4 tablespoons vanilla ice cream

remainder of strawberries

drizzle of vanilla extract

Squirt whipped cream on top and finish off with sprinkles over all the whipped cream. This layering will give you a lovely rainbow effect. Serve immediately.

TO READ MORE, you may purchase **Spice to Eternity: Discovering the Main Ingredient to a Life of Fulfilment and Purpose,** by Yvonne Pat Wright at:

http://tinyurl.com/6ze9yal (Kindle)

http://tinyurl.com/3fh2fo3 (paperback)

Christian Family/Lifestyle

Chapter 48: Janet Perez Eckles, Simply Salsa: Dancing Without Fear at God's Fiesta

Reprinted from **Simply Salsa: Dancing without Fear at God's Fiesta** by Janet Perez Eckles. Copyright 2011 by Judson Press. Used by permission of Judson Press.

What Happened to Our Dreams?

In the face of adversity, if God is first, triumph replaces fear.

_Bueno, chica,_ let's talk. The mariachi band playing our dreams has stopped. The music we once enjoyed has lost its rhythm. And the bad news blaring from the TV just adds to our personal troubles.

We sit on our unmade beds with a wrinkled tissue in hand and bite our lips. What went wrong? As little girls we felt destined for happy lives of significance and success. But along the way, the world brought unforeseen circumstances, pain that shook our senses, and heartaches that left us numb.

_Buenas noticias._ I've got good news. I have a clue about where we went wrong. We all bought tickets marked "Happiness and Success" and boarded the train. The only problem was that we disregarded God's purposes and mapped our routes according to our own wisdom, past experiences, and expectations. And with hearts exploding with anticipation, we reserved window seats, hoping that when the train stopped, sweet happiness wrapped in prosperity and peace awaited us, just like the kisses of our _abuela_ when we visited her.

I used to be on that train, bouncing on the seat while it chugged along. But, with no warning or preparation, a change in the route brought my train to a screeching halt. Heavens! The stop was so abrupt and violent it threw me out the window. And there I was— broken, lost, confused, and sinking into a puddle of self-pity. Physical blindness, infidelity, the murder of my child, and the acquittal of his killer—all these tragedies piled on one another in my own personal train wreck.

_Dios mio!_ I cried to God, wondering if the Lord heard me, questioning the Spirit's presence. And that's when fear settled in. No more celebration of life, no more joy, no more fiestas with friends and family. Fear took over.

I didn't deserve this. I felt life had failed me miserably, and that stunk. I'd always been a good person, obeyed rules, took the dog to the vet, and even returned library books on time. _Que pasó?_ What happened?

Perhaps you've asked yourself that same question. Whether you are Hispanic like me or not, I bet you've experienced "herpanic"! We all panic at one time or another when our life ends up in a mess. Cross-eyed with confusion and fear of tomorrow, we feel our dreams melting like _helados de chocolate_ in July. And I have the feeling that our primary problem has nothing to do with extra pounds, lack of money, some big disappointment, or any other circumstance.

_Amiga_ , it's time to figure this out. Grab your cup of _cafe con leche_ , and let's talk about those times when we've ended up on the train track of disappointment while fear jeered at us. I know you've been there; we all have. And although my scars of hardship are visible if you look closely, I found the secret, the spot of hope, the security and safety we all long for...but not in the notions we grew up with. I found it in God's Word, the Holy Bible. With simplicity that soothes the soul, God reveals the solutions, not by changing our situations but by transforming our hearts.

_Muchacha,_ for now, turn down that salsa tune, hold onto your sombrero, and settle into that overstuffed chair. We're about to find out what to do with broken plans and melted dreams. No matter where you are, even if your world is jammed with trials, God promises to reveal the secret to success, to lives of purpose, contentment, and confidence. God will show us how to move from a fear-filled life to a life that is faith-full.

Not Just Sweet Things

My lesson began when I left Bolivia and landed in the United States. When I was 12 years old, my mother, my 11-year-old brother, and I stood outside our La Paz home beside an old taxicab. With wrinkled fingers, my _abuela_ gripped her white handkerchief and sobbed to _mami_. "Will you write as soon as you get there?"

Mami nodded, and tears shone in her eyes, too. With frail arms, my _abuela_ hugged me tight, and her tears mingled with mine. I inhaled her stale perfume as she pecked my cheeks with kisses.

My heart ached at the separation from my _abuela_ , the grandmother who used to soothe me with her stories and her readings from _Aesop's Fables._ I thought about how, with rosary in hand, she would call us to kneel and pray with her. Her words were always gentle, and her love was like the soft, warm afternoon breeze of La Paz. And now we had to leave her behind—and for what? To head to the United States of America, the country where people say all our dreams will come true. That's why Papi had worked for four years to gather the pile of documents the U.S. demanded. That's why he'd endured many months of separation from us. It was all so he could go and prepare a home for us in this new land.

My brother and I sat on either side of our mami on the torn back seat of the taxi. I gazed out the window at the neighborhood playground, where weeds grew among spots of rocks and dirt. The worn swing swayed back and forth as if to wave goodbye to me, and the metal slide—slick down the center, with rusty spots along the sides—blinked dully at me in the afternoon sunlight. The playground's shabby condition testified to both its constant use and lack of care. But this was my home, my neighborhood—familiar and comfortable.

The houses and dirty narrow streets of my childhood disappeared as the cab turned the corner heading to the La Paz airport. With the back of my hand, I wiped away tears while Mami patted my arm and assured me, "You're going to really like our new home."

Once we boarded the plane and took off, the small aircraft shook and dipped, making my brother sick at his stomach. I sat beside him, stuffing down a mixture of angst, fear, and apprehension.

The plane landed at a huge airport in Miami, a name that seemed funny to us at the time. We dragged our suitcases to the counter to be searched. A tall, fair skinned man, the tallest I'd ever seen, pulled our clothes from our suitcases. With a stern look in his eye, he grabbed a plastic bag of _chuño_ , held it up in the air, and then turned it and examined its contents. Wrinkling his nose, he tossed it in the trash. He did the same with the spices Mami had tucked in the corner of her bag. These were the first of a myriad of items we had to discard from the lives we knew.

Now, four decades later I understand why God pulled me from the familiar and the comfortable. The Lord had plans for me. But _caramba!_ The journey hasn't all been easy. For reasons I don't know, along with the many sweet moments, God's plan mingled in some episodes that seared.

Has the Lord ever done the same to you? Have you ever been yanked from familiar, comfortable circumstances you never wanted to let go of? There you are, confused because you never imagined this turn of events. Why would God allow such ugliness to touch your life? How can a loving and good God plan that for you? These are essential questions for women of faith today, just as they were for women in biblical times.

But There's a Reason

Ruth knew what it was like to face circumstances very different from what she'd hoped and planned. Remember Ruth? She was the _señora_ who was suddenly left with no _esposo_. No doubt she knew grief. She must have felt lonely and maybe fearful of the future. But she did something most of us probably wouldn't have considered. I know I never would. Of all people, she clung to Naomi, her mother-in-law. Ruth insisted on following Naomi back to her homeland, a foreign place to her.

_Que?_ What? That's an odd decision. Why would Ruth want to hang on to the mother of her dead husband? But God was working in her heart. God placed in her a desire to change the scenery, to head to a place where things weren't familiar.

But the path wasn't easy. Obstacles got in the way. Naomi didn't want to take her with her. Naomi asks, "Am I going to have any more sons, who could become your husbands?" (Ruth 1:11). Stay here and get a life, was probably her attitude. But something was burning in Ruth's heart that compelled her to stay with Naomi. I can imagine Ruth clutching at Naomi's sleeve as she declared: "Don't urge me to leave you or to turn back from you. Where you go I will go, and where you stay I will stay. Your people will be my people and your God my God" (Ruth 1:16).

God is wonderful that way. The Lord uses the circumstances of our lives—sometimes circumstances that are not so pretty—to fulfill specific plans, amazingly wonderful plans. For Ruth, it all started when God placed a hunger in her heart for something big. And that same sort of hunger rumbles in the deepest and most intimate place in our hearts, too. It pulsates with life at every turn; it calls us with relentless insistence. It begs to be recognized, embraced, fed, nourished, and fulfilled. Ruth had it. You have it, and I do, too. Actually, there's no one on this earth who doesn't have that longing.

What we desire is "purpose"—the kind of purpose that gives breathing to our souls, life to our days, and meaning to our steps. We long to discover the very purpose for which God created us. But what is it?

_Buenas noticias._ Good news. We don't have to look for it. No need to figure it out or even define it. God did that for us. Jesus said the purpose of life—for you and for me—is to love the Lord our God with all our heart, mind, and soul (Matthew 22:37).

Oh my, my. Did Jesus really say that? We are to love God with _to do,_ our whole selves—heart, mind, and soul? What a huge task for _chicas_ like us whose plates are full of chores, tasks, and demands from the _familia._ Maybe such devotion to God was possible in biblical times when they didn't have the Internet, ATM machines, great sales at the mall, or careers to overload their time. But how can we love God that much, with that intensity, that commitment, and that depth? Heavens, that task is bigger than we can handle.

And that's why you may have done what I did when confronted with that command: I accepted the "love God" part, but I subtly dismissed the "with all your heart, mind, and soul" as irrelevant or a bit antiquated.

There's a reason many of us have done that. I believe we compromised and negotiated because we're smart _muchachas_. We figured out that the only way we could obey Jesus' command was to find our own way to love God. So that's what we did.

First, we made sure we believed in God. If someone asked if we did, we'd nod our heads so emphatically that our dangling earrings would shake for a long while.

So, that first step has been taken. We believe in God. The second step is to go to church. We did that, too. We'd go, and we'd smile at those around us, and then come home with the satisfaction that we did more than most.

Next, we pray. Goodness gracious, our prayers are importantes, because that's how we hand the Lord a list of what we want, need, and long for. But I did more than just ask God for what I wanted— I always remembered to thank God for what I had. That took care of any guilt that might creep up.

And, finally, we try—really _try—_ to be good people.

So there you have it. We found a way to love God that would fit into our schedule. And maybe we've even convinced ourselves that it works for us.

How Did We Do That?

Right about now, dip your tortilla in some guacamole and take a bite, because you'll need energy to swallow this truth: If we don't love God with all our heart, mind, and soul, we'll end up loving other stuff or people or dreams or aspirations or goals much more than we should.

Think I'm kidding? I know this truth from experience. This _chica_ ended up loving her life more than God. I'm talking honestly here. I wanted my life to be painless, successful, prosperous, happy, pleasant, and peaceful. So I fell in love with the plans that would take me to those goals. I loved God, too—because I needed the Lord to make sure those plans worked out. I needed God's assistance in making my dreams become reality. Yes, I did.

_Amigas_ , heat is surging from my chest to my head because I'm about to spill more gritty details. I started out by holding my head high because I was diligent in following the world's directives: Follow your dreams, don't let anyone stop you, craft your own plan for your life, live to the fullest, and enjoy life. What a logical approach, right? It was tasty and alluring, like my _abuela's_ honey glazed _buñuelos_. So I took a large bite of that "follow your dreams" pastry. Indigestion didn't come on right away because I made fulfilling those dreams my purpose in life, and I pursued it with great passion.

For many years, my efforts seemed to be paying off. I graduated from college with honors, and then found m _i_ esposo, a man who fit the criteria I'd listed in my teen years. I gave birth to three great kids— all healthy and smart. I went on a diet and exercised to recover my pre-pregnancy figure, and made sure I was the kind of wife who encouraged hubby to climb the corporate ladder, supporting him all the way up. Life smiled at me. We built a beautiful two-story home. I was doing what I wanted to do—staying home to care for my three sons. We enjoyed the amenities of suburban America and drove BMWs.

My life looked delicious, but deep inside me there was a hunger for complete satisfaction and peace. Nonetheless, I forged on, trying to quiet that "there's got to be more" nagging. I bought more, decorated better, improved, fixed, and enhanced every area of my life the best I could. And day after day, I danced a complicated _salsa_ to keep up with my daily desires.

A Bit Desperate

Then, with no warning, like the sudden cold wind from the Andes Mountains, a shocking, icy gust chilled my world.

"I can see a definite decrease in your field of vision," the ophthalmologist said. "There's _nada,_ nothing, anyone can do. You need to be prepared."

I tried to ignore the queasiness in my stomach. I knew I had a hereditary retinal disease, but the doctors had told me it wouldn't affect my vision until age sixty. I was only thirty-one, and my sons were three, five, and seven. That wasn't fair. The doctors had lied to me.

But being the determined _chica_ that I was, I stayed focused on my dreams. I kept on dancing to keep up the image of success. Yet from time to time, the thought of losing my sight made me stop in my tracks. And that's when I muttered sincere but desperate prayers—sometimes in English, sometimes in Spanglish.

Months swept by, and my nights became longer. I couldn't sleep because my mind kept replaying episodes of that day when I'd run into furniture, into the kids, into open doors. I was losing more and more sight. Desperate, I dashed to anyone who offered even a ray of hope for me. But all the doctors, specialists, acupuncturists, and herbalists simply increased my frustration while decreasing the balance in our bank account.

Then, about eighteen months later, the day came when I awoke and, to my horror, I saw nothing. My world had turned black.

I shook my fist at God. _Por qué?_ Why me? I didn't deserve blindness. I had begged for a miracle, and God had denied me. Anger, bitterness, and fear accompanied me as I groped through the house trying to care for my small sons.

There went my dreams, sliding down the tunnel of despair. My plans, longings, and desires vanished into a world that had become a dark prison with no hope of getting out. Fear of the unknown tormented me. How would I be able to live as a blind person? What would happen to my kids? What will my husband do with a blind wife? What purpose would my life serve? Those fears gnawed at me because the plan I'd made for myself didn't include this episode. I'd always been a good person. I felt I was being punished for something I hadn't done.

Then a drastic change came about. A friend invited me to her church, and I started attending with her. Often I would sit there cradling my pain, tears rolling down my face, and my heart exploding with terror. But then one day, during the church service, a Bible verse sizzled my heart, like water hitting a hot frying pan. It was Matthew 6:33, which says to seek God and God's righteousness first, and all our needs would be met.

There it was, a brilliant light of truth, of revelation and of freedom, shining through the darkness in my life. I had made the desperate search for a cure for my eyesight my number one priority, because without the ability to see, my purpose for life, as I had defined it, was gone. I had no goals, no passion, no hope, no joy; just broken dreams and failed plans. I was one sorry _chica._

But God whispered, "Seek me first, love me first, long for me first, and fill your heart with me first; then you'll see what I have in store for you." That's how I heard God's promise to me. And that soft calling turned the key that would unlock my musty prison.

I dried my tears, gave a long sigh, and hopped in the back seat of the divine taxicab. As we drove away, I looked back through the window at the dirty playground where I'd once entertained my shallow dreams. I reviewed for the last time the rusty slide where my passion and my purpose had enjoyed the thrill of the moment. I took one last look at rock and weeds that were scattered around the life I was leaving behind.

With expectation before me, I arrived at the airport of God's grace. The dreams I'd packed earlier were tossed away. I replaced them with a healthier desire to learn how to love God with all my heart, mind, and soul. That's right—I said, "learn," because just as I'd had to learn a new language and culture, I had to learn how to love the Lord...his way. Not halfway. Not my way. Not by doing what seemed most convenient or taking the shortcuts. I had to learn to love God with all my heart, mind, and soul.

It began in each morning as I directed my thoughts to the Lord, pondering on the Spirit's sweet way of providing what I needed for that day. Then it followed by thanking God for the good things. Even if I had no eyesight, I still had ears to hear, legs to walk, a heart to love, a family to care for, and a future crafted by God's own hands.

A New Revelation

I found that when we choose to love the Lord, it sparks a hunger to peek into God's characteristics: the unending compassion God has when we mess up; God's immense patience during the years we chase our own plans; God's stern words when admonishing against something that will cause us pain. And here's a new revelation that entered my previously confused head: Loving God means spending time soaking up God's Word. It means drinking in the promises of God's comfort when the world slaps our senses, when others reject us, and when pain comes even from those we love.

To love God is to trust when the Scripture says that if we invite the Son, Jesus, to be our Savior, we conquer death. To truly love God is to believe we can live abundantly, no matter what diagnosis, threat, or evil hovers about.

_Amiga_ , maybe your situation isn't as drastic as mine. Or maybe it's even more painful. Life brings all kinds of ugly stuff. But the real _problema_ is not our circumstances; it's how we respond. We must make the choice to leave the rusty swing set and the worn slide behind and move to a better land where God's purpose shines through the darkness and confusion.

That's what Ruth did. She was willing to travel to a new land, one that was unfamiliar but more promising. She wanted to follow God more than anything else. More than her comfort. More than her familiar home. More than her pride. And more than her own desires and hopes.

Bumps came into Ruth's life, and sometimes things were difficult as she followed through with her commitment. But God saw her heart, inhaled the sweet scent of her obedience, delighted in her trust, smiled at her humility, and sighed with pleasure at her grateful heart. The Lord revealed a solution for her dilemma that led to her becoming nothing less than a link in our Savior's lineage.

"Love God with all your heart, mind, and soul." This is the greatest commandment, the first, and the most important. And it's also the one God has put in place for our protection. Sí, this commandment is to protect us from confusion and fear. When we decide to love the way God commands, life becomes clearer. Whereas we once were blinded by storms, now we can see. We can gaze at God's healing rather than sink in sorrow. We can watch the trace of God's hand instead of succumbing to anxiety. And we can place our trust in the God who says, "I will rescue those who love me, I will protect those who trust in my name" (Psalm 91:14, NLT).

Initially, I viewed my blindness with shock. But God opened my spiritual eyes, rescued me, and scooped me up from the emptiness that surrounded me. And rather than feeling bitterness in my heart, I crossed the bridge from the blindness of my soul to the clarity of God's ways.

And Then God Smiles

_Bueno, amiga._ It's time for you to close your own eyes. Lean back and think—really think. What circumstance in your life is God using to whisper to you? If you turn your head and listen, the Spirit's calling might be clearer than you thought. The Lord definitely longs to guide you to a life rich with God's purpose and abundant with God's wealth—a wealth that has nothing to do with a bank account, but everything to do with peace and contentment, no matter the situation.

God smiles when we make loving with all our heart, mind, and soul the top priority in our lives. Then, when we do experience moments of loneliness, God's secure arms are enough. When sorrow filters through, God's compassion whispers more personally. When the world rejects us, God's unconditional acceptance soothes more deeply. When a devastating diagnosis shakes us to our very foundation, God's promises resound more sweetly. When hopelessness mocks, God's power lifts us higher.

And My Plans?

Perhaps none of this is new to you. Maybe you've heard it all before. But if you are like I was, a sliver of doubt is still poking through. And curiosity prompts the logical question. You sag your shoulders and ask, "What about _my own plans_?"

"For I know the plans I have for you," says the Lord back to you, "plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future" (Jeremiah 29:11). Those plans are for you, for me, and for every _chica_ who decides to dump the senseless notion that prosperity, hope, and a better future come from this world. We must scrap those misconceptions about what will give us significance and fulfillment. And with the same strength we use to remove the cheese stuck at the bottom of the tamale casserole, we must scrape away the "loves" that give us a false sense of purpose and satisfaction.

Now there's room for the love for _Dios_. That's when the music begins. The Lord guides you to the dance floor of your new life, sweet with purpose, significance, and grace. _Amiga_ , the change in you will be so delightfully drastic that friends and family will take a second look at your radiant face and, with eyes the size of tortillas, will point at you and ask, "What happened to her?"

TO READ MORE, you can purchase **Simply Salsa: Dancing without Fear at God's Fiesta** by Janet Perez Eckles at:

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Chapter 49: Theresa Franklin, Journey to Fulfillment, From Stumbling Blocks to Stepping Stones

Reprinted from **Journey to Fulfillment, From Stumbling Blocks to Stepping Stones** _,_ an inspirational memoir by Theresa Franklin. Copyright 2011. Used by permission of author.

Through this encouraging and often humorous devotional, author Theresa Franklin will show you how to turn life's impossible stumbling blocks into stepping stones toward a fulfilled life. In **Journey to Fulfillment** , Theresa chronicles the painful events in her life and how they changed her character and her principles forever. She challenges you to remember your childhood and how events from your past have influenced your today. God uses each milestone as stepping stones to strengthen and prepare you for His service. Learn to achieve your goals by letting the painful events of life strengthen you.

The Building Blocks

Forrest Gump's mother likened life to a box of chocolates. A more appropriate analogy may be life is like a potluck dinner. Everyone brings what they have to the table. No one can be expected to bring something they don't possess. Likewise, parents bring what they have to give to their children. Most everyone has issues with their parents' skills and are careful not to repeat the mistakes. The majority of parents feel pretty smug about their parenting skills until their own children are grown. Although they have no children of their own, in their twenties the offspring begin to share their vast knowledge with the parents, careful to point out each parenting mistake made during their childhood. It is not until the cycle of life is complete that these enlightened ones learn that they made just as many mistakes with their children as did their own parents. Being sixteen and nineteen years of age at the time of my birth, my parents had little to bring to the table.

Their ages alone were enough of a stumbling block. My dad's mother was fond of telling the story of how he rocked me to sleep by moving my cradle back and forth with his foot as he sat reading a comic book. My dad liked to tell the story of my mother getting angry with him and going for a walk. This sounded like a good plan, but she would walk until she was no longer angry and unfortunately too tired to walk back home. She would call the house, and he would go get her.

They were typical teenagers trying to survive in an adult world. My parents were born during the depression and grew up amidst World War II. Both dropped out of school in the tenth grade and both lacked parental guidance as children. They too determined not to make the same mistakes their parents had made. My mother's parents were alcoholics. Research shows that scars last a lifetime for children of alcoholics. Even as adults, children of alcoholics have difficulty trusting others.

Janet G. Woititz, author of _Adult Children of Alcoholics_ , writes of thirteen characteristics of adult children of alcoholics:

1. Adult children of alcoholics guess at what normal behavior is.

2. Adult children of alcoholics have difficulty following a project through from beginning to end.

3. Adult children of alcoholics lie when it would be just as easy to tell the truth.

4. Adult children of alcoholics judge themselves without mercy.

5. Adult children of alcoholics have difficulty having fun.

6. Adult children of alcoholics take themselves very seriously.

7. Adult children of alcoholics have difficulty with intimate relationships.

8. Adult children of alcoholics overreact to changes over which they have no control.

9. Adult children of alcoholics constantly seek approval and affirmation.

10. Adult children of alcoholics usually feel that they are different from other people.

11. Adult children of alcoholics are super responsible or super irresponsible.

12. Adult children of alcoholics are extremely loyal, even in the face of evidence that the loyalty is undeserved.

13. Adult children of alcoholics are impulsive. They tend to lock themselves into a course of action without giving serious consideration to alternative behaviors or possible consequences. This impulsively leads to confusion, self-loathing and loss of control over their environment.

