2/28/12

Embraced by God by Babbie Mason

Embraced by God is a 21-day encounter that shares the unconditional love of God. "If you watch what the media says as to where we should find our identity--" says Babbie, "--money, beauty, power and technology--you'll just be confused about who you are and what your purpose is. As a culture we are trying to buy or sell what can only be administered to the soul by Jesus."

What a beautiful book!  I am really enjoying it.  Scripturally based, heart-felt, and down to earth, this devotional offers stirring reminders of God's love and truth.  It includes the following themes:

  • God's Passion for you is Unconditional
  • God's Picture of you is Beautiful
  • God's Presence in you is Perpetual
  • God's Provision for you is Immeasurable
  • God's Plan for you is Exceptional
  • God's Power in you is Accessible
  • God's Promise in you is Incomparable

I was in tears before I had finished the introduction or overture.  I could feel the Holy Spirit's Presence and the prayers that were on this book.  Realistically, it may take you more than 21 days to complete this journey, but that's okay.  It is not a one page per day devotional, and I highly recommend reading it!  It would make a good book for a small group or book club as well.

I did receive this book free of charge in exchange for my honest review.

Celebrate with Babbie by entering her Nook Tablet Giveaway and coming to
her "Embraced Facebook Party {3/6}!






One beloved winner will receive:

  • A Brand new Nook Tablet with Wi-Fi
  • Embraced by God by Babbie Mason
  • Babbie's Embraced by God Music CD
  • Babbie's Embraced by God Note cards
Enter today by clicking one of the icons below. But hurry, the giveaway ends 3/5/12. Winner will be announced at Babbie's "Embraced" Facebook Party on 3/6. Babbie will be hosting an evening of chat, music, laughter, and encouragement- bring your friends! She'll also be giving away some GREAT prizes: gift certificates,books, Embraced by God music CDs and Note cards, and a book club prize pack! (Ten copies of the book for your small group or book club.)



So grab your copy of Embraced by God and join Babbie and friends on the evening of March 6th for an evening of fun.


Enter via E-mail Enter via FacebookEnter via Twitter
Don't miss a moment of the fun. RSVP today and tell your friends via FACEBOOK or TWITTER and increase your chances of winning. Hope to see you on March 6th!

2/27/12

Guest Post #2: Author Sandra Ralya

Sandy Ralya is the founder and director of Beautiful Womanhood, a marriage mentoring ministry based near Grand Rapids, Mich. Her marriage testimony was the focus of a popular three-day interview on FamilyLife Today, TV's Walking by Faith, and Time Out for Women. Sandy is a sought-after speaker, presenting Beautiful Womanhood seminars to hundreds of women each year at MOPS groups, women's retreats, and church leadership conferences across the country and in Canada.Sandy and her husband Tom have been married since 1980, and have a growing number of grandchildren.  www.beautifulwomanhood.com




Trust Leads to Romance

What stirs the embers of romance deep inside you?

Loving Words

Touch

A Night Out?

Maybe you haven’t thought about romance lately because of busyness, fatigue, disillusionment, or hopelessness.

I’ve been there too.

But romance with the man you love may not be as elusive as you might think.

Though we all desire romance—every woman longs to be

noticed, pursued, and adored—few of us realize that…

our words and actions may serve as stumbling blocks rather than

invitations for the man in our life to woo us romantically.

If this is true, then we’re sabotaging the very romance we desire. Reminds me of the saying,

“If you do what you’ve always done, you’ll get what you’ve always gotten.”

Do you like what you’re experiencing in regard to romance?

If not, ask yourself if you’re more likely to trust OR control your husband.

You’ve seen the controlling type.

Most women on TV sitcoms struggle with control. They walk all over the men they’re with and it bothers us.

It’s easy to detect control in others, but are you guilty of similar actions?

Let’s look deeper and find out.

1. Do you correct your husband?

2. Do you instruct your husband?

3. Do you improve your husband?

Do you correct your husband’s pronunciation or perhaps the telling of a story when you know he’s got the facts mixed up?

When you correct your husband you’re telling him he did something wrong.

In this position you’ve become his mother. And that’s a romance killer if there ever was.

Do you instruct your husband when he drives, performs tasks, or helps out with the kids?

When you instruct your husband, you’re sending the message, “You don’t know how to do this.”

In this position you become the teacher who highlighted his ineptitude. Exposed, he’ll either shrink or strike back, rather than pursue.

Do you improve your husband?

In the past, I’ve tried to improve Tom’s appearance whenever possible. Once, when dressing for dinner at an elegant restaurant on vacation, I wore a vintage cashmere jacket with pearls and heels while Tom wore an improbable, wrinkled ensemble worthy of an episode of What Not to Wear. Yet, I didn’t say a word! (Some of you may be appreciating the restraint that required!)

If I’d shared my fashion-improvement advice with him, I would have sent the romance-spoiling message, “You could have done better.”

In what areas do you try to improve your husband?

When we correct, instruct, and improve, we justify our actions by saying we’re just trying to help when, in reality, the measures we employ have more to do with fear—the fear that we won’t get what we want or we’ll get it too late.

Whenever our actions are borne of fear, the results we experience will be disappointing

at best!

Give your fears to God and trust your husband with new words and actions…

Inviting him to romance.

2/22/12

FIRST: Asenath

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


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






Today's Wild Card author is:







and the book:






Imajin Books (September 24, 2011)







***Special thanks to Anna Patricio for sending me a review copy.***




ABOUT THE AUTHOR:






Anna Patricio is a lover of ancient history, with a particular interest in Egypt, Israel, Greece, and Rome. She is also intrigued by the Ancient Near East, though she has not delved too much into it but hopes to one day.

She undertook formal studies in Ancient History at Macquarie University. She focused mostly on Egyptology and Jewish-Christian Studies, alongside a couple of Greco-Roman units, and one on Archaeology. Though she knew there were very limited job openings for ancient history graduates, she pursued her degree anyway as it was something