In addition, they spend an excessive amount of energy cleaning up the mess.

My mother possessed twelve of these characteristics. She has recently attended meetings for Adult Children of Alcoholics. With the counseling and literature provided by the organization, she has made progress and works diligently to change her self-destructive behavior.

As a child, my mother remembers being sent to the movies on Saturday morning and returning to find broken beer bottles littering the floor. She knew that her parents had been fighting. When she was about seven years old, her dad left the family, and she did not see or hear from him again until she was forty-one years old. At that time, her youngest sister was working evenings as a telephone operator. When she was not busy, she used the time to search for their dad. He had made no effort to get in touch with the family. My grandmother had raised the five children alone during war times. She worked six days a week. On Sunday, she sent the children to church, cleaned the house, and cooked a large dinner. During the week while she worked, the children did chores around the house after school. As a single mother, my grandmother had little time for reading stories to the children or being involved in their education. It took all her effort just to feed them. Thus my mother and her siblings grew up with little emotional support.

Similarly my father grew up with very little supervision from his parents. His father was employed by the railroad, which required him to work different shifts. His schedule was eight hours on the job, then off for twenty-four hours and this daunting schedule never waivered. The cycle meant that if he worked during the day on Monday, he worked evenings on Tuesday, and the graveyard shift on Wednesday. He was often working when the children were not in school. My grandfather was considerably older than my grandmother.

The difference in age led to incompatible value systems.

Even in today's world, my father's mother would be considered a wild woman. She liked the bars and saw no problem with leaving the children unattended while she visited her hangouts. Stories are told of her being gone for two or three days at a time. My grandfather would care for the children and work his job. Eventually someone would go by the house and tell him where to find his wife, and he would go get her. The episodes could have been considered the modern day story of Gomer and Hosea from the Bible.

The work schedule of my dad's father and habits of his mother provided no structure or stability in the home for the children. As a teenager with a wonderful sense of humor but no discipline, my father wreaked havoc in the neighborhood and at school. The old song sang, "Charlie Brown, he's a clown." My dad was the class and neighborhood clown. While very entertaining for the children, it was nerve wracking for the adults, including his teachers. A well-endowed teacher who favored wearing her skirts too tight was one recipient of his blarney. As this teacher wrote on the chalkboard, she bent over at the hips stretching her tight skirt over her shapely behind in front of a classroom of teenage boys.

After enjoying the scenery for weeks, my dad took a handkerchief to class. As she bent over to write at the bottom of the chalkboard, my dad ripped the handkerchief. She quickly stood up, covered her derriere with her hands, and backed out of the class. When she discovered there was nothing wrong with her skirt, she returned to class; and without a word, grabbed my dad by his shirt collar; and dragged him to the principal's office.

My parents provided for us the best way they could considering they had little education. My dad worked selling insurance, driving eighteen-wheelers long distance, driving dump trucks, and delivering milk and soft drinks. He changed careers often. His financial character age was equivalent to a teenager. We could not afford fish to eat, but we could afford tropical fish for his fish tank. We could also afford tropical birds, purebred dogs, and motorcycles. His barely adequate income ability and his desire for expensive toys left our home treading treacherous financial waters. We were constantly in that income bracket too high for assistance and too low to make ends meet. Most of the time, my mother worked to bring extra money into the house.

When I was in junior high school, I auditioned for and was accepted as a majorette for our marching band. We practiced during the summer and after school. I was the only one whose mother could not be there to drive them home. At the end of every practice, I had to ask some mother for a ride home. In those days few mothers worked, so most of my friends' mothers were not sympathetic to my need. The following year, I did not participate in the band because it was too embarrassing to ask for a ride home.

Both of my parents were strict, believing children should be seen and not heard. They bragged that they could take us anywhere and expect perfect behavior. Appropriate behavior was not taught but expected. Many times I was disciplined harshly for doing something that I did not know was wrong. Discipline was a source of power rather than instruction. My mother would say, "Discipline is love." My dad would tell people, "Other parents pay their kids to be good. Ours are good for nothing." Both believed in public discipline for public misconduct. Embarrassment and humiliation were considered appropriate tools of reprimand. My dad would say, "If you embarrass them, they will remember it and not do it again."

I remember sitting in a room full of people as a six year-old and thinking, "They can stop my mouth, but they can't stop my mind." I began to study people, analyzing what they said and did. Extended family gatherings were always a source of conflict. One could count on an argument between brothers, a husband and wife, or mother-in-law and daughter-in-law. At one Christmas celebration my grandmother added alcohol to the eggnog. Two of my uncles decided to add more. After enjoying too much of the eggnog, my 6'2" uncle decided to climb the 10' Christmas tree. Chaos followed with my grandmother screaming for someone to get him down, my aunt yelling for my grandmother to hush, and the brothers yelling at my aunt to do something with her husband.

At one such event, I remember hearing my aunt say something hurtful to one uncle, and thinking, _She didn't really mean that. She_ _only said that because he said what he said._

For all outside appearances, our home appeared stable and secure. My mother was active in school functions. All decisions about discipline were made by both parents. My parents rarely argued. They shared some hobbies. One hobby they both enjoyed was being members of a "Christian" motorcycle club. The Christian part meant that there was no drinking allowed and most activities were family oriented.

We spent most Saturday afternoons at one member's house or another barbequing and socializing. The members of the club were the same age as my parents. However, my parents began their family at a much younger age; therefore, my sisters and I were much older than the children of the other club members. We did not fit t in with the adults or children. After the meal, my mother would always announce to the hostess, "You cooked; my girls can clean the kitchen."

So while the children played and adults visited, my sisters and I washed dishes. My mother thought it was a good way to show appreciation to the hostess and teach us responsibility, although kitchen duty was routine for us at home. It made me feel like an unpaid servant. To this day I will not allow a guest to clean my kitchen.

While my dad's humor was entertaining, it was usually at the expense of someone else. My sisters and I were choice bait. We were told often that we were beautiful, "but then again a mama buzzard thinks her babies are pretty too." He liked to tell me the only way I would be married was for him to place an ad in the newspaper. I would also have to get married by proxy because no man that saw me would want to marry me. Until the day he died, he would tell my husband thanks for saving him the ad fee. As children we did not understand that his sarcasm was actually intended to be backhanded compliments.

Both parents desired to rear perfect children. My dad's need to conceal his true emotions using humor and my mother's difficulty with intimate relationships provided little emotional support in the home. My mother did not believe in complimenting children for fear they would grow up conceited. If my dad gave a compliment, it was followed by a sarcastic remark that stung so badly the compliment was washed away. Displays of emotions were discouraged and open communication was nonexistent. Any task completed was followed by "constructive criticism" in an effort to help us grow. When my dad drove long hauls, he would be gone from home for weeks.

As a child, it seemed to me like he always came home the week report cards were issued. One by one we would stand before him as he sat in his recliner and evaluated each grade. My youngest sister's report card was always perfect. My sister just younger than me made adequate grades and was questioned about each one. My grades were analyzed, and I would be asked why the Bs and Cs could not be higher. If I received an A in a class, my dad would say, "It must have been easy if someone as dumb as you could make an A." After each report card was scrutinized, he would hand it back to the owner and say, "It's a good report card, baby." I could never figure out why we were forced to sit through the equivalent of the Spanish Inquisition for "a good report card."

My youngest sister is extremely intelligent and very artistic. My sister just younger than myself is a gifted homemaker. She has been able to cook, clean, and sew since she started walking. I had no special talents as a child. I was just an average kid. As a result, I grew up believing I was less than adequate and would never amount to anything. I found comfort in books. I imagined myself as a character and escaped reality in every book I read. Every Friday when I left school, I had two books in my hands. Both were read before returning to school on Monday.

Fairly close to my seventeenth birthday during my junior year of high school, my dad announced that he was leaving the family. There had been no warning, no arguments, and no unexplained mood changes. He was just leaving. My mother was devastated. I had learned to hide my emotions and put up a good front. It appeared to everyone that I was strong and simply unaffected by my dad's decision. Dealing with her own emotions, my mother was unable to support me when I fell apart a week after he left. I was not equipped with an emotional foundation to handle a crisis of this magnitude so I hid my pain with displays of anger. I thought it was better to let people believe that I was angry rather than weak enough to be hurt.

Within two months the divorce was final, and three days later my dad married a long time family friend who had been married four times previously. My parents had gone to school with my dad's new wife. She had been in our home many times. Our families had socialized together during her marriages and divorces. We grew up with her children. She had always been proud of the fact that she received no child support from any of her ex-husbands, believing the mother was responsible for providing for her children. She somehow missed what was obvious to everyone else. Her new husband was supporting her kids. To her they were a new family, and his old family should simply go away. She deeply resented the idea of my dad providing for his children and told us at every opportunity.

My mother had gone back to work, but in the 1970s women were not paid enough to provide for a family, especially if they had little education. We had purchased a larger home in November before my dad left in March. We kept the old house for rental income. If we had no renter, my mother had two mortgages and three children to provide for on a meager salary. Child support was essential for survival. My dad was involved in providing for his new wife and her four children. He felt no obligation to his first family. More than once my mother used the court system to intervene. She fought for every dime she received.

The summer between my junior and senior year of high school, I worked to buy school clothes for my sisters and myself because my mother lacked the funds. During my senior year, I worked part time after school to purchase my prom dress and invitations for graduation. During my youngest sister's senior year, my mother complained about the cost of her graduation. She told me that the number of items my sister was demanding was not available when I graduated. I explained they were available, but I did not ask for them because I knew we had little money.

During my senior year, I became ill. My mother kept threatening to take me to the doctor if I was not better the next day. Every day I proclaimed that I was getting better, but I knew I wasn't. Knowing my mother did not have the money for a doctor visit, I stayed in bed for over a week. I probably could have returned to school in three days if I had gone to the doctor, but I was worried about the money. Every decision we made was based on our finances and recently when my mother learned I never purchased a yearbook because I did not have the money, she became very upset.

Although very different, my husband's childhood was no more secure than mine. His parents had grown up on farms during a time that was considered safe. When they married and moved to the city for employment, they failed to recognize the difference in the culture change. Therefore, my husband and his siblings grew up with little supervision or restrictions. My husband took advantage of the lack of structure as a teenager. He and his friends partied, drank alcohol, and basically lived by the creed 'eat, drink, and be merry.' My husband had very little direction in his life until accepting Christ as Savior in his late teens.

TO READ MORE, you may purchase **Journey to Fulfillment, From Stumbling Blocks to Stepping Stones** by Theresa Franklin at:

http://amzn.to/sZddAn (Kindle)

http://bit.ly/sTr8N2 (Nook)

Chapter 50: Sally Franz, Scrambled Leggs...A Snarky Tale of Hospital Hooey

Reprinted from, **Scrambled Leggs...A Snarky Tale of Hospital Hooey,** a humorous inspirational fictionalized memoir by Sally Franz. Copyright 2007. BookSurge Publishing. Used by permission of author.

A Grinding Halt

I'd never been known for being graceful. Today was to be no exception.

There were no clouds in the sky at all. I remember that. And I remember thinking I hadn't seen blue that intense since scuba diving Cozumel's 90 foot wall of coral.

Of course back then, what with a week's worth of margaritas coursing in my veins and the 'blood-gas-nitrogen-exchange-thing' that far below sea level, I was pretty trashed. You could all but hear a small blue fish singing somewhere in the deep, "Keep on swimming, keep on swimming. Oooooo it's so beautiful down here."

What else do I remember about that day on the snowy Sierra slopes?

The edges of the sky. Everywhere the blue touched, it popped against the silhouette of green pine needles. The rugged mountain peaks were spackled with white sequins. And under my skis, dear Lord in heaven, under my skis there was this delicious compacting and squeaking of perfect snow. Not one granule of ice, just powder.

Picture this: double black diamond trails, thick with new snow, no tracks but mine, cold sharp air kissing my face so hard I looked like I had been making-out at a drive-in movie the entire previous night (a proficiency I honed in High School).

I took a deep breath, inhaling pure joy. What a great week-end for a church retreat. After all the whack-a-doodle boyfriends and bosses over the last seventeen years, I'd made it through. I had recently remarried, having left a Madison Avenue marketing career. I was now a respected 'Family Minister' at my California Lutheran Church. There was money in the bank, and I was in tip-top 'buff ' shape. Hey, even both my grown kids were talking to me. I sighed, "If this is the last day I ever ski in my entire life, I will be a happy camper."

You remember stuff like that.

Then on my second run with my "church kids" I felt a tingling in my left toes.

"Must be the new boots, I should have broken them in." By the fourth run there was numbness up to my left knee. I reached into my ski pants and rolled the elastic waist band of my panty hose down about 6 inches below my gut. That felt better.

By the time I was at the top of the next lift, the pins and needles sensation had returned and reached up to my left hip. I pushed my way over to our group.

"I'm going to catch up to you guys at lunch. I think I've pulled something. I'll go get some ice and take care of this. Not as young as I used to be, ha."

"Great timing," I muttered, "the day before my 54th birthday. But of course, the warranty must be out on all my working parts. Why didn't I get the extension warranty?" I headed toward the base lodge annoyed at the interruption.

Out of nowhere I fell. It was about 10 a.m. Okay, that may not mean much to you, but I don't fall, not unless I'm jumping a half-pipe and then it's a full out 'yard sale' with equipment scatter o'er hill and yon. But simply falling had not happened in the last twenty years. And being that early in the day, it was not even possible.

Then things got completely weird. I tried to get up on my downhill left ski but my leg was having a private mutiny. It had not just gone to sleep, it had slipped into a coma.

And while I could not feel my muscles, there was a strange sensation on the surface of my leg. It was like bee stings on top of a 'wicked-bad' sunburn. Yet strangely, I couldn't sense the coldness of the snow under me.

Then an 'out-of-body-third-person-slow-mo-trauma-drama'started taking over. I could hear my pulse pounding in my head as if my eardrums were being pummeled by the entire cast of Stomp.

Hel-lo crisis mode.

Self-diagnosis ensued. At last, all those hours in front of General Hospital would be of use. Sprain? No. Shin splints? No. Gangrene? Not yet.

Soon my internal 'Shame Gang' commenced to spew. My mind was a swamp of self-ridicule.

" _Way-to-go, lard butt."_

" _Told you ya shoulda eased up on the Christmas butter cookies, but nooo_ _."_

The entire left leg was definitely DOA. I ignored the voices and flailed around to my right side.

But the voices only got louder:

" _It's those new fancy-schmancy way too_ _expensive boots_ _. Ya know people are starving_ _all over the world."_

" _It's arthritis. Whadda_ _you expect at your age?"_

" _It's frostbite, high altitude, heartburn, the heartbreak of_ _psoriasis."_

I hoisted my weight securing the poles under my armpits, slapped my good ski over the ski with the bum leg, and snowplowed wide sweeping turns using only one leg. Not an easy task, but life has a way of preparing one for the future.

I thought back to 1968.

I had learned how to ski on 'one leg at a time' back in High School. Every week for winter gym class we got to take a bus to Vernon Valley Great Gorge Ski Resort after school. Then we would ski under the lights. You got to be pretty good at responding to bumps after you hit them because the lighting was a bit spotty at best. We skied with a partner, just like swimming at camp when we used the buddy system to make sure someone would notice if you slipped out of view. (In this case, off the mountain, into the dark. Falling into crevices and streams happened on a regular basis.)

But we were kids; we thought it was funny. That is until one kid had to have his leg amputated after he took a toboggan down a slope in pitch black shadows and slammed into a tree, crushing his leg. Snow went from friend to killer in an instant.

It was the end of my dreams of becoming an Olympic racer. I became a total chicken on icy slopes after that. My senior year in High School I opted for the ballet classes on skis over racing. Nice and slow and pretty. One leg on the snow, the other one out behind you like a figure skater (albeit with a 70 inch long flat foot). Those were the days. Who woulda thunk I'd ever need those random skills again?

I snapped back to the present just as someone tried to cut me off. I made larger snowplow turns. Being "Joe Cool Skier" had dropped off my priority list. I wailed to anyone within earshot, "Gangway! Injured skier here!"

No, I never asked for help to get down the hill. I've skied since I was two years old. And as any veteran skier knows, you only go down on a first-aid toboggan if you're unconscious. If you have ever heard one go by, you know why. It is nothing but wooden slats chattering on ice; a pure case of adding insult to injury.

My Mother's voice joined the 'infernal' dialogue between my very frozen ears.

" _You just need to eat some protein, dear. How about a nice peanut butter sandwich?"_

The ski condo we were staying at was coming up on my left. I had to decide in the next three seconds if I would go eat or look for help. I cut through the woods toward the peanut butter.

An electrical spark, much like jumper cables slapping together, shot through my left hip. I screamed loudly, to no one but the trees, the only Dorothy Parker quote I knew, "What fresh hell is this?"

I doubled back to the lodge. At the bottom I careened into a stall of skis which exploded like a toothpick factory. Releasing my Dynastars, I threw my poles behind me. I was aware I was clunking toward the doorway doing an excellent impression of Chester from "Gunsmoke." I left my brand new ski gear splayed across the snow, but I really didn't care.

I heard my mother's voice reverberated through my mind.

" _That is no way to treat expensive equipment, why if your father_ _were alive._ _"_

"Not now, Mom!" Several people took note that there was no one behind me as I spoke and I wasn't wearing an ear piece. I sat down and called over to the lady who was cleaning up the trays.

"Where's the first aid room?"

"No hablo ingles."

"Fine." Then in my best Spanglish, "Donde esta rojo xeis?" Nada.

"Yo quiero el Ski Patrolo." She nodded and left, probably to laugh where I couldn't hear her. (I could see that month at the Costa Rican language school was time and money well spent.)

In a half an hour, or maybe a decade, a man appeared. He carried a royal blue backpack embossed with a red cross made of duct tape. The tape was peeling and the glue side was covered with lint of all different colors.

"You okay?"

Why do people always ask that when you are clearly not okay?

"No, I am not okay!"

"What seems to be the problem?"

"I can't feel my left leg."

"Did you fall or run into something?" He took off my boots and looked at my ankles. Thankfully I have great ankles, nasty big bubbly thighs, but great ankles.

"No. I was just skiing and then zap. My leg fell out from under me and it's paralyzed. And the stinging is excruciating. I think I'm in real trouble here."

"Well, maybe if you warm up in the lodge, you know, drink some cocoa." He winked.

This is the part of a harrowing episode when you start hearing sounds come out of someone's mouth, but they are so bizarre, so inappropriate to your pain, that you can't believe you just heard them, so you keep looking, hoping that whatever they did say will reorganize in thin air and make a smattering of sense and re-enter your ears as something sane. I waited. Nothing.

"Cocoa, sure, whatever."

I was still hoping the numb leg thing would be a great story around the fireplace by sunset. 'Skippy Ski Patroler' went off to fetch some cocoa. I knew my body was in serious trouble but I was powerless to communicate what was wrong. And the expert? He was going to apply chocolate. It was like a bad PMS joke.

That's when the tingling sensation started up my other leg. I slipped to the floor (picture, if you will, a candle left in the sun to melt). I placed my boots around my head so perchance the family next to me with fourteen ice-coolers and as many children would notice when they kicked me with their massive swinging boots. I quietly re-lived clammy palms and sweat running down my forehead upon my first reading of "The Pit and the Pendulum." Back and forth, closer and closer.

The tingling continued up toward my rib cage heading for my lungs and heart.

All the self-talk stopped abruptly, except for one clear voice, _"Oh, my God. God, Lord, Jesus, not good."_ (and no, I am not sure if that was a prayer or cursing, but it's the best I had to offer at the moment.)

The Good Humor man returned with that delicacy ski lodges are famous for, a cup of steamy whipped-non-dairy-topping afloat boiling chocolate flavored water. I looked up from the floor. There he was all smiles. His silky-smothered jacket billowed above a snug band of red ribbed knit at his thin waist. The jacket's zipper was as thick as an HO-gauge train track. He loomed on matchstick legs coated in black spandex.

(Cue, "March of the Toy Soldiers.")

I was now grasping reality in bite size pieces, like a slide show in my head. Here is the beautiful mountain (look at that clear sky); here's the ski patrol dude, and this is the place where my legs became paralyzed. Oh well, the kid sitting next to me will probably kick me in the temple before too long and my life will come to a grinding halt. At least it will happen before I have to deal with being a paraplegic.

"Should I call for an ambulance?" Skippy asked tentatively.

Ya think? Or maybe you could just roll me outside and I could be a lawn ornament.

I bit my lip. After all, I was on the floor and he owned the walkie-talkie. I nodded sweetly, which was as much sarcasm as I could muster given the circumstances of being paralyzed and all.

Somewhere between a half hour and a century later the ambulance arrived. Five extras from Baywatch ran into the lodge and lifted me onto a stretcher, my butt was the hardest to lift, sagging down like an old army cot. So much for grace, and my hopes of dancing with the stars wasn't looking up. They wadded my puffy ski jacket under my head, strapped me down straightjacket tight and carried me out into the light. The snowdrift along the path was a shimmering iridescent-pink catching the alpine glow of the afternoon. The sky was deep blue against the emergency teams' crimson jackets and white ski hats. You remember things like that when you think you are going to die.

LESSON: "I sighed, 'if this is the last day I ever ski in my entire life, I will be a happy camper.'"

Later, knowing I will never ski again, I thought, 'ok, what else makes me happy?' I made a list of very simple things I love (fresh linen, flowers, birds, cheesecake, prisms). I choose to have ONE of these items (at least) in my life every day. I've observed that if someone has a long list of improbable, expensive things (new car, win at Lotto) ALL of which MUST happen on one day to be happy, then likely they will die of sorrow. Or worse yet, they may be a carrier and make those around them suffer.

TO READ MORE, you can purchase **Scrambled Leggs...A Snarky Tale of Hospital Hooey** by Sally Franz at:

http://amzn.to/ujL3kw (Kindle)

http://amzn.to/vlvzm3 (paperback)

Chapter 51: Kimberly J. James, Running on G: What's Filling Your Tank?

Reprinted from **Running on G: What's Filling Your Tank?** an inspirational nonfiction memoir by Kimberly J. James. Copyright 2011 by Kimberly J. James. Used by permission of author.

The Truth As I Knew It

My name is Kimberly Jewel James; I am 38 years old, married with two kids. I am the only child of Mom and Dad. I am a proud Christian and the Founder, President and Director of the Dream in Color Foundation in Northern Virginia, which was birthed from the gifts and passion that was placed in my spirit since childhood.

As a child I always believed in God, but I never personally understood what it meant to really know Him. Like my earthly father and many other people in my life, He always told me He loved me, but I needed tangible evidence of his love. In my mind, He was supposed to show me love in a very specific manner. When he did not, it was almost impossible for me to comprehend what man accepted as God's fatherly love. Looking back, I now know that one of those tangible examples was the opportunity to study dance.

When I was five years old, my mother signed me up for ballet lessons. It was seemingly no big deal, a community center based program, located in Alexandria, Virginia that was walking distance from our apartment. By this time my mother and father were no longer together. They were high school sweethearts and like many young love stories, it didn't end well. As far back as I can remember my mom and I were flying solo. It didn't bother me because she was the woman I wanted to be. She was (and still is) beautiful, talented, resourceful, hard-working, compassionate and generous! So I learned pretty early on that if I really needed or wanted something, she would make it happen and that was that!

I was a very talkative child and I was quite the tom boy. In most cases, you would find me on a bike or skateboard, digging in the dirt, playing in a nearby creek or climbing a tree. At the time, I am sure I believed that dance was just something to try, but I know now that it was all a divine set up. There were very few girls in my dance program, so it basically turned out to be seven years of semi-private lessons. While I'd like to say that the highlight of my dance career as a child was dancing the roles of both Smurfette and Apricot from the Strawberry Shortcake gang, there was a genuine interest in the life of my teacher, who had a significant impact on my life.

Ms. Lynn was a pistol. When she was 16 years old she ran away from home, changed her name and became a Rockette in New York City. By the time she started teaching us, she had been married, divorced and was a single parent of three children, including one daughter that was in our dance class.

She and her children became good friends and were very much like family. Ms. Lynn's rebellious past drew me to her and consequently loyal to her dance program until the 6th grade, when we moved too far away to continue studying with her.

In our old neighborhood, the majority of the families were of some minority so the concept of diversity was a non-issue. However, when my mother remarried, we moved to Fairfax County to "give me a yard to play in and provide better opportunities for me." Here is where the culture shock began. I was catapulted into "the white world". I was suddenly one of two or three children of color at the most in the 6th grade at my new school. So this began the quest to find where I fit in, if at all.

To back track for a moment, at the age of nine, on January 6, 1981, I made what I know now to be the most important decision of my life. Independently of anyone in my family, I got saved and was baptized, which I believe was instrumental in carrying me through all of the changes that were soon to come. Dance remained an important part of my life, but once we moved and from 6th grade on - everything changed.

After only one year in a new school, I attended Lake Braddock Secondary School (LBSS), which was 7th through 12th grades. While there, I joined the school dance team. Some experiences were great, others were not. Since LBSS was such a large school, there were kids there from miles and miles away, which meant many different income brackets, lifestyles and stereotypes to adjust to. Despite all of the drama, I thought I had it going on. Dancing was an easy way to become popular and break the ice to make new friends.

However, very early into my time at the school prejudices and bullying started to dictate my life. Dancing became my safe haven. When I wasn't in class or in dance practice, I was often taking alternate routes to get to certain places in the building and would hide from the girls who always seemed to want to harass or fight me. Why? I attribute their behavior to jealousy and lack of maturity.

With so few black kids in our school, pickings were kind of slim when it came to boys so if the wrong boy took an interest in me, the haters came out of the woodwork to try to make my life miserable. I learned to suck up and deal with it quietly and just try to avoid interactions whenever possible. It became a way of life.

As the years passed I slipped into a very dark period. Although I was in and around church, I was not living my life as though it was a priority in my life. The pressures of being in an often volatile environment at school made me feel like I had to be someone other than myself to have friends. My dance team coaches and peers were often cruel and hinted that to even have the nerve to think that I could become a dancer at the next level, I had to be a skinny rail, like they all were. So to try to please them I found myself dealing with anorexia. I lost so much weight; I occasionally passed out in practices and after performances. Thank God my mom, who recognized what was going on, snatched me back to reality before it took control of my life.

Unfortunately, the degradation just kept coming. Peers often told me that it wasn't my talent that got me on the team and that the school had quotas to fill. Before long, I found myself just going through the motions and enjoying dancing less and less but unable to remove myself from that environment because it was my thing! However, the thrill was definitely gone!

I graduated in the class of 1990 and moved on to attend college at Hampton University. Culture shock, here we go again. Hampton University is a historically black college in Hampton Roads, Virginia. Whew, the eye candy was overwhelming and college boys became an important part of my curriculum!

Just that statement alone should tell you that I started off there with all the wrong priorities. Having come from a high school where my graduating class was over 900 and only nine were black, there was a huge difference in being on a college campus where I didn't see a white person for weeks at a time. In my effort to take full advantage of what they called the "black college experience," I learned about some of the extracurricular activities, including the school dance troupe. Not knowing much about it, I showed up to audition and was stunned to learn that there was so much talent there. There was an element of passion in their movements – passion that I had obviously been deprived of back at home. I was inspired, but angry: I felt gypped and worse, intimidated.

On the last day of a weeklong audition process, I hurt my back and didn't make it through the last session. My back pain was fixed with rest and some muscle relaxers, but my ego was destroyed. I learned later that they ended up keeping everyone who auditioned. I was so frustrated! To this day I believe that had I just worked through the pain, a new flame would have been ignited in me that could have restored what was lost in high school. For the rest of my time there, I sat in the audience watching the performances with silent tears pondering what could have been.

The rest of my time in college was volatile to say the least, but I learned so much about myself and what I was capable of accomplishing that I wouldn't trade many of those experiences for anything in the world.

I graduated with honors, earning a B.A. in Speech Communications & Theatre Arts in 1994. Shortly thereafter, I moved back home to Northern Virginia and somehow got lured back into the Lake Braddock Dance Team, but this time I was asked to be the coach. Isn't that ironic?

It was at this time that I learned why I was always the only "raisin in the buttermilk" when it came to dance. The program was extremely expensive to be a part of, and if you didn't have years of formal dance training before you got there, you really didn't stand a chance. This was the turning point for me in discovering my purpose.

I was not only sent back there to confront my past, but had the opportunity to change the outcome for the girls that were currently there. So I did! I stayed there for two and a half years coaching the dance team and teaching Theatre Arts. While overcoming the challenges of leadership at such a young age, I left my mark on that program and the lives of the girls under my care.

The summer of 1996, my girlfriends talked me into going out to forget about my most recent break up. I was reluctant to go, so by the time we actually made it downtown, most of the social hot spots were already starting to shut down. So on our way back into Virginia, we passed the Post Office Pavilion, where an outdoor party was being held. We were only there about 10 minutes before I was asked to dance by a guy that refused to take no for an answer. I stalled as long as I could before he pulled me out onto the dance floor and we began to dance. I was so disinterested, and I remember thinking, "This is exactly why I don't like going to night clubs." Then I looked up and there he was. "Mmmm, who is that?" Across the dance floor stood the definition of tall, dark and handsome. Six foot four inches tall, slender build with strong, broad shoulders, caramel colored skin, a goatee and a devilish grin. He was a clean cut, professional looking guy, but had just enough of a bad boy look in his eye to keep me looking. He stood there, staring at me, so when our eyes met there was an instant connection.

Although, I didn't want to be anywhere near the guy I was dancing with, I turned around and danced with a little more flair, as to allow Mr. Handsome to check me out. As we flirted across the room for a few minutes, I got my girlfriends' attention to point out the cutie across the way. They came up with a plan to lure me away from the guy I was dancing with. As we walked away trying to play it cool, Mr. Handsome approached me to introduce himself. However, just as we exchanged hellos and our first names, another girl pulled him away from me to dance. Can you say HATER? So he motioned for his friends to keep me close while he got rid of his stalker. During that time, my girlfriends and I made small talk with his friends and before I knew it, he was back asking, "So, what have we learned about this lovely lady?"

By that time, I had already referred to him as "vest boy", based on what he was wearing because I couldn't remember his uncommon name. We reintroduced ourselves and he asked me where I lived. I told him that I lived in a small town in Northern Virginia that he probably had never heard of. He quickly replied, "I live in a small town in Virginia too, where is it?" I told him I lived in Burke, Virginia and he jumped in to say that he too lived in Burke, Virginia. I said, "No you don't because there are only 10 black people in Burke and if you lived there I would know you." So he asked me what my phone number was and I replied, "I'm not giving you my number just because you claim you live in Burke." So he explained that by telling him the number he could determine how close we lived to one another by the prefix. So I did and it turned out that our phone numbers were off by one digit and we lived less than a mile away from each other, but had never met. I guess we both figured we had to stay in touch, so he asked if I had a pen to exchange phone numbers and I told him that I didn't have a pen, but if he could remember my number then he could call me. We said goodbye and the girls and I left to head home.

I couldn't get "vest boy" off of my mind, so I anxiously waited for his call. However, the call that I got the next day was not from him, it was from one of his friends. I wasn't sure why he was calling, so I asked him what was going on. Somehow, he thought that when I said my number out loud that it was a free for all, so he was trying to express his interest in me. I was shocked, but politely told him that I was giving my number to his friend, so he backed down and said he would pass the message along. Another day passed and vest boy, finally called me. We talked long enough to know that we wanted to know more. During our initial conversation, I learned that he didn't actually live in Burke with his family because he was in Graduate school in St. Louis, Missouri. He happened to be home because his family had planned a trip to Atlanta to attend the Summer Olympics and they were planning to hit the road at 6:00am the following morning.

So we arranged a date, which was the start of a whirlwind romance. I invited him over to my apartment, and cooked the best meal that I knew how to make, hoping that the myth was true, that a way to a man's heart was through his stomach. We shared a romantic dinner for two and talked for hours. We went down to the waterfront in Old Town Alexandria, soaking up the summer night ambiance and seemed to be hitting it off extremely well. The conversation was such that we couldn't break away and the next thing we knew the sun was coming up. He hurried home to head to Atlanta where he would be for two weeks. As quickly as he blew into my life, he was gone and I missed him terribly. I spent that two week period, wondering if he shared the same feelings as me or was he just another guy who was going to break my heart. But to my surprise, when he returned from Atlanta, my house was his first stop!

Mr. Handsome and I attempted to step away from what we knew we were both feeling in an effort to analyze the situation. We contemplated staying friends and nothing more because of the distance and the strain that it would put on a relationship, once he returned to school. I told him that I vowed to never date anyone younger than me, and he replied with his personal vow to never date a woman who was shorter than 5 feet 9 inches. So we agreed to just be friends, and to stay in touch, but that lasted about five whole minutes, because when he kissed me, the fireworks consumed us both.

We decided if we were going to be in a relationship, we needed to put all of our flaws on the table. We believed by doing so we would make the whole "new relationship process" easier. His top two items were that he was thought to be selfish and set in his ways, but that he was trying to work on both. I took that to be refreshingly honest. I then shared that I knew I was stubborn and known to hold a grudge as well as brutally honest. This exchange made me believe that we were starting off on the right foot.

He returned to St. Louis and within the first day of being back there, he called to tell me how much he missed me. That was music to my ears because I missed him too. Then he offered to buy me a plane ticket to come out there to visit him. I thought he was kidding. He simply asked, "If I send you a ticket, will you come?" I said yes, but didn't think it would actually happen, until the next day the FedEx truck showed up with a package addressed to me with a Round Trip Ticket to St. Louis, for Labor Day weekend. Several weeks passed before the weekend trip, so we had several conversations during that period getting to know one another more. He assured me that he would be a gentleman and that I didn't have to worry about him making any moves on me.

On Labor Day weekend, I packed a bag and hopped on a plane. On the other end, he waited there for me with roses and a printed itinerary of the activities that he had planned for us during my stay. It included visiting many of the city's tourist sites and the best restaurants, topped off with "An Ariel Surprise". What the heck was that? He sent me up a ladder to the roof of his apartment building, where he had two lawn chairs arranged around a small table with champagne and strawberries with whipped cream. Now that's what I'm talking about! He was the first man to really wine me and dine me, so from then on, I was pretty much toast.

I fell head over heels in love and for a year, we ran up our phone bills and fit in as many weekend visits as possible. However, the longer it went on, the more difficult it became. About three months into the relationship, the wining and dining came to a screeching halt. We argued constantly about everything and nothing. Frustrations ran high when we couldn't be together, so we couldn't really enjoy the time we did have together, but we were in too deep to give up. All of those flaws that we mentioned at the beginning began to manifest itself in ways that were more and more destructive. Other women started entering the picture and the more bitter I got; the more I tried to hold on.

After a full year of the on again and off again relationship, we came to a crossroads. He came home for a visit, at which time I was prepared to break up and tell him that I was planning to move to New York City. However, to my surprise, he countered with, "I love you and I want to marry you, but we can't base a marriage on a long distance relationship, so move back to St. Louis with me." I was completely blown away and I wasn't sure how to respond. After a few days of pondering, I decided to go and man did that cause World War III in both of our families. Neither side was happy about our decision, but I decided to follow my heart. I quit my summer gig and didn't renew my teaching contract with the county and packed up everything I could fit into my Volkswagen Jetta. In August 1997, he and I caravanned from Virginia to St. Louis to see what was in store for our future. Sometimes, that's just what we do, and that's all I have to say about that!

While there, much of the same roller coaster moments that we faced while we were apart, grew bigger and more dramatic. Seven months into the new living arrangement, a spontaneous bout with rebellion landed me at Rams Park with a number pinned to my sports bra: I decided to take a chance and audition to be a St. Louis Rams Cheerleader. This was in direct response to vest boy's decision to wait until the last minute to tell me that he was about to hop a plane to Los Angeles for a weekend with the fellas. What on earth was I doing? There were over 500 women there and ultimately they were only trying to fill five new spots. Most of these girls were 18, 19 and 20 year olds, whose dream was to be an NFL Cheerleader. However, at the age of 27 my motivation was to have an opportunity to continue dancing without having to pay for it, as well as to piss off vest boy for leaving town without telling me.

I guess it was meant to be because after a week of stress, physical pain and more insults than I shouldn't have had to endure, I made the team. I won't share the stories because some things are just better left unsaid, but taking the bad with the good, I learned a lot about the nature of competition, the female relational dynamic, presentation, humility and charity.

It pained me to admit that the LOVE THING didn't work out as planned, so after the football season ended, I packed up and my family arrived in a chariot to return back to Virginia. Really, it was a red pickup truck and a U-Haul trailer, but for the first time in my life, at the age of 28, I felt like my dad (biological father) came to save the day.

I returned home safely after an extremely emotional 13 hour drive and only stayed home long enough to regroup and redirect my sights on something new and exciting, so why not try the BIG APPLE. New York City, here I come! I caught the Peter Pan bus from DC to New York for only $29.00 a few times to interview for a few jobs and within days I was on my way to New York with some clothes and a little cash to see what the city had to offer me. WAS THIS MY REBOUND EXPERIENCE? I cannot tell a lie, ABSOLUTELY!!

Everyone thought I was crazy and I probably was, but boy was it fun. I moved into a building on the upper west side that housed women and starving artists who needed a safe, affordable place to live that was conveniently located to the hot spots. It cost me $700.00/month for a room that was at the most 8 feet x 12 feet with an uncomfortable twin bed, an old wooden dresser and a closet with an amazing view of a brick wall. It was basically like a dorm, but men were not allowed anywhere in the building beyond the lobby. They provided three meals a day, so at the time it served its purpose. I remember walking in the room and looking at the living conditions through my tears, realizing I was really on my own.

Immediately, I took a job as a receptionist/editorial assistant for PRIMEDIA, the parent company for Teen Beat, Tiger Beat and Teen Magazines. My first week on the job, a courier came in while I was in the rest room and stole my wallet with all the money I had to my name in it. I had just opened my bank account and it was going to take 10 days to receive checks so I had to keep cash to pay my rent, etc.

Just like that, the big city GOT ME GOOD! I was devastated, but to this day, my mother still says that I am the luckiest person she has ever known, that I could move to New York, get robbed and make a profit off of it.

See, by the time I had laid my sob story to the management and included how it wouldn't have happened if they had better security where I was instructed to keep my personal belongings, all of the employees had donated money out of their own pockets to help me since I didn't even have enough money to catch the subway home. I was given the department's petty cash and the company itself ended up reimbursing me for everything that I had lost. So, in that case, I suppose mommy was right!

After that, I quickly started to learn the rules of the game. I got settled in, making friends, attending parties in the Hamptons, one at Puffy's House. (His name was Puffy at the time at least.) I also danced at various well-known studios trying to get my groove back! I was probably in the best physical shape I had been in years.

Eventually, vest boy and I decided to give things another try. The long distance thing started to take its toll AGAIN and after a series of come to Jesus conversations about where the relationship was headed, we decided to get married. I can't say that it was the most romantic decision making process, but nonetheless in January of 2000 we decided to get married on the Cherry Blossom River Boat in Old Town Alexandria on Labor Day weekend of that year. I found my wedding dress in a perfect size four within a matter of weeks and things seemed to finally be going according to a plan.

Weeks after our Valentine's Day visit, I found myself throwing up at subway stops. I was in total disbelief: after a four year relationship, after we finally began planning our wedding - I was pregnant. This was definitely not according to our plan, but it was obviously a part of His plan for us. Seikou and I were able to move the wedding date up to Memorial Day weekend and I was still able to squeeze into my size four dress. Despite feeling rushed, our wedding was just how we wanted it to be.

Six months later we had our first son. Zachary was born on November 2, 2000 in Yonkers, New York. Oh, he was so precious and so tiny. You could tell from day one that he wanted to know everything there was to know about this world. Seikou and I immediately felt it was important to move back to the Washington, DC area. Sei was never a fan of New York City life and transportation. I must admit, I had to agree, especially with a child. The period that followed could easily be classified as the best of times and the worst of times in our lives. Not only were we working out how to be married, we had a baby, and Sei was preparing for the CPA Exam. Then 9-1-1 hit. Thank God for family and friends. We were glad to be back home in Virginia, especially considering Sei's old job was at a firm a few blocks away from the World Trade Center.

Being the first grandchild for both families, Zach reaped the benefits of our return to the DC Area. He got lots of love and attention from every direction. He was and still is a very sensitive child, so I quickly took on the stance of mother bear to protect his feelings. After being a stay at home mom for the first year of his life, I ended up taking a job as the assistant director of a private school in Northern Virginia. The school provided free child care for Zach. It didn't pay much, there was always some sort of drama, but I learned a lot about the differences in opportunity between the public and private education systems and how to support children with special needs and how to be an effective manager.

For what felt like an eternity (but was actually only about three years), I was bringing home the bacon, cooking it, cleaning it and taking care of the baby, primarily alone. Sei was frustrated with his employment situation, bouncing from one temp gig to the next, due to the economy and he turned to his friends for "a good time" to avoid dealing with the problems at hand. I began to question if he was really ready to be married, since he spent more time trying to act like he was still single. His friends, who were still single, hated me because I had an attitude every time they showed up to take him out. So I was known as the uptight "B" that was trying to keep him from having a good time. I couldn't compete with that, so I stopped trying and I silently grew more bitter, watching him come and go at will, often not coming home until 4:00 or 5:00am.

Ultimately, I focused all of my attention to our son, honestly assuming that it was just a matter of time before I was going to be a single parent. As Zach got older, he developed into an incredibly sweet and well-behaved child. He was very smart, which I felt was good and bad at times, because I knew he could sense the tension between Sei and I. We often fought over Zach, I focused much more on his emotional development and wellbeing and Sei was fixated on establishing rules so no child of his would act up or be an embarrassment, like many other kids we were around. I viewed Sei as Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. One minute he was the funniest guy on the block and the next he was cold and rigid and sometimes just scary. So I struggled to find balance between our parenting priorities and still try to get along.

On August 16, 2003, Xavier was born and it became a totally different story. This child came out of the womb ready to kick some butt. Xavier screamed and fought his way into this world. His adorable, chubby chocolate skin and independent spirit made it hard to be mad at him for long. None of this sat well with Sei's philosophy at all. Their personalities clashed and knowing how much Xavier was like me in that he just had to express himself no matter what. I spent a lot of time running interference to avoid more conflicts. Xavier was and is very smart and too cute for words, the difference between he and Zach was that he acted like he could care less about someone being mad at him. He had a toughness about him that I often wished I had, but it often got him in trouble with dad and at school. My boys were and will always be the center of my world and over time, I think it is safe to say that it started to turn into a situation of "us vs. him".

We argued so much that eventually I decided it was better to just be quiet to keep the peace. I did not want the kids to be used to the volatility. The kids went to school where I worked, so outside of sharing the family financial responsibilities and youth sports, I raised the boys pretty independently of Sei. The boys were very attached to me and they went everywhere I went and did everything that I did. I preferred it to be that way because I wasn't sure what I would come home to otherwise. He was never physically violent with anyone, but the tone of voice intimidated everyone, including me. Actually, the silence was worse than the yelling. Over time, the boys and I had been trained to not say or do anything that would upset him. So we dealt with matters on our own and the boys confided in me for everything.

When I introduced Sei to people, most interpreted him to be arrogant and/or stuck up, and I often had to go back to explain that he was just shy and that once you got to know him, he was actually a fun guy. That was my man, silent and cold one minute and the life of the party the next. His friends couldn't imagine him serious and the people who were acquaintances couldn't imagine him being fun. When things were good, they were really good and when they were bad, they were really bad. That became my normal. We didn't talk about important things, our conversations stayed at the surface level and we discussed children and logistics on a need to know basis.

As a woman who always had something to say, I felt like I was being suffocated by the confinement that was dictating the circumstances of my life. The law that Sei lived by was, "You don't air your family's dirty laundry." So, he took great offense to me discussing our problems with friends or other family members. That did not set well with me.

I learned pretty quickly that I wanted and needed a more fulfilling path to follow for my career and my life in general. What did that mean? At that point I only knew that wasn't it.

TO READ MORE, you can purchase **Running on G: What's Filling Your Tank?** by Kimberly J. James at:

http://www.songsfromtheword.com/NewChristianBooks/store (epub and paperback)

http://amzn.to/tFZGtu (Kindle)

http://amzn.to/uMgk1u (paperback)

Chapter 52: Deborah McCarragher, Mission Possible – Spiritual Covering

Reprinted from **Mission Possible** , a nonfiction resource for women by Deborah McCarragher. Copyright 2009 by Alabaster Box Publishing Inc. Used by permission of author.

You've Embraced Christ – Now What?

My remarriage in 1982 was closure to a lonely period of singleness after being divorced for five years. My new husband was intelligent, caring and romantic, good looking, had a good long-term career, and kept a clean, well organized apartment. That was enough for me!

In the spring of 1989 my neighbor had repeatedly asked me to church and I had repeatedly refused. I didn't need church thank you very much, and I politely made numerous excuses. She, however, didn't give up. I eventually gave in and said, "yes", "only for my son's sake," I reminded her. Well, GOD had other plans!

I was radically saved that first Sunday morning. I had asked many questions in my Sunday school class, and during the invitation, I walked the aisle with my bible study teacher. I remember feeling emotionally worn out that afternoon. I took my son to the park as my husband was working that weekend, and I reflected on all that had transpired. Little did I know God would begin a work in me that would take me on a spiritual journey I didn't expect.

Day after day, week after week, month after month I grew closer to God, hungered for God and began serving Him from my heart. I took my 21/2 year old son every time I attended church. My husband would nod his head in approval and wave as we left each week for church.

The spiritual skirmish had begun. Don't underestimate the enemy. I did not fully understand spiritual warfare and would learn about that as time progressed. I began to grow in my understanding of God's Word and how Satan opposes a couple's holy union. I would learn about "putting on the whole armor of God" (Ephesians 6:10-19). I would learn that "standing firm" was mandatory – not an option. My spiritual clothing was necessary for survival as "half of a saved couple." God desires for you to become "one flesh" – at the altar and in the spirit realm. Satan can't bear the thought of it. This is where your perseverance plays a huge part.

The enemy will mercilessly bombard you with thoughts, feelings, emotions and physical disdain for your mate. You must take every thought captive (2 Corinthians 10:5) and stop looking at your mate as the enemy. Don't let his actions and words provoke you into disobedience.

Paul writes in Ephesians 4:29, "Let no corrupt communication proceed out of your mouth, but what is good for building up, that it may impart grace to the hearers." Matthew 18:9 states, "and if your eye causes you to sin, pluck it out and cast it from you." So it goes with your tongue.

Stop committing spiritual murder against your mate! Bite it off and cast it away! Don't sin by grieving God as you curse the very person God wills to join you to, as ONE!

ANTICIPATION is our greatest asset in the fulfillment of your spouse's conversion!

Remember that "the battle is the Lord's" (I Samuel 17:47) and earnestly give the salvation of your mate to God in prayer. Early on in your conversion it seems easier to be hopeful concerning your husband's salvation. You will need an added measure of faith as the years go by.

In Romans 4:18 Paul refers to Abraham by saying, "who, contrary to hope, in hope believed." This is the type of faith you will need for your husband's salvation.

God is your spiritual husband while your mate is not yet the priest of your home. Your obedience and submission to Him are essential as God knows our shortcomings and weaknesses; yet He uses them to perfect us in waiting. Perseverance is one thing you will need with a "holy dig in your heels" attitude and a "stubbornness in the Lord" towards the salvation of your mate. Salvation is a personal thing. I had responded to The Lord's call, and my husband had his own choice to make.

Seek and Find

Ephesians 6:10 speaks of being "strong in the Lord and in the power of His might." How does Paul's exhortation compare with what God spoke to Joshua in Joshua 1:9?

Ephesians 6:11-12 says to "...put on the whole armor of God, that you may be able to stand against the wiles of the devil." What does verse 12 say about our enemy? Where does the enemy reside? What does Paul say in 2 Timothy 2:26 about our state of mind and our venerability?

In I Samuel 17:37-39 David was blessed and released by King Saul to go fight the giant Goliath. David clothed himself with Saul's armor, helmet, and coat of mail. What happens when we try to go out "to battle" with natural armor as opposed to our God-given armor? What made the difference in David's approach to his battle with Goliath (vs. 45-47)? What does Paul say about our armor in 2 Corinthians 6:7?

A good soldier keeps his armor in top condition and checks his weapons frequently for flaws, weaknesses and defects. Ephesians 6:13 says to "take up the whole armor of God..." Read Ephesians 6:14-17 and name each piece of armor and identify its function. Which pieces are defensive in nature, and which ones are offensive? Can we be fully protected if we're missing one piece? Why or why not? According to Hebrews 4:12, what does Paul say about our most important weapon?

2 Corinthians 10:3-5 teaches that our warfare is spiritual in nature. Natural (or worldly) methods and weapons are not effective. How does this correlate to what Paul addresses in Ephesians 6:12? Remember, your mate is not the enemy. How is your obedience to Christ as your "spiritual Commander" effective against the devil's tactics? What is the outcome when we follow God's ways?

What is "faith in action"? In James 2:14, James makes the point that we can say we have faith. Hebrews 11:1 says, "Now faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen". How does Hebrews 11:1 compare with Romans 8:24-25? What is James' main point in James 2:17-24? Do you think our part is to help God, or let Him use us to bring Him glory?

TO READ MORE, you can purchase **Mission Possible** by Deborah McCarragher at:
http://bit.ly/rYzHkV (epub, mobi, PDF and paperback)

<http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/19642> (ebook)

http://bit.ly/MPKindle (Kindle)

http://amzn.to/Missionpossible (paperback)

Chapter 53: Anita Mellot, School Is Where the Home Is

Excerpted from **School Is Where the Home Is** by Anita Mellott. Copyright 2011 by Anita Mellott. Used by permission of Judson Press.

[Homeschool and You] DAY1

Hope

" _The old order of things has passed away...I am making everything new!"_ (Revelation 21:4-5).

Lisa, my eleven-year-old, drew a stick figure on the magnetic drawing board that her sister Katy had just unwrapped.

"Now something cool's going to happen. Watch!" She slid the bar down its side. Seven-month-old Katy went down on her knees and ran her fingers over the toy's surface. She picked it up and turned it over, trying to find the missing figure.

"See, you do this." Lisa grabbed a star-shaped magnet and showed her sister how to stamp on the magnetic board. Soon the toy's gleaming white surface was as dark as the night sky. Then together, hand over hand, they slid the bar. Katy squealed and clapped her hands as black gave way to bright white.

A similar toy—a "magic slate"—was my favorite when I was a child. I loved the fact that no matter what my mistakes were, I could start afresh.

That's exactly what a new school year signifies: a fresh start, new beginnings. In Revelation, Jesus declares that the old order of things has passed, and he ushers in newness of life. The Biblical meaning of "new" conveys a sense of freshness—something that hasn't been used before or become worn out. I'm grabbing hold of that hope as I begin a new school year. My mistakes and the challenges of the past are erased when I come to Jesus in humble repentance. He breathes new life into our school. I'm taking a step toward a new beginning this year.

Thank you, Lord, for new beginnings, for hope.

Digging deeper: For what new beginnings are you thankful?

[Homeschool Foundations] DAY2

The Source

_I can do [everything] through him who gives me strength._ (Philippians 4:13).

Catalogs surrounded me as I sat on the floor of our family room. ABeka, Sonlight, Five in a Row. _Which curriculum should I buy?_

Though I had taught graduate and undergraduate journalism courses, being responsible for my daughter Lisa's education overwhelmed me. _What did I know about teaching a five-year-old?_

Yet my husband, Jim, and I had prayed, explored schools, and weighed the pros and cons of homeschooling an only child. It took more than a year before we were certain of God's leading.

The more I thought about homeschooling, the more I lay awake at night. _What if I messed up her foundational years?_ "Lord, I have no idea how to homeschool. Please help me," became my daily prayer.

Weeks later at church a sentence grasped my heart: "God always empowers you for the task he gives you." It reminded me of Philippians 4:13.

On our first day of school, Lisa slid her tiny hand into mine as we bowed in prayer. I knew then that Jesus would walk with us on this journey.

On our last day of school that year, as Lisa read aloud from her little Bible, I blinked back tears. Successfully homeschooling her hadn't rested on my academic qualifications and abilities, but on Jesus, my source.

That evening Lisa gasped when Jim handed her a certificate for completing kindergarten. Eyes sparkling, she refused to let it go until we promised to frame it. That certificate still has a place of pride in our home.

Every year since then, we've made our last school day special. It's a celebration of the end of a school year. And it's a celebration of God manifesting his strength through my weakness.

Digging deeper: What reassurance does Philippians 4:13 offer you?

TO READ MORE, you can purchase **School Is Where the Home** **Is** by Anita Mellott at: http://amzn.to/tXKgYl (paperback).

Chapter 54: Mogama, Refugee Was My Name

Reprinted from **Refugee Was My Name** , an international memoir by Mogama. Copyright 2012. Used by permission of author.

December 24, 1989

On this Christmas Eve day, silent dangers lurk; an anarchy that is about to torment our country. Most of us Liberians have no idea that our country is about to plunge into continual fright, panic, and turmoil. We cannot forecast how much the impending changes will affect our confidence in our country and ourselves. Because my friends and I are unaware, we eagerly anticipate spending tomorrow, Christmas Day, in the capital city. We will let ourselves go, singing, dancing, eating, selling, buying—celebrating in ways that Liberians associate with the Advent of the Savior.

Rick's Institute has asked me to join the teaching staff in the New Year, another accomplishment gained through years of struggle. I can realistically envision a future of many new endeavors taking off into flight, with safe and smooth landings ahead. It is an exciting time, when I prepare to teach at Rick's Institute and to continue as pastor of Grace Baptist Church. I have hopes that Grace Church will one day be an education center for Liberian children in the Barnersville community. Being a preacher and teacher will fulfill my dreams to leave far behind my identity as a poverty-stricken village kid, a homeless street boy!

It is a time to savor on this Christmas Eve day. I do not want to think about unsettled matters in my personal life. Like most Liberians, I prepare to celebrate this holy time. Although our country has a sometimes-violent history and remains poor, as a people we are amazingly hopeful and eager to celebrate.

We have an inborn zeal for peace. Mr. Samuel Kanyon Doe, our president, rules for the ninth year as a military and semi-democratic leader. But, he has at least allowed some of us the freedoms necessary to pursue education and professions, to work, and to make ways to improve our futures.

This Christmas Eve night the stars seem to be lined up to shine upon a brilliant future for this poor boy from the countryside. I feel remade by education and its disciplined knowledge and skills. I am pleased with my achievements and feel ready as a responsible adult, by God's grace. I will have a combined income of $450 per month as a teacher and pastor. Already, I belong to a fortunate minority in Liberia, a part of the middle-class. Education is the ladder by which I have climbed out of the abyss of poverty.

One personal concern clouds my Christmas Eve contentment, yet otherwise there is so much to look forward to in the New Year. In two years as pastor at Grace Baptist, our little church has added a new wing for Children's Church. We have set up a board to enlist potential teachers for a Grace Elementary School. Another big undertaking is a new mission in the Kaduma Community, where Deacon James Kahnweah lives. The mission will become Kaduma Baptist Church, possibly with Brother Bennego Kangar, a seminary student, as evangelist-pastor. With Grace Church outreach and its own evangelism, music, and strong Bible teaching ministry, I feel like one of the most blessed pastors in Liberia.

Discord between my fiancée Mahjay and me continues about unsettled wedding plans, and recently Mahjay again vented her frustration: "It's been months since we got engaged!"

Tonight, I will try to reassure her that everything will work out. This Christmas Eve she will not have to hear talk about my studies next year, now that seminary is behind me. I hope to see her set aside her unhappiness about the delays in our plans. That is the only problem on my mind. I have no idea of Mahjay's roles in the months ahead; the daring she will show, or where and how our future will be decided.

When we meet to be alone, Mahjay does not set aside her upset with me and enjoy the evening. She tosses rapid questions to me with an especially determined look in her eyes. "When are we going to start talking about the wedding, Mogama? How long are we going to wait?"

I try to react calmly, giving lots of reasons. "How about after the New Year? I have the new teaching job at Rick's to adjust to. I'm really nervous about it. And I haven't even decided who my best man will be. Also, your mom lives here, and I want to bring my parents, or at least my mother, from the interior to attend."

"Mogama, I'm not even talking about planning the wedding right now. I just want to know when! At least, what year, what month?"

"As soon as I've moved everything from the seminary to my new apartment and after I begin my teaching job. You don't know how eager I am to start talking about marriage."

"I've stood in so many weddings as bridesmaid, maid of honor, organizer, and so on. It's time for my friends to take part in _my_ wedding, for them to eat _my_ cake, dance at _my_ reception."

Mahjay gets up from the couch and walks to the hallway, then returns and stands next to me as if wanting me to say something to reassure her.

"But it's just a matter of time," I say. "Your friends will attend _your_ wedding, but we can't rush things just for the sake of your friends."

"Ever since our engagement, everybody's been asking, even the people at church: 'When's the big day?' I want to be able to tell them something concrete. I'm getting tired of saying, 'I don't know.' I should know. I want to know."

Mahjay's insistence brings to the surface the lingering dilemma that causes me to distrust and feel uncertain about her. I look into her eyes as unwaveringly as possible. I have been hungry for the truth for a while: "I understand your point, Mahjay, but am I the only guy in your life now? Can you tell me straight to my face tonight that you have no other lover but me? Can you? Is the competition over between me and other guys I hear about?"

"What competition? What kind of question is that?" Mahjay snaps at her words with a saddened note. She knows that for years I've had to compete for her loyal love. She slumps into the couch, and I squeeze myself as close to her as possible without sitting on her lap.

"Look, Mahjay, why don't we just enjoy this Christmas? Should we argue about our wedding day on Christmas Eve?"

A long silence follows. I hug Mahjay tightly. She leans her head on my shoulder. I feel tears. I don't think she knows my eyes are tear-filled too, though I try not to sob audibly like her.

"Don't worry, Sweetheart," I say softly. "We know we'll get married. That's why we got engaged in the first place. Right? Engagement should lead to wedding. Remember?"

Mahjay nods in agreement. I hand her a handkerchief from my back pocket, and she squeezes it, looking up at me. "You wipe your tears first," she says sweetly.

Soon, late on this Christmas Eve night, Mahjay and I are again at peace. We share a mixture of nerves, eagerness, and uncertainty about an exact wedding date, yet I know it is almost time to move forward. I hope that the New Year will bring that time, when I can really settle down with Mahjay. We will plant marriage roots ready to bud, blossom, and bear fruit, like a tree planted by the water. Looking forward to exchanging vows with Mahjay adds layers of delicious meaning to life, in spite of old questions that linger.

Some people already question my engagement to Mahjay. Some think it is a head-in-the-sand decision. Yet, I want to focus on loving thoughts of sunshine, free of speculation about dark clouds ahead, although at times I hesitate. I don't want to think about that. This is a special Christmas Eve, with signs of a promising future. The delicate power of that future may be magical enough to make Mahjay and me a happy couple, after all. We can prove all doubters wrong.

**Refugee Was My Name** by Mogama is to be available in February 2012. For more information, visit http://www.mogama.info.

Chapter 55: Debra A. Newell, A Strand of Pearls

Reprinted from **A Strand of Pearls** , an inspirational nonfiction collection of memoirs by Debra A. Newell. Copyright 2007, printed in 2008 by BookEnds Press (printer). Used by permission of author.

THIS IS YOUR WAKE-UP CALL

Ten thousand of the enemy may fall at your side. I will never leave you or forsake you, my precious warrior daughter. You are stronger in Me than you know. When the window of Heaven opens for you, many others will enter as well.

Debra A. Newell

"This is your wake-up call to be aware of everything going on around you," I hear in my mind as it struggles out of the drug-hazed fogginess. Those were words my counselor spoke eight months earlier after I was assaulted and robbed. I do not think I truly understood those words until a few hours ago.

As I am admitted into this place I give all my possessions to my daughter. My lifelines to the outside—cell phone, money, credit cards, identification—are gone. I sense myself slipping into anonymity.

I stand at the door that will soon block my access to freedom. I turn, hug my daughter tightly, and tell her I love her. At the urging of the attendant, I say, "goodbye for now; I will see you soon." Then, I turn and follow an unknown person into an unknown place. I am allowed to go out into a little courtyard, attended like a prisoner, to smoke a cigarette before I must go to my room and sleep.

I look around. Everything is surreal, almost as though I am watching myself in a different dimension. I am peaceful, cautious. My angels are with me; I feel no fear. I know that the lives of both my daughter and I were saved just a few hours ago. The Lord has a strange way of doing things at times, and I do not know why I ended up here. I know it is all part of His plan. For the moment, this is my refuge.

This place seems somewhat odd for God to choose as my safe place—my respite—although it does serve the purpose, I suppose. I do know, though, that there is a way out. He provided a way of escape from certain death; that is what brought me here. Now I know He will provide a way of escape from this place at the right time. All I have to do is stay in tune with what the Lord is saying and wait for His timing.

No toothbrush, no comb, and no cigarettes. I have no change of clothes; I sleep in what I am wearing when I arrived. These garments are my uniform for the time being.

The pillow is lumpy, the room is cold, the blanket is thin, and there are bars on the window that overlooks a parking lot bathed in an ethereal light. I sleep fitfully.

It is now morning. The anti-psychotic drug I was given when I arrived made my neck stiff.

I hear a rustling in the hall and move to the doorway. People are lining up for shots. Hmm...I don't like shots. I stay out of that line. When the others are finished with their shots, they head down the hall. I follow. We are going for food.

There are rules, I am told. Meals are at specific times. If you do not eat at the designated time, you miss out. I pick up a tray and watch what the others do, following their lead. The food is barely palatable.

There is a break after the meal. We smokers are allowed to smoke outside in the courtyard. The others are kind and share their cigarettes with me. We chain smoke, lighting one cigarette off another. The "warden" is the only one with a lighter. The others talk. I listen. They each speak about the events and circumstances that brought them here, why they are still here, how and when they plan to get out. An interesting assortment of humanity is assembled here all in one place—a group not likely to be gathered elsewhere. I feel both strangely out of place in the company of these folks as well as overwhelmingly grateful for their kindness toward me, the stranger who has no good reason for being here.

Now there is occupational therapy followed by individual counseling. I am not sure why I say what I do, but it must be the Holy Spirit leading. The counselor states that she likes my attitude and believes she will be able to work with me to bring about positive outcomes during ongoing counseling sessions.

Sometime during the morning, clothes and cigarettes arrive for me. My daughter drops them off. It is not visiting time, or I am certain she would stay and visit. My possessions are delivered in a paper bag—supposedly a "safe" container, I wonder? One of the women loans me shampoo, soap, and a hair dryer so I can take a shower and wash my hair. Obviously, she had planned to come to this fine establishment and was able to bring the appropriate accoutrements.

Then lunch. I am not aware of having an assigned place to sit, but I learn differently after sitting in a spot someone comes up behind me to claim. I move to sit with an antisocial young woman. She wants to engage, but is distant. Her eating habits are different than what I am accustomed to. Her eating habits offend me, I think to myself. Nevertheless, I speak with her briefly on some mundane topic.

The sense of surrealism continues. I sit in the day room with the others. Most watch TV. Some play cards. I sit and watch. Someone asks me how long I will be here. I respond, "I do not know," although I do not believe it will be very long. One of the others, a man, says to me, "You look so peaceful and glowing. Are you a Christian? You must be to be that peaceful." I respond, "Yes, I am; I feel peaceful. I am being cared for by my angels."

Group counseling is scheduled for a two-hour session that evening. My daughter, brother, and folks are supposed to come to the meeting. Group starts and my family is not in the room. I keep waiting for them. They finally arrive, about fifteen minutes late. My parents and brother have driven twelve hours to be here with me. They have also come to provide support to my nineteen year-old daughter, who is concerned about me and not quite sure yet what is going on and why. They each give me a big hug and say, "I love you."

Group meeting goes on for about two hours. The leader is a recovering alcoholic. Part of the session activity is for each of us to say, in our own words, why we are here. There is a woman who left home and was sleeping in a car on the beach with her children prior to coming to the facility; another woman checked herself in because of stress at home; yet another is depressed and cannot control her medications at home. There are people who speak about drug habits and alcohol addiction; people who are barely able to communicate; people who tell us they cannot hold down jobs or do well on the "outside." Most of their root issues seem to stem from "relationship" problems; some long-term and deeply rooted, others relatively recent and short-term.

I do not know, really, why I am here, but I instinctively know that describing the events that led to my incarceration is not going to help my cause, nor is stating that I do not know why I am here. So I say something generic and the "turn" moves on. When the session is over, all family and guests must leave. I receive hugs all around once again with a promise that they will return again the next evening for "group."

For me, this is an excruciating place to be. Someone orders me and the other "boarders" when to do everything. Every move is watched. There is no privacy or freedom. There are rules controlling every aspect of life in this little community. There is one phone and it is available only for brief periods each day. One resident is concerned because she needs to speak to her attorney to arrange being released within a very brief time frame.

Finally, on the second morning, I am "evaluated" by the medical director. The interview takes place in a room with glass walls. She asks questions to which I fluently respond. She repeats several times that she doesn't understand why I am here. In the end, she indicates that the chief psychologist will also evaluate me, and then she departs. She does not provide a time frame within which the next evaluation will occur. I check with a couple of individuals who seem to have some authority in the administrative section. No one knows when the chief psychologist will appear. This lack of a definitive timeline makes me uneasy. I shuffle through the daily routine once again.

The counselor assigned to me while I am "in residence" introduces herself to me. She asks questions; I respond. Again, I have no idea why I give the answers I do; I just go with what the Holy Spirit gives me at the time. The counselor indicates she is impressed with the answers I give and my willingness to work through things. When this session is over, the consulting chief psychologist arrives and I am summoned. He repeats many of the questions I was previously asked. He seems friendly and professional, but I am leery about his presence for some reason. I do not want to give him all the information he is asking for. I know now that he is checking for discrete cognitive deficits. He says he is checking to see if I may have had a stroke or myocardial infarction (MI) that caused a momentary "lapse" or seizure type of event. He can find no residual effects to support his hypothesis and concurs with the medical director's assessment of having "no clue" why I am here. He gives me his card and invites me to call if I need to. He leaves.

Then someone else official comes and sits down with papers in hand. She says that my twenty-four-hour observation period has expired and I need to voluntarily commit myself for further evaluation, or they will go to court and have my commitment ordered by a judge. I was originally brought in for a twenty-four-hour observation period. It has been at least thirty-six hours since I arrived, and I have been thoroughly observed during this time period. Someone was not careful to monitor the time line and have my evaluations conducted within the allocated timeframe, and now appears to be trying to cover for it. Plus, I have insurance, which I am certain is a factor for consideration by the management of this fine establishment in wanting to extend my stay. And besides, why in the world would I commit myself voluntarily when no one can determine a good reason for me to be here in the first place?

I know somehow that this is the cracked window of escape. I say, "No, I will not voluntarily commit myself" and say nothing else. This official person with papers in hand sits and stares at me, and then at the papers. After a moment she gets up and goes to the office. I sit where I am and wait. A few minutes later, the same person comes back and says, "Okay, there is one other option. You can release yourself AMA." "What is AMA?" I ask. "Against medical advice," she responds. "But your employer may not let you go back to work." "Oh, yes they will," I respond. She leaves the "release AMA" paper for me to read and sign. I read every word before signing and then ask for a copy. The copy is provided.

I decide to push a little bit to expedite my departure from this establishment. The phone is not in the day room now because my interrogation by the chief psychiatrist and the discussion about commitment and release has lasted beyond the assigned "phone access" time. I ask, "Since I was in 'meetings' during the time the phone was available, and the phone is not currently on the wall in the dining room, may I please be given the phone now so I can call someone to come and pick me up?" If the answer is no, I will have to wait until after dinner to use the phone.

The woman hesitates, then says, "Yes, I suppose in this case we can make an exception and let you use the phone now." She proffers a phone that I miraculously figure out how to connect to the wall. Then I dial the number to my home. My mom answers the phone. "Please come pick me up," I say. She says, "Are you sure you are okay to come home?" My mom is concerned about my well-being because she does not know what has been going on or the circumstance that brought me here. "Yes," I respond. "Please come soon." "Okay, I will round up everyone and we will head that way. It will take about forty-five minutes to an hour to get there," she says.

I make the rounds, expressing my thanks and saying goodbye to the others. I wish them each well; they all return the sentiment.

Forty-five minutes later I am in the van with my family. We are heading home. My home, my safe place—at least until a few days ago.

How did I manage to be admitted to the psychiatric hospital, you ask? Many complex events led up to the brief incarceration.

Nine months earlier I was assaulted, battered, and robbed in a movie theatre parking lot. I sustained multiple blows to the head, resulting in a concussion, a fractured jaw, three skull fractures, severe shock, and some paranoia related to the trauma. All of this happened only two days before my daughter's appointed time to report to college. She volunteered to stay home from college, go to school locally, and take care of me. I said, "Baby, this is your time. I love you for offering to stay home, but I will be okay." Somehow I pulled myself together, and off we went to move her into the dorm in a city four hours away. She and I and our beloved dog of sixteen years, along with everything she would need to survive in a ten by ten room for nine months, headed out on an unknown journey.

I returned home after my daughter was safely installed in her dorm room. With my former world turned upside down, I started on the healing path, going to a counselor and doing "normal" things as much as possible. At work, I could not concentrate or remember information very well. After work I stayed home and rarely socialized, other than with my dog, Sallie. Things were not totally okay, and I was not okay, though I was not certain what was going on with me. I tried not to reveal my concern or my deficits to my daughter or other family members because I did not want to worry anyone.

My assailant was never caught. The detectives working the case called and told me I should take a concealed weapon course and carry a handgun on my person. I contemplated and vacillated on that suggestion for quite a while. Finally, I decided that I did not want to carry a weapon that could be used against me, or that might inadvertently cause harm to an innocent person.

Then along came a man whom I had met briefly a couple months before. He said he loved me and wanted to take care of me. I was vulnerable, and he knew how to tell me what I wanted to hear. Had I not been through a recent trauma, I would have immediately sensed that this man was a habitual piranha who preyed upon damsels in distress. But I did not recognize this. The Holy Spirit had warned me "This is not the right thing to do" on the morning the man was to take up residence in my home. I went forward even so because the wheels were already in motion. I chose the path of least resistance—one of sin and disobedience—and let this man into my life. And then I had the audacity to believe God would honor the situation.

The events that ensued do not need to be recounted here in their entirety. Suffice it to say that allowing this man into my life was "bad news." In short, he tried to gain control over me and everything connected to me, using any means he thought would accomplish his goal. He tried to maim me, poisoned me on multiple occasions, attempted to strangle me, and made several efforts to gain financial control over my affairs. In addition, he was a habitual liar, a recreational drug user, and was into pornography. None of these things had ever been a part of my life or the life of anyone close to me, so I was particularly naïve. Many of my friends and family were very concerned about my well-being on multiple levels.

You may wonder why I stayed in this situation. Understand that this man was highly accomplished at his art—he was talented at being sneaky. I later learned, through Holy Spirit revelation as well as confirmation from other assorted people and related incidents, that he drugged me often, either through spiking a drink or putting something in my food, so that I was unaware of my surroundings and of what he was doing to me. And on the occasion when I did see the signs, I was reticent to acknowledge my own folly in allowing him into my life. Somehow, I believed his bad behavior would go away. I was still somewhat in shock from the assault and robbery and was not thinking entirely clearly. I now also know I suffered brain trauma from the assault, which affected some of my mental abilities slightly for a period of time.

Thank goodness I remembered something a woman in my church once told me: "Never marry anyone until you have dated him for at least a year. That is how long it takes for a person's true self to come out." This man had wanted to marry me immediately after taking up residence in my home. It was probably part of the scheme whereby he could legitimately take control of my finances and all areas of my life. I said, "No, we need to wait at least a year, and then there will need to be a prenuptial agreement to protect my daughter." After doing his best to get the best of me, and being blocked at every turn, the man started to decompensate, with his behavior becoming more erratic and desperate. This is when I believe he turned up the heat on his effort to gain the power and control he sought, performing continually escalating acts of intimidation, deceit, and evil. What continued to keep me safe, and keep him off balance, were my angels. Of this I am totally convinced. In Psalm 91 the word of God states:

He who dwells in the shelter of the Most High will rest in the shadow of the Almighty. I will say to the Lord, "He is my refuge and my fortress, my God, in whom I trust." Surely He will save you from the fowler's snare and from the deadly pestilence. He will cover you with His feathers, and under his wings you will find refuge; His faithfulness will be your shield and rampart. You will not fear the terror of night nor the arrow that flies by day, nor the pestilence that stalks in the darkness, nor the plague that destroys at midday. A thousand may fall at your side, ten thousand at your right hand, but it will not come near you. You will only observe with your eyes and see the punishment of the wicked. If you make the Most High your dwelling – even the Lord, who is my refuge – then no harm will befall you, no disaster will come near your tent. For He will command his angels concerning you to guard you in all your ways; they will lift you up in their hands, so that you will not strike your foot against a stone. You will tread upon the lion and the cobra; you will trample the great lion and the serpent. "Because he loves me," says the Lord, "I will rescue him; I will protect him, for he acknowledges my name. He will call upon me, and I will answer him; I will be with him in trouble, I will deliver him and honor him and show him my salvation."

The Lord was protecting me even though I had been willfully disobedient. My own disobedience is not the only thing the Lord rescued me from. He protected me from the full onslaught of the worst evil I had ever known at a time when I was very vulnerable. I know now that God provided protection from the extinction of my life and my daughter's life, and from my giving control of everything to this man. My daughter is my heart. Had the enemy taken her, it would have been more than I could bear.

Jeremiah 29:11 says, "For I know the plans I have for you declares the Lord; plans to prosper you and not to harm you; plans to give you a hope and a future." At some point after all the horror was past, I began to realize that the Lord does have a plan for my life, for each of our lives; a good plan that involves being fully alive to serve Him and live in abundance.

This whole series of events may sound more like a plot from a movie than an ordinary person's life, particularly one undeserving of such misfortune (one would think) after having suffered the trauma of being assaulted, battered and robbed. I, however, opened the door to it all when I let this man into my life. This brings us to the culminating act in the real-life drama that led to my unanticipated incarceration, and in this instance, the truth really is stranger than fiction.

The gentleman in question mysteriously disappeared – supposedly on his way to Mexico – at the beginning of a holiday weekend. I knew in my spirit and by the Lord's leading that this was not true, but that he was still in the area and there was something going down. My daughter and I were staying in the home of neighbors, but this situation had become uncomfortable when amongst many other things, the head of this household did not let me speak to my daughter who had supposedly called and was on her way back from work.

The front door deadbolt was "broken" and thus no one able to come in or get out. The owners already set the alarm on the garage door entry. I was sitting on the sofa staring down a box of ammunition, which if ignited would rock the whole block, not to mention the bodily harm. The other members of the household mysteriously disappeared into other rooms. Once again I hear "kidnapping" being screamed in my spirit, and the foreshadowing of doomsday about to occur, if no action is taken to stem the flow of horrific events.

After a series of his lies and evil deeds, and in the midst of what appeared to be an elaborate attempt by this man to kill my daughter and to kill me, I cried out to God to deliver us from impending doom. God heard my cry and answered. Almost as instinct, I knew the only way to prevent the worst was to attract a great deal of attention. This was the only way of escape. The whole scene originated from and was orchestrated by the Lord through a plan from a vision He showed me in a split second. And because the plan involved a strange series of actions—including having my daughter call the police as she drove home from work, while I jumped out a window and ran screaming down the street—when the police came, they took me to the psychiatric hospital for evaluation. It was an unusual plan, but I knew it was what the Lord had guided me to do. While I was hospitalized my angels continued to watch over me. And, as you read earlier in the story, my way of escape was again provided by the Lord (from the hospital).

This series of evil events shook me to the core. For the first time in my life I entertained the ideas that I was not invincible and not in control of my own life, and that there are people in this world who do not play by the same "rules of engagement" I do.

Where does the story go from here?

I have heard it said that if you experience a single trauma, you think you have lost your mind; if you experience multiple traumas, you think you have lost your life. That statement is a fairly apt description of my state of being after I was released from the hospital. I knew the Lord had saved both me and my daughter, and I knew He had a plan, but things did not look, feel, taste, or smell anything like they had in the past. My world was upside-down. I had no clue what needed to happen or how to get from where I was to where I needed to be. But I knew the One who did know all these things.

At first I slept with all the lights on in the house and with my Bible laying open on my chest at whatever page I had been reading when I fell asleep. For a year and a half I could not sleep without the lights on. Over and over, many times each day and night, I breathed this prayer to the Lord: "Heal me, guide me, teach me, comfort me, protect me, and give me peace." Knowing I had come so close to departing this world, I was filled with a sense of gratitude and wonder for the gift of each new day to love and serve the Lord.

Three years after the assault and battery I was able to travel abroad. I kept a journal; I wrote cards to my daughter who was away at college. I studied the Bible and let the Lord show me the truths for my life contained in His word. I also became more aware of my environment and more tuned in to the still, small voice of God (through the Holy Spirit) teaching, guiding, and whispering truths to my spirit. I pressed into the Lord, and He brought me to a new level of trust, faith, and obedience. My spiritual gifts blossomed further and became more prominent as I learned to focus less on myself and began concentrating more fully on God and my relationship with the Lord.

Soon thereafter, the Lord sent me out to a new place. This adventure led me to a deeper level of healing. He took me away from everything and everyone I knew. This time was just for me and the Lord. I healed not only of the traumas, but also of other experiences that had wounded my spirit, thoughts, and emotions across my lifetime. Though not always easy, the healing process is very sweet and more worthwhile than mere words can explain. This time alone with the Lord is the best investment I ever made in myself.

I came to the point where the Lord showed me, through the counsel of a wise Episcopal priest, that in order to receive complete healing I needed to forgive both of my assailants—the known one and the unknown one. And I also needed to forgive myself, both for being vulnerable and placing myself and my daughter in danger, and for allowing sin to enter my life when I let the man into my home. Over a period of time, and with multiple attempts, I have been able to forgive. I continue to walk out this forgiveness in faith.

It is an amazing testament to His love for me. Not only that, but it shows how totally awesome He is to be able to accomplish this work in me, and I know He will do it for all who ask. I listen and obey His voice cheerfully. He is drawing me farther up and further into Himself. Where I was weak, He made me strong.

What I have learned through time is that every day is a gift, a treasure, and that God is carrying out His magnificent plan in my life—a plan which is continually unfolding and always amazes me. The Lord and I are on this upward journey together. He invited me to step into the greater and higher destiny of my life and is with me every step of the way. Knowing this is both comforting and exciting at the same time. I also learned how much my daughter and family love me. I learned to love myself. I now know my true identity in Christ as a princess, beloved daughter of the creator of the universe, and heir to the throne. In my complete and total weakness, He is my strength. He remains so, every minute of every day.

Over the course of seven years the Lord gradually taught me how to love and trust again. I learned of the great depth and breadth of God's love for His children. He showed me how to live contentedly and peacefully in Him, even in the midst of uncertainty. During the healing season, not only did the Lord transform me, the Lord was also faithful to restore to me my health, heal my traumatized brain, instantaneously deliver me from the addiction of smoking cigarettes, teach me the value of, restore and preserve my sexual purity, and facilitate completion of my Doctor of Philosophy degree, as well as training in ministry. Seven years after the initial assault incident the Lord said to me, "It is done; it is healed."

The freedom I enjoy in the Lord now is so far removed from the place of literal and figurative bondage I was in just a few short years ago that I hardly believe I have come so far. It is all a testament to God's amazing grace and mercy. The Lord has transformed me into a different woman today than I was seven years ago. The process was not easy, as I did not initially trust anyone or anything. Step by step, day by day, He increased my faith and trust.

As a result of these experiences, I know so much about the greatness of God that I bubble over with love and gratitude, and want to share my exuberance about the Lord with others. And now, through my life-changing experience, He is using me to minister to others. For instance, I now facilitate workshops for writing and healing that are geared toward those who have been "sinned against."

Genesis 50:20 encourages: "You [the enemy] intended to harm me, but God intended it for good to accomplish what is now being done, the saving of many lives."

The Good News is that this healing and transformation is available to everyone who believes and accepts Jesus as Lord and Savior. God loves you and wants to heal your wounds and transform your life just as surely as He has done for me. Psalms 30: 2-3 says: _"O Lord my God, I called to You for help and You healed me. O Lord, You brought me up from the grave, You spared me from going down into the pit."_

Not so long ago, as I was sharing with a friend about God's goodness, we praised Him for His bountiful provision for each of us. She felt impressed to read a certain passage of scripture for me, and as I listened to her read the words my spirit was blessed by the psalm that seemed so surely written for me. The passage she spoke over me was Psalm 91. Please take time to go back a few pages in my story and reread those powerful verses once again.

My prayer is that you will understand that total healing and redemption are available for you. It is a glorious process and the Lord God will guide and direct you every step of the way.

Reflection

Had I lost hope at any time during my abuse and victimization or while I was in the institution where I did not belong, had I focused on the negatives and doubted that God was with me, I might have given up, and the outcome of my story could have been quite different. Having certainty that the Lord was with me, I knew He would provide another route of escape and would set me on the right path. My job at that point in time was to trust, believe, listen for His voice, and be ready. I did and I was. Pressing in and waiting on the Lord serves as a constant way for me to stay aligned with His purpose.

TO READ MORE, you can purchase a copy of **A Strand of Pearls** by Debra A. Newell at: http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/101230

Chapter 56: Lorilyn Roberts, Children of Dreams

Reprinted from **Children of Dreams** , an inspirational creative nonfiction memoir by Lorilyn Roberts. Copyright 2009 by Virtualbookworm.com. Used by permission of author.

"... _and my daughters from the ends of the earth" (Isaiah 43:7)._

April 21, 1994

As the plane soared high above the airport in Seoul, Korea, I stared out the window where the buildings and roads below looked like a child's matchbox set. I felt alone but excited.

A beautiful three-year-old girl, Manisha, was waiting for me in Nepal. I pulled out my only three pictures of her and clasped them tightly. I tried to imagine the moment I would meet her. After eight long years following a painful divorce, would God finally bless me with a daughter?

As we left Korea and headed toward Bangkok, Thailand, the stewardess prepared the trays for dinner. My eyes became heavy as the muffled noise of the plane engine lulled me into a light sleep. Soon I found myself surrounded by stately dark walls and shadows. One voice pierced my heart.

"I took away her dreams."

The words echoed through the judge's chambers carving deep rivets in my soul. The streams of love had long since become a dried riverbed in my husband's heart. The judge paused, taking in my husband's lame confession. He had heard it all before. Williams vs. Williams was just one more case on his busy docket. I wished he could assuage my sorrow, but he couldn't.

As the judge signed the divorce decree, I doubted I would ever be happy again. My husband had left me for another woman who carried his child. My dreams of becoming a mother lay in a discarded heap. Thirty years old, childless, and divorced, I was without hope. Feeling like a failure, could I believe God loved me and would heal my broken heart? Did God even care?

I had hit rock bottom and there was no place else to turn. I thought of what Corrie ten Boom once said, "There is no pit so deep but Christ is deeper still." It was her ability to forgive the Nazis after World War II that so impressed me. How could she do that? How could she forgive those who had caused her sister and herself so much pain and humiliation? I desperately wanted children and didn't want to admit that my ex-husband had just taken away my dreams.

Suddenly trays of food jostled by the vibrating of the plane startled me awake. Momentarily forgetting where I was, I glanced around and realized I must have slept.

"Where are we?" I asked the person sitting behind me.

"We are approaching Bangkok."

Wow, I thought to myself. I really did sleep—like five hours. It would give me needed energy later, but I also missed dinner and my stomach was empty.

The plane set down on the tarmac in the darkness of night. I disembarked and got far more than I bargained for in Bangkok. I handed the taxi driver at the airport a card with the name of the hotel, the Europa Inn.

The driver nodded his head, and after mumbling a few unintelligible words, loaded my suitcases into his cab for what I thought would be a quick trip to the hotel. However, after an extensive tour of downtown Bangkok, my escort pulled up to a motel in what appeared to be the red light district. Neon lights flashed all around me and signs along the streets displayed seductive advertising. Surely the adoption agency wouldn't have put me up for the night in a seedy hotel.

"This can't be right," I kept trying to tell the taxi driver, feeling uneasy.

He spoke no English and wanted his money.

I waved my hands again trying to explain, "I know this is not the right motel."

He waved his hands back, "No English."

I didn't know what to do. As I stood exhausted contemplating my few options, he proceeded to dump my three huge suitcases out of the taxi. They were far too heavy for me to tote around. I wished I hadn't packed so much, but I knew my problem was far bigger than that.

We had driven for an hour and I needed to be back at the airport in just a few hours. Was I that far away? I looked around to see if I could find someone that spoke English.

I ran into the motel lobby and shouted loudly at the attendant, "Does anybody speak English?" He stared at me blankly. A few raggedly-dressed Thai men were lounging outside the hotel. I hollered to them, "Do you speak English?" They looked at me curiously but didn't say anything.

I ran back to my taxi driver and pleaded with him again, this time more urgently, "I know this isn't right. You've got to take me to the right place. You've brought me to the wrong hotel."

By this time the other Thai men walked over to see what the problem was. The taxi driver and the men carried on a long exchange.

I could see myself the next morning missing my plane because I stayed at the wrong hotel. I could picture in my head trying to explain to the airlines that I needed to catch a later flight. The adoption agency would be upset with me. My contact person would be at the airport to pick me up and I wouldn't be on the plane. I couldn't believe this was happening.

One of the men asked for what I thought was my address. I pulled out my checkbook and gave him a deposit slip. After handing him the slip of paper, I panicked. Why would I give my personal address to somebody that I didn't know? All they wanted was the address of the motel.

After several minutes, the man grabbed my suitcases and motioned for me to get back into the taxi. We took off and drove around again for another thirty minutes before arriving at the "real" Europa Inn.

I breathed a sigh of relief. It was now 1:00 in the morning and my flight would be leaving at 5:30 a.m. Exhausted, I checked into the hotel. The hotel attendant, who spoke English well, assured me I was only a few minutes from the airport.

I finally made it up to my room. After stacking my luggage against the wall, I pulled out a nightgown and headed to the bathroom for a quick shower, but tripped over the uneven ledge. I writhed in pain grasping my toe, agonizing over how I would do the adoption if it was broken.

After a few minutes of a deep massage, I assured myself that it was not broken and a hot shower would fix everything. Later, I tried to imagine what my next day would be like. In just a few hours I would be boarding the plane to fly to Kathmandu, the capital of Nepal.

I closed my eyes and prayed, "Dear Lord, please be with me. Please take away my fear, and keep my dad alive until I return home. Please let nothing happen that could keep me from adopting Manisha."

I had come too far to have something unforeseen stop me. I fell asleep from exhaustion only to be jarred awake just a few hours later.

"Fasten your seat belts," the pilot announced. The no-smoking sign flashed on and the plane engines roared. Soon we would be landing in Kathmandu. My eyes teared up and burned from the lack of sleep. I couldn't believe it was possible to fly so far and still be on the same planet.

After we landed and I exited the plane, I felt as though I had been transported to another world. Huge mountains dotted the countryside. It was a beautiful day, bordering on hot but not unpleasantly so. I took a deep breath as I walked down the tarmac. Cows were lounging between the runways. Old tattered signs marked the entrance to the airport written in a scribble I couldn't read. I was prompted by a young woman showing us the way to customs. No one spoke English. The airport was noisy, crowded, and sweaty.

I felt humanity pressing against me as the surge of passengers from my plane all headed in the same direction. There was a putrid stench in the air—a mixture of unpleasant odors, like an open dumpster that hadn't been emptied for several weeks.

After showing my paperwork and having my passport stamped, I joined another long line of people headed to baggage claims. I stood on my tiptoes to peer over the dark heads and mass of ebony-complexioned travelers. My blonde hair and fair skin made me look like an anomaly. A couple of European or American men toting backpacks were in front. Their masculine build and rough clothes marked them as serious mountain climbers.

Nepal lies between India and China. The country has long been known for its majestic, high mountains and waterfalls that cascade over the rugged terrain. Climbers traveled to Nepal from all over the world to undertake one of the most arduous climbs imaginable, risking their lives to stand atop the world's highest mountain. I hoped to get a picture of Mount Everest as a souvenir.

After I retrieved my bags, I headed toward the front entrance to look for Ankit, my contact person. An Evangelical Christian and pastor in Nepal, he often heard about orphaned children, especially little girls, who had little status in Hindu culture. His desire was to place them in Christian homes in the United States, Canada, and Europe.

People crowded the entrance and I wondered how I would ever find him in the sea of faces. Hastily-written signs shot up everywhere. In the commotion, I looked for a blue and white one that said the name of the adoption agency. I finally saw Ankit and waved my hand. He came over and helped me with my bags, putting them into a waiting taxi. After I was in the taxi, Ankit hopped on his motorcycle and we took off.

As we pulled away from the airport, I was glad to leave behind the discombobulating noise of airplanes, cabs, and travelers. After two days of being airborne, I felt relieved to be on solid ground. We frequently stopped for cows as they stubbornly refused to move and blocked the cab. The countryside was painted in them; most looked emaciated and old. Cows were worshipped and not eaten in Nepal.

The huge mountains surrounding us spoke of unparalleled beauty. Garbage and other debris thrown out of passing cars that reflected in the sunlight were stashed in disheveled piles along the sides of the road. Children in old, torn clothes watched as we drove by. I tried to imagine what Manisha, my daughter-to-be, would look like.

"There is the hospital," the taxicab driver said in broken English. He pointed out several other buildings as we went along. I could hardly focus on what he was saying as my mind jumped to what lay ahead. My heart was racing, excited to be here.

After endless turns and one-lane roads, we arrived at the hotel where twelve other adoptive families had stayed. The desk worker recognized us when we entered the hotel lobby.

The Bleu was a plain, four-story, tan-colored brick building in the downtown political district of Kathmandu. A black and white TV played in the small foyer. The floor was well worn and the wall had several coats of cracked paint. Ankit translated for me as I checked in and helped me carry my luggage up the three flights of stairs to my room. There was no elevator.

"After you have a chance to get settled in," he said, "I will meet you downstairs in the lobby in about thirty minutes." Having studied at a Bible College in the Southeastern United States, he spoke English well. "Bring your documents with you," he added, as he closed the door behind him.

After checking out my room, I took my six sets of documents back downstairs and waited for him to return. A few minutes later, he arrived on his motorcycle.

"We need to go to the U.S. Embassy to drop off some paperwork."

I glanced at his motorcycle and stared back at him. I looked down at my new blue skirt and black heels. I didn't want to picture myself riding on a motorcycle with someone I hardly knew dressed in my Sunday attire. I had ridden on a motorcycle only once before in Bermuda many years earlier. What if I dropped the notebook containing all the adoption papers, or worse, fell off?

Sensing my concern, he said, "We can rent another taxi, but we'll be doing a lot of traveling in Kathmandu and it will get expensive."

I reluctantly hopped on the back, maneuvering my skirt so it wouldn't clog up the engine. I stuck the heavy black binder between us and wrapped my arms around his waist as tightly as I could. He revved up the engine and we took off down the clogged streets of Kathmandu.

Most people rode on bikes, but every conceivable type of wheeled transport could be seen. Many of the roads were dirt or gravel, and the air was thick with dust. The Nepalis wore scarves and face covers over their nostrils to keep from inhaling the dirt. I didn't have one.

When I arrived back at the Bleu Hotel after our excursion to the U.S. Embassy, my blue skirt was covered in road grime. My skin stung from the debris hurled from the motorcycle and I could taste muck on my lips. The odorous smell of Nepal was now on me. I was repelled and overwhelmed at the same time. I had only been here a few hours and I was already thinking about when I could leave.

One of my suitcases was filled with an assortment of things I had brought to an American family serving as missionaries. The Reeses had been in Kathmandu for quite some time. The mother was a physician, and their children ranged in age from six to twelve. They had called and wanted to know when they could stop by the hotel. The only way they received items from America was when someone brought them. Most mail would not arrive without being pilfered. It had been six months since they had received any packages.

I unloaded my suitcase, wishing I could meet Manisha. Was she in the city? Ankit said we wouldn't be able to see her until tomorrow.

Scattered among the Reeses' things were gifts for Manisha, including a pink doll, Play-Doh, blocks, a yellow toy telephone, and a stuffed dog that made noise when I pushed in his nose. I had also brought a few clothes, some big and some small since I didn't know her size. They were clean and unsoiled by the Nepali air.

The Reeses called and said they would be over in a few minutes. I gathered their things and walked down to the hotel lobby. A short time later they arrived and I was surprised to see three blonde-haired, fair-skinned children show up on bicycles with their father. I wondered how they could seem so American when they lived in such a different culture.

They were excited to receive the gifts. As we sat and chatted in the lobby, an American-looking man walked in with a Nepali girl. I found out he was from Canada and was making plans to return home.

"I got my phone call from India," he explained. "We waited a week. That was the last thing we needed to finish her adoption. We have been here a month."

I felt a twinge of jealousy that they were done and I was just starting. I couldn't imagine being in Nepal for a whole month.

The little girl uttered a few words in Nepali.

"What did she say?" I asked.

The motel attendant said, "She called her father an uncle."

Everyone laughed and I relaxed a little.

"How old is she?"

"She's two," her father said.

I tried to imagine how big Manisha would be compared to her.

"When are you leaving?"

"We are leaving on Tuesday."

So soon; few people spoke English here so my time in Nepal would be lonely. It was reassuring to see that his adoption went through. I hoped mine would be the same. We visited for a few more minutes until the Reeses had to leave.

"I hope to see you again," I told them.

"We'll have you over for an American meal one night," they promised, "and you won't have to worry about the food."

I could look forward to that. I asked them for tips on good restaurants. I had been warned: Don't eat salads, don't eat meat, don't eat vegetables, and don't eat fruit unless it's contained in a peel.

As I left the Bleu Hotel and took my first walk in Kathmandu, I tried to take in the world that opened before my eyes. Poor, dirty, spiritually dark, and oppressive for women, it was a place where hope seemed nonexistent. It was hard for me to believe that my daughter would come from here.

Nepal, home to so many children who would never make it to their fifth birthday; who lived in severe poverty and suffered from lack of nutrition and disease; children who had little hope of ever knowing what it would be like to have a full belly at night or a chance to live life to the fullest. Perhaps most dared to not even dream.

In a country thousands of miles away from my home in Gainesville, Florida, most knew nothing of the God I loved and worshipped. Nepal, a world apart and a world within my heart, the two would be linked forever.

Never again would my heart not skip a beat and my ears not perk up when I heard the name Nepal mentioned in the news. Never again would my mind not be drawn back to these days when I walked its darkened streets.

TO READ MORE, you may purchase **Children of Dreams** by Lorilyn Roberts at:

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http://goo.gl/2TVmp (paperback).

Chapter 57: Alberta Sequeira, Someone Stop This Merry-Go-Round: An Alcoholic Family in Crisis

Reprinted from **Someone Stop This Merry-Go-Round; An Alcoholic Family in Crisis** , a heartfelt memoir of a woman's life living with and losing a husband to alcohol abuse, a nonfiction memoir by Alberta Sequeira. Copyright 2009 by Infinity Publishing. Used by permission of author.

A Life Changing Call

Ring... Ring!

The emergency Line Flashed and lit up bright red.

"Dighton Police Department, may I help you?"

"Mom?"

"Lori, what's the matter? Why are you crying?" My daughter was hysterical and crying uncontrollably on the other end of the phone.

"Mom, Dad's dying! He's in the hospital, and the doctors say he's not going to pull through.

I felt a sudden rush of pressure go straight to my head.

"Oh, my God, Lori, where is he?"

"He's in the VA Hospital in Rhode Island. Dad's whole family is there now. Debbie and I are going to ride up together. Can you meet us there?"

"Calm down, honey." I could tell by her breathing that she wasn't in control of her emotions.

Richie and I had been divorced for six years. Through town gossip, I had heard that he was still drinking, but it never entered my mind that there was a possibility of him ever dying from it.

The years apart hadn't erased my emotional attachment to him. I held on to the hope that he would straighten out his life and seek counseling. Leaving him was the only way that I could have remained sane. No matter what I did or said, he never accepted help to fight this terrible demon.

"Of course I'll meet you there. I have to see if I can get someone to take my place on such short notice."

"His room is on the fourth floor. We'll be waiting for you."

Lori hung up without waiting for a reply from me.

I had been a dispatcher for the Town of Dighton for nine years and was used to handling emergencies, but this call threw me for a loop. This one concerned my ex-husband and my daughter was in a state of panic. This catastrophe was happening to _my_ family.

I was glad that my daughter, Debbie, was going with Lori. In a crisis she was calmer than her sister. Debbie was four years older and always handled a bad situation in a mature way.

I worked the day shift from 8:00 a.m. to 4:00 p.m., and replacements weren't easy to find. Dispatchers on the detail from 4:00 p.m. to midnight and midnight to 8:00 a.m., however, seemed to have no problem.

All the emergency and routine calls for the ambulance, fire, water, police and highway departments came into my office at the police station. I had to log every transmission of the day.

The year was 1985, and the town didn't have computers to record proceeding. Everything had to be documented by hand with the precise time of each event and the conversations from the caller. The ambulance and fire departments were the only ones that used tape recorders on their phones. My job entailed a tremendous amount of stress.

Chief Karl Spratt's secretary, Janet, was in the next room; a sliding window separated our offices.

"Janet, I have to talk to Karl. Can you take the calls until I return?"

"Of course, is everything okay?"

"I'll tell you when I get back."

I rushed down the long hallway to the Chief's office. There was never a knocking formality, unless the door was closed. It was a small police force with two officers to a shift, a situation that gave us the chance to be informal with one another. I went straight to Karl's desk. My nerves started to take over, and I could feel myself hyperventilating.

"Excuse me, Karl, but I have to leave right away. Lori called and said that Richie has been admitted to the VA Hospital in Providence."

Karl bent his head down to stare at me over his thin, clear-framed glasses. "Is it something serious?"

"It's not good. She's been told that he's dying. It has to be from his drinking. I don't have all the details. I'll start calling to see if someone can come in for me."

"Hold off a minute. I think Bob is still in the back room."

Bob was a reserve officer and a volunteer dispatcher.

The Chief yelled across the hall, "Hey, Bob. Can you cover the phones for Alberta? It's a family emergency."

"Sure. I'm free."

"Good... You're free to go, Alberta."

I couldn't believe the luck of Bob being in the office. It would normally take hours to get someone to cover my shift.

"Thanks, Karl."

He put his hand on my shoulder. "Drive slowly," he advised.

I saw concern in his eyes.

"I will."

There was a lot of unfinished work on my desk but I knew it was more important to meet my daughters. I grabbed the paperwork on my desk and flung it on the top of the filing cabinet. _I'll deal with it later._

"Janet, Karl will explain my situation. I really can't stay."

I grabbed my belongings and headed out to the parking lot. It was February and the cold, raw wind went right through me. The hood from my long, gray, wool coat flew off my head. I hated winter.

My heart was pounding and my hands started to shake as I fumbled for the keys in my pocketbook. I should have taken them out sooner. I unlocked the car door and start the car. My hands were shaking so badly, I missed putting the key into the ignition several times.

I looked both ways before entering the highway. Suddenly, I heard a loud horn. An old, black pickup was right on top of me. I came within a second of colliding with it.

"Hey, watch it, lady!" The young man's face was red with anger as he screamed out his open window.

"I'm sorry. I didn't see you," I yelled back even though I knew he couldn't hear me.

By now, my insides felt like they were going to break into a million pieces. The driver made an obscene hand signal and sped away. His gesture upset me. I notice that his truck had multiple dents, and I concluded they were probably caused by his driving too fast in the first place.

_I've got to compose myself. I can't afford to have an accident_. I tried concentrating intensely on my driving. The hospital was forty-five minutes away.

I drove along the back roads onto Williams Street, a path that would get me to Route 44 faster. The street had been in bad shape for years with many pot holes that caused me to slow down; however, I wasn't in the right frame of mind to be practical with speed.

I loved North Dighton. I had lived there for more than twenty years. It was a small town of just over 5,100 residents in a rural setting, much of it farmland. Every year, the Bristol Agricultural School had a long waiting list of applications.

Growing up in this peaceful town, my daughters and I had been blessed with many friends. Lori was seventeen and in her last year of high school. She had long, beautiful, midnight-black hair in tight curls which she constantly tried to iron- out straight. Her brown eyes were enhanced by her makeup and the deep summer tan which stayed with her even after summer ended.

Her mischievous ways made her the "leader of the pack." Her best characteristics were her personality and wit. Lori had never adjusted to Richie's and my separation and hid her problems with it more that I knew at the time.

Debbie was twenty-one and seemed more adjusted. If she were troubled, she never talked openly about what bothered her. Her light, brown hair was long with bushy light curls. Her constant wide smile put everyone she met at ease.

Debbie was available to help anyone in need. She was always game for fun, but she seemed to be more a watcher than a doer. Her personality was more like her father's, quiet and thoughtful. She had the perfect life with the perfect man. Brian Dutra, her fiancé, was wonderful, and they had set a date in August to marry.

Once I got to Route 195 near East Providence, I was relieved that the traffic moved at a normal pace. I was fighting to control the desire to speed up to make better time, but the last thing I needed was a traffic ticket.

Suddenly, the traffic slowed to a crawl. All I could see were vehicles bumper to bumper with their brake lights on. Cars were merging from the side exits trying to squeeze into the jammed four lanes.

"Oh, God, not now!"

Drivers were edging in from one narrow line to the next, each trying to get into the fastest moving lane. I could see construction up ahead. The usual ten minute drive to the hospital from this point became twenty-five minutes.

I sat in traffic thinking back to our days together as a family; the good and bad.

My first instinct was to find Debbie and Lori. I saw no one familiar anywhere so I went straight to the nurse's station.

"Could you please tell me what room Richard Lopes is in?"

A stocky, gray haired nurse looked me up and down for a few sections and then asked coldly, "Are you family?"

"He's my ex-husband and our daughters are with him."

"Sorry. You're not allowed to see him, only family. You'll have to sit in the visitor's room around the corner."

The nurse had given the order with no sympathy whatsoever and turned back to writing on a patient's chart.

Why didn't I say that I was family? After all, I am.

Turning the corner, I saw a sign above a door: Hospital Waiting Room. Magazines were scattered throughout the room but the area was empty of people.

_Everyone must be visiting him_ , I thought in amazement.

I couldn't understand how so many family members had been allowed to be in his room at the same time. No one was walking in the corridors when I glanced out the door. _God, maybe they're all with him because he's dying._

I had no legal right to make any health decisions. From Richie's thirty years or more of drinking, he was now fighting the last stages of cirrhosis.

I sat with a knot in my stomach, thinking of the reality of what was happening to my world, to my daughters.

Please, God, give me the strength not to fall apart in front of the girls, when I go to his room. They need to see me strong so that they can lean on me for support.

It seemed like an eternity passed as I waited for my daughters.

Where's everyone? I'd been there for fifteen minutes, and no one appeared. I couldn't even spot a nurse walking in the hall. The surroundings seemed cold and gave me chills. The empty corridor was creepy and felt like death.

Richie's mother and two sisters, Lena and May, walked up the corridor toward the waiting area. What a relief, I would finally find out what was going on and someone would take me to his room.

May looked in my direction and saw me sitting in the waiting area. She immediately turned her back to me and started talking to her family in the hallway. At first, I thought they were discussing Richie's condition privately. I assumed that once they were through talking, one of them would come over to me. After all, they did see me.

I looked outside the door and notice a poster on the wall, right above where May was standing. The advertisement was about alcoholism with an Alcoholic's Anonymous telephone number written in bold, black letters.

_Of all the people to be standing under that sign_ , I thought. May never accepted her brother's drinking addiction.

I took a deep breath and tried to compose myself. The stress was building up. I couldn't understand why everyone was ignoring me. I started to fear that he died. My head began to spin. _Why wasn't anyone coming over to me?_

TO READ MORE, you may purchase **Someone Stop This Merry-Go-Round; An Alcoholic Family in Crisis** _,_ by Alberta Sequeira at:

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Chapter 58: Jessica Zondervan, Breathing on Purpose: Surviving the Death of a Loved One

Reprinted from **Breathing on Purpose: Surviving the Death of a Loved One,** an inspirational nonfiction memoir by Jessica Zondervan. Copyright 2010 by Tate Publishing. Used by permission of author.

Death Does Not Discriminate

To those of you who have recently lost a loved one, my heart is grieving with yours. There is nothing I can say or do that will lessen your pain. There are no words that can cure the sadness you are feeling. What you're experiencing is real and indescribable. The only person to truly understand this is you. Sadly, I can relate.

Over the past several years, I've had to confront a reality that offers _no_ sympathy; that reality is death. It does not discriminate. It doesn't care if you are rich or poor, black or white, young or old, healthy or sick. It's a certainty for every man and woman. It takes the faithful and the faithless, the loved and the unloved, the accounted and the unaccounted, the rich and the poor. You will experience loss, regardless of who you are, who you know, and what you know. You will be accounted for at the end of this life. Unfortunately, death is not the challenge—learning how to cope with it is.

I lost my parents at a young age and only two years apart from each other. After their deaths, I felt increasingly lonely, empty, and discouraged. My life began to feel unbearable and hopeless. And those feelings didn't just disappear. They eventually bred a strong desire within me to no longer live. I crawled into a corner and let myself shut down and turn away from the existence of others. I was unable to feel anything, and I became numb to everything. I was desperate for light—anything that did not encompass darkness. Author Stormie Omartian accurately depicts the desperation and anxiety I felt when she wrote:

I woke up every morning with an overwhelming sense of dread. It's the same feeling you have when you wake up for the first time after someone you love has tragically and suddenly died. The reality of it comes flooding back to you and you realize it wasn't a bad dream after all. You wish with all of your being that it was not true, but it is and you have to face it. The thought of getting through the day brings such a weight of depression it requires major effort to even get out of bed.

Stormie Omartian

Just as Stormie Omartian describes above, I was overwhelmed by the loss. The feelings I felt were heavy, unbearable, and dreadful. I had no desire to get out of bed. I began to fear the night, even dread it at times. It was something I equated with loneliness and long stretches of unpleasant silence. I often found myself begging for comfort and just enough strength to pull me through until morning. I remember lying awake in bed, wondering when the nightmare would end. I thought that if I could wake myself up from the bad dream I was experiencing, then life would go on as normal. But it didn't happen that way. I never woke up from the dream. It was real––intolerably real.

As a little girl, I used to have a reoccurring and agonizing fear that my parents were going to die young. These dreadful fears began occurring frequently at the start of one summer. During this time, I had visions of myself being parentless at a young age. I never knew how my parents were going to die. I only feared that they would.

One summer evening as I tossed and turned in bed, I began to bargain with God. I told him that if he took away the fears I'd been having of death and kept my parents alive, then I would give up my desire to get married and have children. In return, I would care for my parents as they aged. As unusual as it sounds, it wasn't a foreign concept to me. My dad's sister did just that. She never married, because she chose to care for my grandparents in their retirement years. Her commitment to care for them was honorable, and I could see myself doing the same for my parents.

I look back now and see how unrealistic it was for me to have made such a bargain with God. But I was young, and that was how real these fears were. As a little girl, I had a sense that something was going to happen, and the thought of such a loss frightened me beyond words. I was extremely close to both of my parents, and I didn't want to lose them. I look back now and see that my fears as a child were a small preparation for what was going to happen later in life.

My husband and I began dating before either of my parents had passed away. One day as we were driving, I vividly described to him the fears I had as a little girl. I told him that my heart had been preparing me to be parentless at a young age. At the time, my husband thought I was being dramatic. He told me that I worry too much. Unfortunately, my feelings were not an overreaction to some silly, fear-producing visions. They soon became a reality.

After my mom died, my childhood fears resurfaced, and I began to fear that my dad would soon follow the fate of my mom. My fear of losing him was similar to what I felt as a child. I could feel it in my heart. I told my husband that something was going to happen––something painful. At the time, I assumed those feelings existed because I had just lost my mom and I was afraid of losing my dad. I am now certain it was because God had been preparing me all along.

Sadly, I became that scared little girl again soon after my mom died. I was once again in the position that I had been in years earlier when my reoccurring fears had taken place. Months before my mom passed away, I had a dream that she died. I remember waking up to a tearstained pillow, weeping uncontrollably. After I realized it had been nothing more than a terrible dream, I was able to fall back to sleep, and all was well. But this time, her death was not a dream. There was no quick relief of knowing she was alive and sleeping in the next room. She wasn't, and there was no way to bring her back. She was gone. The reality of it hit me hard. She was _gone_ and never coming back.

I realized I would never see her or hear her voice again. She would forever be absent in this world. I'd already experienced my greatest fear of losing her; now my greatest fear became forgetting her. I was so afraid that I would forget the sound of her voice, the sound of her laughter, the feel of her hugs, the warmth of her soft hands, the smell of her clothes, and everything else about her. I didn't want to forget her, and I was so afraid that I would.

Amidst all of the tears, I realized that I would never forget her. She was my mom; I could never forget. I was certain that she would always remain alive in memories of conversations, photos, and videos taken from previous years. I needed those things to help me remember. And to this day, I can still hear her voice and picture her face as though she were right next to me. Those things cannot be forgotten; they are etched in my memory, and neither time nor space can take them away from me. My mom's tangible being dissipated, but her memories didn't. And those memories are the intangible pieces of her life––pieces that were left behind for me to sort through. They are an opportunity to for me to reflect, relive, and remember the beautiful life she lived.

If you are feeling like I did, then you are familiar with the shattered, scarred, and weakened form death leaves you in. It takes a piece of the normalcy we are accustomed to and turns it into confusion, mistrust, and discouragement. Everything inside of us and around us crashes into a million pieces; yet we are expected to exist in the same way. Because of this, we have to learn to survive differently.

During this desperate time, I was broken, and there was a full-fledged battle raging within me. I found myself hovering over the bathroom toilet. My nerves were shaken, and my stomach was sent into a violent motion. I longed to feel intact and untouched, the way I had felt before the death of my mom had occurred. My thoughts compulsively circled around the words _if only_. _If only I would have...then I could have...and she would still be here._

After my mom's passing, my heart longed for death itself. I was broken, and my prayer to God was suicidal. I begged him to take me out of this world and end the life I knew would never be the same. I questioned myself on a daily basis and wondered how I would be able to go on. How could God possibly expect me to live life without my mom? She was my best friend, my unending support, and my closest confidant.

I began to question the _why_ and especially the _when_. My mom's death occurred a few short hours after the 2005 New Year had begun. A date that most people celebrate with great expectations, new resolutions, and a kiss at midnight is a date I now celebrate in remembrance. It's become a personal reminder of how fragile life is. And in that fragility, I've found an unexpected joy in knowing that each year is a gift from God—another year to appreciate the simple things and disperse of the pointless, materialistic things I used to cling to. I've learned to love more, worry less, and thank the Lord for his daily blessings.

My mom's death on New Year's Day was hard, but it was even more difficult that she also passed away just one month before my wedding. Not only did I have her funeral to make it through, I also had my wedding that was to take place the coming month without her. This greatly added to the loss I was experiencing. The knowledge that my mom would not be attending my wedding grieved me. She would not be there to fix my dress, adjust my veil, calm my nerves, tell me that I looked beautiful, or just plain smile with the joy I knew she had for me. She wouldn't be there to sit in the front row. She wouldn't be there to see my father walk me down the aisle. She wouldn't be able to witness a day she wanted as much as I did.

This pain cut deep. I spent every night in tears, trying to find answers. All I wanted to do was postpone the wedding. I even considered canceling the whole thing. How could I make it through my wedding knowing she would not be there? I barely made it through her funeral. How was I supposed to make it through my wedding?

I discussed my thoughts of postponing the wedding with my friends, family, and fiancé. I told them that I needed time—time to grieve, time to heal, and time to sort through my emotions. In reality, I wanted to do more than postpone the wedding. I wanted to run away from everything and never look back. In my heart, I wanted to keep pushing back the wedding until it was called off completely. I just didn't know how to tell people I no longer wanted to get married. Instead, I wanted to hide. I wanted to disappear. It wasn't that I didn't love my fiancé. I loved him with all of my heart. But I was in a deep state of grief, and that sort of grief can make us say and do things we wouldn't normally say or do.

Thankfully, I was blessed with a great support system. All of my family, friends, and my mom's closest friends persuaded me to go through with the wedding. They reminded me of how excited she had been and that she had looked forward to the wedding for so long. It was all she could talk about. And she loved Randy. He called her mom, and she called him son well before we were married. My mom recognized that I had found my soul mate and felt as though she could pass on to eternity knowing I would be in good hands. After long nights of thinking, I decided the wedding would go on. It was a hard choice to make, but I made it, and now I know that it was not only the right choice, but it was the best choice for me.

It seems surreal when I look back now, but I felt empty on my wedding day, and my special day wasn't all that special. It was a day of sadness, frustration, and uncertainty. I wanted so badly for my mom to be there, and I knew she wanted to be. She had been looking forward to the wedding, and I wanted to include her somehow. To honor her memory, a rose was placed on the chair in which she would have been sitting. The mere sight of its beauty and the reminder of its presence brought me to tears.

So why was this happening? Why here? Why now? Was this really God's plan for my life? I couldn't understand _why_. My life had become a collage of memories, and all I could see was a shattered image that displayed the life I _had_ imagined for myself— a life that was now unfamiliar and strange. I can't describe the loneliness I felt. The pain was deep, the wound even deeper. I was strapped with a heartache that can't be described. It's the kind of pain that has to be experienced before it can be understood. And now, it was a pain I finally understood.

I understood what others had experienced when they spoke of death, how it had broken their hearts, and left them emotionally wounded. I was now in that same situation. I was on the floor licking my wounds from front to back, curled in the fetal position longing to feel anything other than what I was feeling. I was consumed with grief and a gut-wrenching pain that made it nearly impossible for me to function. I went days without an appetite, and my body was exhausted from being unable to sleep. I felt alone and overwhelmed.

The emotional meltdown was more than I had expected to experience. Even though I had feared losing my parents as a young girl, I still chose to believe that death was something that happened to other families. It happened to people as they aged. It wasn't supposed to take a life that was still young. It wasn't supposed to snatch the innocent from their loving families. I never could have fully prepared myself for this type of encounter.

The suddenness caught me off guard, and I was thrown into immediate shock. There was still more to say, more to do. I wanted one last hug, one last kiss, one last good-bye. I wasn't able to make sense of anything. It was an experience I never wanted to encounter again.

Unfortunately, there was no way to escape it. Death did find me again. It found me two years after my mom died when it took my dad. It was then that I realized death would play an eminent and continuous role in my life, because it _does not_ discriminate. It affects 100 percent of the population. One out of every one person dies. Death is the largest epidemic that has ever existed. It is also a cureless epidemic, as stated in Genesis 2:16–17, "And the LORD God commanded the man, 'You are free to eat from any tree in the garden; but you must not eat from the tree of the knowledge of good and evil, for when you eat of it you will surely die.'"

In spite of God's commands, Adam and Eve ate from the tree of knowledge of good and evil and received death as their ultimate punishment. In return, their disobedience led us to receive death as our ultimate punishment. Their curiosity cast us to face the most unbearable pain ever: the separation of God and man. Never again would they live pain free, stress free, and labor free. And neither would we. They now had to work the land for food and would return to the ground they came from. The curse they had brought upon all mankind was death. Whether we are ready or not, it is a curse we all will face.

Fortunately, death is not the end. Instead, it can be seen as something that encompasses a mere collection of earthly moments that you and I have to overcome in order to move one step closer to God's final plan for us—eternity with him.

Understandably speaking, those moments seem like a lifetime when we are in the midst of them. They are unfair and long lasting. But death is never fair and rarely ever a short process. It is exceedingly harsh and non-discriminating; it's a punch in the gut. For the most part, we tend to avoid thinking or talking about the subject, but in reality we should think about it and talk about it more often. The time will come when we will have to face our death, but until that time, we are required to face the deaths of others who go on before us. Understanding how to cope with the passing of our loved ones will help us live our lives with purpose until it is our time to pass.

I'm sad and even embarrassed to say that I was naïve about the complexity of death until I experienced it. I never understood why people would mourn for months, even years after losing a loved one. I always thought it was strange that they couldn't move on. But now I realize how wrong and selfish I had been all those years. It's not that easy. When someone you love dies, there's no such thing as putting the situation behind you and moving on like nothing happened. In fact, it can take months, even years to fully heal from such a wound.

After my mom died, I clung to the faith that I had been raised with. I chose to believe that Jesus would help me through the pain, or at least help me deal with it. So I pleaded with him to comfort me. I prayed that he would take the hurt and damage and restore them with his peace and comfort. He did just that in his _own way_ and his _own timing_.

Mind you, the road was long and, at times, lonely. My faith was strong, but in grief-stricken moments, it became almost non-existent. I had to realize that his peace did not take away the pain; it made it bearable. His comfort did not take away the discomfort; it took away the fear. His presence did not take away my mom's absence; it sheltered her memory. And more importantly, his love did not make me forget about her love; it reminded me of my ability to love.

The countless days and nights I cried by the window and slept on the bathroom floor were the days and nights I felt him near. It might seem strange that I could feel such a presence in the midst of immense agony, but God is present and was present. He didn't make the situation absent or any less discrete; he made it livable. And I truly believe that God uses these types of situations to bring us closer to him. In times like these, we have nothing but him.

Days after my mom's death, I cried out to God in my weakness, brokenness, and frustration. And for the first time, I felt him as he came and rested next to me. My sincere cries were heard. He came down for me, and he is ready to come down for you. Whatever your situation is, he wants to be with you. God is _love._ And that type of love is strong and boundless.

Your situation might seem impossible for you to handle, but it's not impossible for him. If you ask for his help, he will come and you will be upheld and strengthened in your distress. Isaiah 41:10 tells us, "So do not fear, for I am with you; do not be dismayed, for I am your God. I will strengthen you and help you; I will uphold you with my righteous right hand." His mercy is extended to do just that. He _will_ uphold and strengthen you. He will guide you with his perfect peace and direction. God's Word says, "Cast all your anxiety on him because he cares for you" (1 Peter 5:7).

There's no place that he's not able to reach you, no low too low and no high too high. When your soul feels overwhelmed and beyond repair, I encourage you to remember that the physical and emotional pain of losing a loved one will subside as time passes. You will find that you have good days and bad days, brave moments and weak moments. And those feelings are okay. It's okay to be where you are now. You don't have to feel strong, courageous, or brave. Just be honest with yourself. Let others know how you are really feeling when they ask.

If you're like me, you probably won't want to speak to anyone. You'll want to sit in silence with no distractions and no one around you. And that's okay. The pain you're feeling won't suddenly disappear or instantaneously go away, but in time the suffering will cease and fail to bring you the discomfort you're feeling right now. Trust me, not everyone will understand your way of grieving, so take care of yourself the best way you know how. Don't feel as though there's a better way to grieve because someone else says there is. _Only you know how to grieve for you_. That's not only normal, but it's also perfectly fine! You should feel _no_ guilt in the way you choose to grieve.

Shortly after my mom died, I remembered hearing a song titled, _Cry Out to Jesus_ by Third Day. It was an encouraging song, but every time I'd listen to it, I would cry myself a little river of grief. I'd think of the pain and how much it hurt. I'd dwell on how trapped and beaten down I felt, and that's when I reminded myself it would get better. It had to. There's only one place to go from the bottom, and that's up.

For me, the healing has been a slow, steady, and daily process. I can't count the number of times I've cried thinking about all of the conversations I'll never be able to have with my parents. The tears begin falling, and my mascara starts smudging. Even though my tears aren't always pain-filled, they still fall. It often takes the painless tears to get me through the painful ones. My painless tears now fall with the many joyful and blissful memories I have of my parents. They fill my heart with hope and inspiration.

I have learned that healing comes with those falling tears. On many occasions I have pounded my fists into my pillow and screamed. Even though I'm still healing, I see this as a process of time, and God's timing is not always ours. Patience is all we have. God is all we have. We need to wait upon him. Isaiah 40:29–31 tells us this about God:

He gives strength to the weary and increases the power of the weak. Even youths grow tired and weary, and young men stumble and fall; but those who hope in the LORD will renew their strength. They will soar on wings like eagles; they will run and not grow weary, they will walk and not be faint.

You are promised strength of mind and heart. Take hold of those words and believe in that promise, believe that it was meant for you. Believe that you are _not_ alone. When the world begins crashing in around you, don't let yourself crash with it. Trust me, I allowed myself that little bit of suffering (the crash and burn routine), and it wasn't worth it. I let myself fall into a lethargic state of mind. I mentally removed myself from everything around me, and I became numb, so numb that I was sure I would never be able to feel again.

I had destined myself to become an emotionless and mindless person for the rest of my life. I denied God's hand in my life. I scorned him for taking my parents and blamed him for the pain and suffering that was handed to me. I could not understand why a good God would take my mom away from me, especially on New Year's Day and one month before my wedding. If it was his plan to take her, couldn't he have waited until after my wedding, or at least until after the holidays?

Did God truly feel I was ready to encounter death? Did he feel that you were ready to encounter death? Did he decide that we would be best for this type of situation? I don't know about you, but I wasn't ready, and I wanted to prove him wrong. I wanted to scorn him for allowing me to experience death in such a way. I wanted him to know that I couldn't handle it. So I shut the door of my heart and walked away in anger.

Sadly, I let that behavior continue far too long. After a time of brokenness and bitterness, I rested on the conclusion that I was able to do _nothing_ without him. My life had become empty, unfulfilling, and toxic to healthy relationships. I was depressed. I used negative thinking as a crutch to sustain me, and sarcasm became my number one safety net. The more I sheltered my heart from others, the more protected I felt. Distance was a coping mechanism. If I didn't let people in, I couldn't get hurt. The strength I used to draw myself closer to God after my mom's death eventually became the negative strength I used to pull myself away from him.

I had everything to live for, but I allowed myself to believe there was nothing. I had my faith in Jesus, my family, my fiancé, my friends, and all of my relatives. I had everyone but my mom, and it was time to face the fact that I would never have her with me again. Life would never be the same, and there were two ways I could accept that: I could ignore everything and everyone around me for the rest of my life and become a bitter, lonely person, or I could give all of my pain to God and trust him to work a miracle in my life. I chose the latter, and to this day, it feels much better to live a full life overflowing with love than it did to live a bitter life overflowing with anger and distrust. Please understand that the pain will still be present, as it was with me, but it will not overtake you. You will be able to work through it.

We may never understand why things are the way they are, but we _can_ trust that God is good and that he does have a plan for all of this. God's Word says, " 'For I know the plans I have for you,' declares the LORD, 'plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future'" (Jeremiah 29:11). His plans are always in our best interest, even when we cannot see the bigger picture and our worldview has been altered. There _is_ a purpose behind it, and in God's _perfect_ timing, we will find out what that purpose is.

TO READ MORE, you may purchase **Breathing on Purpose: Surviving the Death of a Loved One,** by Jessica Zondervan at:

http://amzn.to/vTQ79e (Kindle)

http://amzn.to/tgt1CG (paperback)

Section 5

Farewell Thoughts

Readers, Writers and Seekers

Dear Readers,

I hope you have enjoyed **Taste and See, A Sampling of First Chapters by John 3:16 Marketing Network Authors.** Ken Winters, author of the fantasy book **The Lost Crown of Colonnade,** recently made a comment about a book he discovered ( **Running on G: What's Filling Your Tank?** ) by author Kimberly James: "I'm enjoying Kimberly's book a lot. Without John 3:16, I would never have known about it!"

The greatest hindrance for "undiscovered" authors is exposure. How can you know about new authors without an opportunity to hear about their books? And how can you read their books if you don't know they exist? I hope we have whetted your appetite to enjoy more by these Christian authors and will purchase some of the full-length books featured in this sampling.

If you will recall, each chapter in **Taste and See** was separated by a snowflake. God made each snowflake unique--no two are exactly alike. And so it is with our authors. What better way to introduce such a wide variety of writing styles and authors than what we have presented in **Taste and See** , which comes from Proverbs 34:8: "O taste and see that the LORD is good... "

If you have discovered one new author through this body of works which has encouraged you in your Christian walk, spoken a truth that perhaps you never understood, or deepened your understanding of your faith, I am blessed and overflowing with gratitude for God having given me the idea for this book. I am reminded of C.S. Lewis' reference to "The Weight of Glory," where one day I hope to hear, "Well done, my good and faithful servant."

Readers are ultimately the gatekeepers to books—it is you who hold the power to promote the books you love, to encourage authors to keep writing the books you want to read, and to share with your friends and family those books that make you laugh, bring you hope, renew your spirit, or encourage you when you feel weak. Maybe you just need a tall tale to take you to a far-away place to relax and get away from the harried pace of living for a few quiet moments. Thank you for allowing us to give you a "taste" of first chapters and other samplings from many of our authors.

We always appreciate hearing from readers. If you would like to drop us a note; our blog can be found at http://www.john316mn.blogspot.com.

If you would like to subscribe to our e-zine as a reader, please visit  http://www.lorilynroberts.com/john_3_16_marketing_network.html. Our goal is to have serialized monthly books, occasional free e-books, and notifications of new books as they are launched. We hope you will become a reader for the John 3:16 Marketing Network and take advantage of the free offerings.

Dear Writers,

If you would like to learn more about how to become a published author, let me share with you three free or inexpensive ways you can develop your writing skills and the expertise to market your books once you become published.

First, consider getting a Bachelor's or Master's degree in Creative Writing.

Sometimes God puts you in a place to hear something that you never would have known about otherwise, one of those "dates with destiny" that becomes a turning point when you look back and say, "That was a defining moment in God's plan for my life." I did not know there was a low-priced, accredited, online, Christian worldview college that was flexible, challenging, and nationally recognized by major universities.

I attended the Florida Christian Writers Conference a few years ago. As I stood in a long line with attendees to eat lunch, I overheard a couple of the conference faculty in front of me talking about Perelandra College and their creative writing program. I asked one of the gentlemen if I could have his business card. A few months later, I applied. As of this writing, I am close to completing my Masters in Creative Writing. When putting the final touches on this book, I emailed Ken Kuhlken, the faculty chair, and asked him if he could share a few words about the college in **Taste and See** _._ He sent me this letter from a recent undergraduate student. Perhaps you will see your own hopes and dreams in this passionate, prospective student's desire to find what is almost impossible in today's educational system.

"...Thus began my search for a writing program, an arduous task considering my many indispensible requisites. It must be Christian. It must be good, too. Really, actually, good. Inexpensive, perfectly befitting my situation, preferably small, and online. It must be the ideal.

"Enter Perelandra. I found Perelandra College through Bakersguide.com like a providential windfall from the hand of God Himself. I entered my first search, and there it was, the perfect personal ad: 'Writing BA combines art and craft at half the cost. Masterpieces. Imagination and reason. Online.' Amen! I visited the site, read the catalogue, and requested feedback from former students, all of which sang the praises of Perelandra's commitment to quality, which is what I think I meant by really, actually good. It is my hope that through your program, I can pursue excellence in writing to the glory of God, and so honor the impulse within me, which is more like a spiritual fact than anything else, like a hunger for more than bread."

Anastasia, a transfer student at the "Junior" level, has since enrolled and is taking her third class toward the BA degree. She recently commented regarding Writing 401, Writing Essays:

"I am extremely happy with the work that I produced during the class. Regarding the pieces specifically, and also because it built my hope. Hope that if I sit down and write, it will come.

"I find the structure of the program is working perfectly for me. I like the freedom. Also that more direction is available if requested. I like having the option of finishing in either eight or 12 weeks (I have done both now in 12 weeks _to the day_ ). I like the reading materials. Many of the essays I read during 401 affected me significantly. Erin was great too."

From Anastasia Campos, student of Perelandra College, Scottsdale, Arizona.

Here is some specific information about Perelandra College if your interest has been piqued:

Accreditation:

Perelandra College is accredited by the Distance Education and Training Council, http://www.detc.org an agency approved by the U.S. Department of Education.

MA program:

Cost: $200 per semester credit, or $7200 for the 36-credit program. Some discounts are available.

Time to complete:

The MA is generally completed in 2-3 years of rigorous part-time study.

BA program:

Cost and time to complete: $200 per semester credit, or $7200 for the 36-credit major requirements. Since the BA program is intended for degree completion, the total time to complete depends largely upon the credits transferred in.

For further information, Contact:

8697-C La Mesa Boulevard, La Mesa, CA 91942

http://www.perelandra.edu

phone: 619-335-0441

fax: 619-512-4291

Second, join a local Word Weavers writing critique group.

I was fortunate to meet Larry Leech, one of the three original founders of Word Weavers, quite by chance -- another one of those "dates with destiny" that has vitally impacted my writing and helped me to hone my craft. I asked Larry if he would share a little about Word Weavers.

"Word Weavers, founded in March, 1997, is an international Christian critique group organization dedicated to providing a forum for Christian writers to critique each other's work in order to learn about and improve their craft. During the last four years, Word Weavers has grown from a single group in the Orlando area to twenty-eight chapters in the U.S. and Canada with close to 500 members.

"Now part of the Jerry B. Jenkins Christian Writers Guild, Word Weavers also provides the added benefits of guest speakers, a writing contest, and scholarship money for members to attend writer's conferences and an annual retreat. For more information about Word Weavers, visit www.christianwritersguild.com/word-weavers."

Here are two comments from new members:

" _After my first few months with Word Weavers, I realized the levels of writing, teaching, and networking had greatly exceeded my expectations. During the last three years, I've found tools to help better my art and people with a genuine love for the craft. There are not enough words to express my gratitude for Word Weavers and the impact it's had on me and others with a passion to write."_ \--Edwina Perkins, Word Weavers member

" _Word Weavers is directly and fundamentally responsible for my growth as a writer. At meetings, I get support and encouragement, first-time reader insight, and usable information. And I get to invest in fellow members. It is the best environment for writers of all levels, who want fellowship and fun, while perfecting their craft."_ \--Shellie Arnold, Word Weavers member

If there isn't a Word Weavers critique group in your city or town, start one.

Third, if you are already a blogger, believe in John 3:16, AND you want to become a member of the John 3:16 Marketing Network, SIGN UP TODAY. Keep reading for details.

 A Christian Author's Perspective: Be Part of a Team

Reprinted with permission from New Christian Books Online Magazine

by CHERYL ROGERS

" _In today's economy, whether we have a traditional publisher or not, we're expected to bear responsibility for promoting and selling our work. Either we have a name readers recognize and are drawn to, or we are trying to make ourselves a name. It's easy to become discouraged._

" _The trouble is not all of us are salesmen or saleswomen. Not all of us feel comfortable talking up our book where ever we are. Maybe deep down we're shy. Maybe we lack confidence in our own work. Maybe we'd rather be writing._

" _Whatever the reason, the new challenges an author faces today may overwhelm us. And if it weren't for God's provision, many of us would probably walk away — if we tried to become an author at all._

" _In times like this that we need to rely on the Body of Christ. We need to partner with fellow Christian authors pooling our talents and abilities so all can walk in the fullness of their calling as a Christian author._

" _Partnering with Christian authors will expand our territory. It gives us an opportunity to learn new ways to sell our books. It gives us an opportunity to trade favors like publishing blog posts that can expand an author's readership base. It gives us a chance to promote each other's books through book showcases and launches. And it gives us an opportunity to encourage others and be encouraged ourselves._

" _In life, we benefit from being a member of a team. It's no different with our writing. A good way to be part of a Christian author team is to join the John 3:16 Author Marketing Network founded by Lorilyn Roberts. This group is free to join; the benefits are many._

"' _I am absolutely blown away in a positive way with the integrity, camaraderie, selflessness and amazing creativity of the group. I know that being in the group means I am in His presence as well," says Debra A.Newell, of Writing for the Spirit ministries, who has authored 'A Strand of Pearls.'"_

"' _I have enjoyed being a part of the John 3:16 Network. I have made a lot of Christian friends. The people who are members of the group for the most part understand the principal of sowing and reaping,' adds Deborah Bateman, author of The Book of Ruth-A Story of Love and Redemption. 'They are willing to help others and don't worry about getting anything in return, because they know God will honor their willingness to help. They understand what goes around comes around. They encourage one another to keep going and pray for one another.'"_

" _Janet Eckles links her membership in the network to the success of her book. 'Folks ask often, 'How did your book,_ Simply Salsa: Dancing Without Fear at God's Fiesta, reach #1 on Amazon?' 'The answer is simple—God's grace that led me to the John 3:16 Networking Group.' Eckles says. 'The members' diligence, commitment, willingness and the love, prayer and support are major ways that God used to bring the success my book holds. Writer's groups abound on line, but none compare to the 'hands on' action that shines through the John 3:16 group.'"

 Learn more about the network.

As the founder of the John 3:16 Marketing Network, I would like to extend a personal invitation for Christian bloggers and authors to join. The above link will take you to a page where you can sign up to receive our email newsletter. Once you enter your email, you will have an opportunity to sign up for the e-zine as a writer. Upon receiving your information, I will send you the details to start the process. We are streamlining this, so it may be a few weeks with the holidays before you hear back from me, but I will contact you once the new procedure is in place.

Last, but not least, if you are a writer but the above option for the John 3:16 Marketing Network is not possible, I have two other suggestions that I would recommend to help you market your book.

First, buy _Sell More Books!: Book Marketing and Publishing for Low Profile and Debut Authors Rethinking Book Publicity after the Digital Revolutions_ by  J. Steve Miller, Blythe Daniel, Stephanie Richards, and John Kremer. Below is a book review I wrote earlier this year for this great marketing tool.

" _When I read the title, Sell More Books! I couldn't imagine anything that would help ME to sell more books. After all, I had done nearly everything that had been suggested by marketing gurus and experts. What else was there that I hadn't already tried?_

" _Originally my marketing plan consisted of a little bit of this and a little bit of that, hoping something might work. I was so afraid that if I didn't try everything, the one thing I didn't do would be the difference maker. Why I took this approach, I don't know, except to acknowledge that marketing is far more overwhelming and complicated than writing a book._

" _Oftentimes we are bombarded with a zillion suggestions from well-meaning marketing folks, and being the newbie that I was, I tried most of them. What I found, however, is that many of those highly touted things didn't work (and don't work for most new or low-profile authors). Do you really need a publicist, for instance? What about all those press releases that cost a lot of money? And drawing up a marketing plan? What would that consist of, anyway? Sell More Books! will help._

" _Once I began reading Sell More Books! I realized what I needed were not new methods or ideas but a strategy to help me evaluate what I had already done. And Sell More Books! did not disappoint. I never thought about incorporating what had worked into a marketing plan that would fit my needs and budget into the future. I think it's just human nature, like a cow, to think the grass on the other side of the fence is greener. Whatever we haven't done is what we think we need to do because somebody somewhere says so—and we think they know more than we do._

" _Sell More Books! made me realize I was not alone, but by following some common sense, inexpensive suggestions, I could resurrect my lagging sales and achieve better results. Simply put, I needed to look at those things that had worked and continue to pursue them. And lastly, but also very important, I was challenged not to sit on those ideas but to put them to good use. When you become discouraged, oftentimes the hardest part is just getting started again. And because Sell More Books! helped me to see the mistakes I had made, I felt I could trust Steve Miller on other aspects of marketing I wasn't as sure about._

" _Not everybody sells tons of books from TV and radio appearances—really? I thought I was the only one. What worked for me, I found myself asking? What about all of those wonderful book reviews I have posted on Amazon and other websites? Why not get some more? After all, you can't have too many._

" _These are just two ways to market out of dozens outlined in Sell More Books. The suggestions run the gamut for every type of book in print and every type of person. Yes, we are all different. Go with what works for you and throw out the rest. Don't feel like your book is a failure if something worked for someone else but doesn't work for you._

" _In addition, Steve Miller shares many stories from authors he has talked to first-hand regarding marketing—and has concluded, as I did, that many things are a waste of money. I wish I had read Sell More Books two years ago. I could have made better choices in marketing Children of Dreams, saving myself a lot of time, money, and discouragement._

" _Sell More Books is the best marketing book I have read. Buy yours today and don't repeat the mistakes others have made. You will be encouraged to keep on keeping on in the difficult world of marketing."_

Second, if you do not have the expertise to do your own marketing, Shelley Hitz is an excellent resource and marketing guru. She has done some work for me as well as the John 3:16 Marketing Network. I have been impressed with her knowledge, her prompt response to emails, the many things she offers for free, and her Christian faith. I asked Shelley if she could give me a short blurb to direct people to her website, and she forwarded me the following:

Shelley Hitz is an entrepreneur, author and speaker. Her website, www.self-publishing-coach.com, provides resources and tutorials that help you publish and market your book. Discover 200+ free book marketing and author tools when you grab a copy of Shelley Hitz's 36-page free report. It's yours free and will literally save you hours of research time, as well as money. Sign up here: www.self-publishing-coach.com/free-book-marketing.html.

As I bring this book to a close, I hope we have shared something that you found meaningful or enlightening, pleasurable or entertaining, educational or inspirational--or maybe all of these things wrapped into a wonderful sampling that you will return to time and again when you want another "Taste" from this collection. Whether you are a reader or a writer or a seeker, may God fill you with His unconditional and steadfast love. God bless!

Lorilyn Roberts

Founder of the John 3:16 Marketing Network

Author Biographies

Short Bios of Authors Who Have Contributed To This Book:

Taste and See

_First Chapters and Other_ Samplings from the John 3:16 Marketing Network

**Deborah H. Bateman** is the author of **The Book of Ruth-A Story of Love and Redemption**. She is the founder of Christian Daily Resources, a Christian Online Ministry, dedicated to "Sharing God's Word." Deborah loves studying the Bible and sharing it with others. Connect with Deborah on her author website at http://www.deborahhbateman.com or on Facebook at her author page at http://www.facebook.com/DeborahHBateman

**Tom Blubaugh** is a freelance author living in Southwest Missouri with Barbara, his wife. Tom has written non-fiction most of his adult life, but has recently written a historical fiction titled **Night of the Cossack** , published by Bound by Faith Publishers.

**Bernard Boulton** is a native of Cleveland Ohio. He is married to Vantoria Larkins Boulton and they are the parents of Bernard Quincy Boulton. Bernard is the pastor of the New Mine Creek Church in Blairs, Virginia. He has authored the novel **Do You Wanna Be Made Whole?** And the short story "Jake and Eric" which appears in the anthology **Home Again**.

**Carol Brown** is an educator, administrator, pastor's wife, mother to two and grandmother to five. She has taught from first grade through the university level and ministered with her pastoral counselor husband nationally and internationally. **The Mystery of Spiritual Sensitivity** gives voice and language to how many people experience life and speaks to the question, "What was God thinking when He made me the way I am?"

**Debra A. Newell, Ph.D** **.** is a mother, educator, worship dancer with flags, author, speaker/workshop facilitator and healer who lives in a lakeside paradise, a gift from her Heavenly Father and earthly dad. Writing is a passion, and re-emerged as a healing tool in her own life, and one she shares with others as part of the _Writing for the Spirit_ ministries (http://www.writingforthespirit.com; http://drdebra.posterous.com). In addition to her own works, including **A Strand of Pearls** _,_ which is a collection of stories of healing, redemption, and restoration, and _JIGSAW_ (targeted completion date late 2011), Debra also mentors other writers (e.g., Andrea Pence – HodgePodge Motherhood).

**Nike Chillemi** has been called a crime fictionista due to her passion for crime fiction. **BURNING HEARTS** is the first book in the crime wave that is sweeping the south shore of Long Island in The Sanctuary Point series, published by Desert Breeze. **GOODBYE NOEL** , the second book in the series, will be released in December, 2011.

**Judi Chesshir** is a children's book author, teacher, wife, and mother of two wonderful boys. She enjoys reading, writing, and molding minds in the Texas Hill Country.

**Elaine Marie Cooper** is a writer committed to serving the Lord Jesus Christ. She is the author of two historical novels ( **The Road to Deer Run, The Promise of Deer Run** ), a contributing writer for **Fighting Fear: Winning the War at Home** by Edie Melson, and a freelancer for magazines. She writes regular posts at three separate blogs for authors and enjoys spending time visiting Massachusetts to conduct research for her novels.

**Laura J. Davis** , singer and songwriter for over 25 years, turned to full-time writing after an emergency surgery caused the loss of her singing voice. She is an award-winning author, speaker, and professional book reviewer. You can contact her through her website at www.laurajdavis.com.

**Ashley Dawn** was born and raised in rural Arkansas where she developed her love for writing while helping in her parent's office. She graduated with an accounting degree from the University of Central Arkansas but is currently working as a legal assistant. Ashley has been writing professionally for the past eight years and has three published books. You can read more about her books on her website at http://www.authorashleydawn.com.

**Amy Deardon** is a scientist and skeptic who came to faith under protest through studying the historic circumstances surrounding the death of Jesus. Having written research articles, newspaper columns, and other nonfiction, when she decided to write a novel she was surprised by how difficult it was to get the words down. She undertook a detailed study to understand how story works, and developed an algorithm that is published in **THE STORY TEMPLATE: CONQUER WRITER'S BLOCK USING THE UNIVERSAL STRUCTURE OF STORY** _._ Amy can be reached through her website at www.amydeardon.com.

**Lynn Dove** , author of the award-winning **Wounded Trilogy** for young adults, is "living the dream" with her husband and teen children on their acreage just north of Cochrane, Alberta, Canada. She enjoys connecting with her readers and can be reached through her website, www.shootthewounded.org, or her blog at Journey Thoughts.

**Janet Perez Eckles** has been inspiring thousands with her writing included in 28 books, her keynote messages, and recently with her #1 Amazon.com bestselling, inspirational book, **Simply Salsa: Dancing Without Fear at God's Fiesta** _._ www.janetperezeckles.com.

**Sana Edoja** is a French author who in 1995 left her home and moved to the United Kingdom to improve her English. Struggling with sin, her life turned around when she became a believer and was baptized into Jesus Christ. She soon saw the power of God at work in her life. Sana says, "It was this experience that motivated me to write my first book, **Knowing God** , which I believe will help those who are seeking God to gain a better understanding of the riches of the Kingdom of God."

**Anita Estes** is an art teacher, dancer, and freelance writer whose passion is to encourage others in their daily walk with God. Her work has appeared in several compilations including **God Allows U-Turns, A Cup of Comfort, Deliver Me** and Adams Media books. She is the author of  When God Speaks _:_ **40 Days of His Promises** ,  Transformed _—_ **Inspiring Stories of Freedom** and  Letters to God on a Prodigal Son— **Overcoming Addiction through Prayer**.

**Theresa Franklin** lives in Beaumont, Texas, with her husband of 38 years. She is a retired educator and administrator and now writes full time. She is the author of **Don't Forget Daddy** and **A Sunny Tomorrow**. www.storiesforchrist.com.

**Sally Franz** is an international speaker having appeared on _The Today Show, The Maury Povitch Show_ , and _Lifetime_. She has worked with Intel, SONY, Yahoo! and Chevron. She contributed to the _Chicken Soup for the Soul Series_ , is the author of the Amazon Bestseller **Scrambled Leggs,** an Award winning motivational book Monster Lies, and is a Travel Blogger at http://www.About55.com.

S **idney W. Frost** has a Master of Science degree from the University of Houston and a Bachelor of Arts from the University of California at Long Beach. He resides in Georgetown, Texas, where he is active in the First United Methodist Church. A former professor at Austin Community College, he now travels and writes inspirational fiction. His first novel, **Where Love Once Lived,** won several awards in contests in Texas, Arizona and California; and his second, **The Vengeance Squad** , is consistently on Amazon's best-seller list for Christian mystery.

April W. Gardner resides in Georgia with her USAF husband and two sweet kiddos. She is the author of the historical romance series, the  Creek Country Saga, as well as the children's adventure series, the Channel Islands Resistance. She is the founder and senior editor of the fun literary website, Clash of the Titles.

**Serafim Gascoigne** is a presbyter minister in the Eastern Orthodox Church, serving a parish in Seattle, Washington. He has traveled in eastern Turkey and Siberia and is a published tech author and magazine writer.

**S. E. Gregg** is an award-winning, bestseller author and has been a spiritual marathon runner in the Christian Olympics for several decades. He is a Bible school graduate and the founder of Sound Doctrine Christian Ministries. Gregg enjoys doing freelance and Bible curriculum writing from his home in the Philadelphia, PA, area.

**CJ and Shelley Hitz** have authored several books and have a passion to share God's truth through their speaking engagements, books, and websites. CJ and Shelley's openness and vulnerability as they share their own stories of hope and healing will inspire and encourage others. You can find out more about their ministry at http://www.TheForgivenessFormula.com.

**Paulette Harper-Johnson** , known as "Lady J.," is an inspirational speaker, certified life coach, ordained elder, and author of several books. She serves in ministry with her husband, Sr. Pastor Tony E. Johnson, at Word of Faith Worship Center in Bradenton, Florida. You may visit her website at: www.pauletteharper.com.

**Brenda K. Hendricks** is an author/illustrator who blends her artistic talent with her "gift to gab" to enhance the learning experience at women's events. She also publishes an online devotional/Bible study at http://www.twosmallfish.org and a blog at http://www.myquotesofencouragement.com, which is a combination of stories, anecdotes, and personal experiences.

**Kimberly J. James** is an author, life coach, and motivational speaker who also founded and serves as the President of the Dream in Color Foundation, a youth performing arts education organization in Northern Virginia. **Running on G: What's Filling Your Tank?** Is Kim's first book. "This work is much bigger than me. I wrote it purely out of obedience. It is the most painful yet rewarding thing I have ever accomplished."

**Tracy Krauss** writes 'edgy inspirational' fiction and is also an artist, playwright, and teacher. To find out more, visit http://www.tracykrauss.com.

**Ken Kuhlken's** novels have earned the St. Martin's Press Best First Private Eye Novel award, been chosen as the San Diego Book Awards Best Mystery, and taken honors as finalist for the Ernest Hemingway Best First Novel award and the Shamus Best Novel Award. He teaches writing and literature at Perelandra College and resides on the web at www.kenkuhlken.net.

**Marcia Laycock's** devotionals are distributed to thousands. Her novel, **One Smooth Stone** , won the Best New Canadian Christian Author Award in 2006 and she is a sought-after speaker. You may visit her website at http:// www.vinemarc.com.

**Larry J. Leech II** is a professional writer who started his career thirty years ago at age 18. He has written a dozen books, has had nearly 3,000 articles published, has edited more than 100 books, has served on faculty of several national writers conferences, and has coached countless writers. He also is Executive Director of Christian Writers Guild Word Weavers, an international Christian critique organization with twenty-eight chapters.

**Lisa Lickel** is a Wisconsin writer who lives with her husband in a hundred and sixty-year-old house built by a Great Lakes ship captain. Surrounded by books and dragons, she writes inspiring fiction. Her novels include mystery and romance, all with a twist of grace. She is the editor-in-chief of _Creative Wisconsin Magazine_ and of _OtherSheep_ , a Christian sci fi/fantasy magazine.

**Ray W. Lincoln** , _The InnerKinetics™ Coach_ , is founder of Ray W. Lincoln & Associates and author of the Amazon bestseller, _I'M A KEEPER!_ He released two new books, **INNERKINETICS™ — Your Blueprint to Excellence and Happiness** and **A Journey Through Fear to Confidence** in 2011 _._ A native of New Zealand, he is a sought-after international speaker and teacher. He is a member of the National Speakers Association. His books, as well as many additional helps, are available from his website at http://www.raywlincoln.com.

**Patty Mason** is the author of **Transformed by Desire: A Journey of Awakening to Life and Love.**

**Deborah McCarragher** began her journey of creative writing soon after coming to know Jesus as her personal Savior in 1989. She enjoys using her spiritual gifts of encouragement and teaching as she shares her personal testimony with others. Deborah has been a small business owner for over 25 years and formed Alabaster Box Publishing several years ago as a vehicle for producing and promoting her Christian writing projects. She is a devotional contributor to the E-magazine _Ruby for Women_ and _Living Better at 50+_ as well as for the print magazine _An Encouraging Word_.

**Rose Allen McCauley** is happy for **Christmas Belles of Georgia** to be her first fiction anthology because Christmas books are her favorites. She is a retired schoolteacher who has been happily married to her college sweetheart for 43 years. She is also mother to three grown children and their spouses and grandmother to three lovely, lively kids with one more on the way! You can reach her through her website www.rosemccauley.com or blogsite at www.rosemccauley.blogspot.com.

**Robert McGinnis** has published twenty books to date and he has four more underway. His writings are without nudity, sex, gore, or excess violence. His purpose in this later period of life is to encourage people to read, read more, and read with comprehension. Added to that is the development of compassion, imagination, and understanding interlaced with character-building suggestions. His main characters are honest, hardworking, forthright, and challenging.

**Anita Mellott** writes and speaks to encourage others through the ups and downs of life. With post-graduate degrees in Journalism and Communications, she's worked as a writer/editor for Habitat for Humanity International, headed a journalism department, and freelanced for nonprofits. When she's not homeschooling, she blogs at From the Mango Tree _,_ and her articles appear in _Homeschool Enrichment_ , Novel Rocket and Crosswalk.com.

**Jay Miller** is a writer of children's literature and can be found at www.mybingobooks.com. (Learning about Jesus in fun ways).

**Steve and Cherie Miller** love to write, publish, and help fellow authors. Cherie served until recently as president of the Georgia Writers Association. Steve is president of Legacy Educational Resources. Connect with them at www.sellmorebooks.org.

**Mogama** is the author of **Refugee Was My Name.** He was born and born again in Liberia, West Africa, and migrated to the United States in 1991 due to the Liberian Civil War. He holds a B.Th. from the Liberia Baptist Theological Seminary and a M.Div. from The Southern Baptist Theological Seminary. He is the founding pastor of Church for All and lives with his wife Harriet and their children in Kentucky.

**Dr. Debra A. Newell** is the author of multiple publications, including **A Strand of Pearls** published in 2008 (Book Ends Press), which is a collection of stories about healing, redemption, and restoration. Profits from sales are re-invested in ministries devoted to the healing of women. Dr. Newell is working on her second book, _JIGSAW_ , with a targeted completion late 2011.

**Kimberley Payne** is a motivational speaker and author. Her writings relate to raising a family, pursuing a healthy lifestyle, and everyday experiences to building a relationship with God. Through her work, Kimberley hopes to inspire people to live their life to glorify God. You can visit her website at http://www.kimberleypayne.com.

**Patience Prence** was fascinated by the _Book of Revelation_ as a young child and has studied Revelation and end-time prophecies for many years. A lifelong Christian and businesswoman, she orients her research and knowledge toward helping others seek and understand God's Word. Patience suffers from Usher Syndrome, a disease that causes hearing loss and blindness (Retinitis Pigmentosa).

**W. R. Pursche** is the author of the popular book about life lessons from dogs: **Lessons To Live By: The Canine Commandments.** Michael Gabriele is a professional musician and artist. Please visit us at http://www.EternalMessiah.com.

**Lorilyn Roberts** lives in Florida with her two internationally adopted daughters, Manisha and Joy; four neurotic cats, and two witless dogs; all rescued by the grace of God. She has published three books and is the founder of the John 3:16 Marketing Network. Her website may be found at http://www.lorilynroberts.com.

**B. J. Robinson** lives in Florida with her husband and pets. Visit her at http://barbarajrobinson.blogspot.com. Look for her Christian romantic suspense novels at Amazon and Barnes and Noble.com. **Last Resort** released in July, 2011; **Southern Superstitions** will be released in January, 2012; and **Whispering** **Cypress** will be released in August, 2012.

**Cheryl Rogers** writes Christian fiction and non-fiction for readers from toddler age through adult. "It is my goal to encourage others to seek God early, sparing them the pain that comes from not knowing God," she says. A free-lance writer, editor, proofreader and book designer, Cheryl runs New Christian Books Online Magazine and store as a service to Christian authors and readers.

**Joyce Schneider** lives in Naples, Florida, with her husband, Bobby, and two sons, Carson and Chase. Her books were conceived while God was taking her through a time of healing and growth. Her desire is that women everywhere learn how to experience the healing and abundant living that Jesus wants us to enjoy. Her website may be found at http://www.alifedecision.org.

**Alberta Sequeira** is an author and speaker from Rochester, Massachusetts. She has published **A Spiritual Renewal: A Journey to Medjugorje, Someone Stop This Merry-Go-Round: An Alcoholic Family in Crisis** _,_ and the sequel, **Please, God, Not Two; This Killer Called Alcoholism.** She is the co-author of **Loose Ends.** She is a co-founder to Authors Without Borders (www.awb6.com) and the host to NBTV-95 cable show in New Bedford, MA. Alberta is also an instructor with a three-hour workshop titled "Bring Your Manuscript to Publication." She has presented public and private talks on "The Effect of Alcoholism on the Whole Family" after losing a husband and daughter to this disease. Her other talk is on "My Spiritual Change Within" after leaving the Church and finding her way back going to Medjugorje in Bosnia.

**Saundra Dalton-Smith** is an Internal Medicine physician and the author of **Set Free to Live Free: Breaking Through the 7 Lies Women Tell Themselves** (Revell 2011). She is passionate about helping women overcome mental obstacles to live free in Christ. She is married with two sons and lives in Alabama.

**Eddie Snipes** is the author of several books and president of the Christian Authors Guild. He's also the author of **Simple Faith – how every person can experience intimacy with God** , and soon to be released **, Sound Mind – God's plan for healthy emotions**.

**Amanda Stephan** is just a normal, everyday country girl. She resides near Columbia, Tennessee, with her husband and children, three cats, one dog, and multiple roosters that love to roost under their bedroom windows. She loves to laugh and have a good time, and loves to read a good book. Amanda Stephan **-** Christian Romance Author. You may visit her website at http://http://www.booksbyamanda.com.

**Diane E. Tatum** has been writing since grade school in St. Louis County, Missouri. She worked as a freelance writer and stay-at-home mom while living in Newport News, Virginia, until she decided to go back to school and teach language arts to middle schoolers. She taught in Tullahoma City Schools in Tennessee for eleven years until her "retirement" from teaching to focus on her own writing and the needs of her family.

**Evelyn Uslar-Pietri** is an author, journalist, and magazine editor who descends from a long line of prominent writers, including Arturo Uslar-Pietri, one of Latin America's foremost intellectuals. **Pirates Gold: Treasure to Die For** _,_ Evelyn's first young-adult novel, couples her love for riveting, action-packed adventure with underlying life lessons on the value of friendship, selflessness, and doing the right thing. You may visit her website at http://www.piratesgoldtreasure.com

**Janalyn Voigt** is an author, book reviewer, literary judge, and avid reader. Having identified her desire to write at a tender age, she taught herself in the craft of writing long before receiving formal training through the Christian Writers Guild. Janalyn is a member of ACFW and NCWA with publication credits that include Focus on the Family, Scripture Press, and Pentecostal Evangel. Website: Janalyn Voigt Twitter: @janalynvoigt

**Amanda Washington** is the author of the teen fiction series, **Chronicles of the Broken** and the post-apocalyptic **Rescuing Liberty**. When she's not writing, she works as an executive assistant and volunteers with a large, active youth group in Vancouver, Washington. A busy wife and mother, she's currently editing **Chronicles of the Broken 2**.

**Ken** Winters' first novel is The Lost Crown of Colonnade. Ken resides with his wife of 39 years, Connie, in North Brookfield, Massachusetts. Since retiring from the U.S. Navy Chaplain Corps in 2004, he has served in that rural town as Associate Pastor at the First Congregational Church (CCCC). Holding a deep concern for the youth of our nation, his goal is to provide fun, wholesome adventures that both entertain and communicate hope in the perilous world of today.

**Yvonne Pat Wright** is a young-at-heart grandmother, born in Jamaica, who has spent equal blocks of 25 years living between Jamaica and the United Kingdom where she currently resides. A devout Christian, she is a lay preacher in her church and also conducts Bible studies for persons wishing to join the church, Milton Keynes Seventh Day Adventist Church.

**Jessica Zondervan** is a graduate of Drake University with a B.A. in Journalism and Mass Communication. After graduating from college, she spent time working for a local newspaper writing obituaries and selling advertising. After years of struggling with grief and depression, she experienced full healing and now dedicates her time and energy to helping others break free from depression. She is the author of **Breathing on Purpose: Surviving the Death of a Loved One**. Jessica lives in Des Moines, Iowa, with her husband, Randy, and their two precious children, Braedin and Audrey.

xxx

Books written by Lorilyn Roberts:

Children of Dreams

http://lorilynroberts.com/subchildrenofdreams.html

http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/102175

How to Launch A Christian Best Seller Book, the John 3:16 Marketing Network Manual

http://lorilynroberts.com/christian_best_seller.html

http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/72306

The Donkey and the King

http://lorilynroberts.com/donkeyandking.html

Connect with Lorilyn

Smashwords Author Page: <http://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/llwroberts>

Website: <http://lorilynroberts.com/>

Blog: <http://lorilynroberts.blogspot.com/>

John 3:16 Marketing Network Blog: http://john316mn.blogspot.com

John 3:16 Marketing Network Webpage to join either as a reader or a blogger/author,

or to obtain further information:

<http://lorilynroberts.com/john_3_16_marketing_network.html>

Twitter: twitter.com/llwroberts

Facebook:  https://www.facebook.com/pages/Author-Lorilyn-Roberts-Fan-Page/144049365650301

LinkedIn: <http://www.linkedin.com/in/lorilynroberts>
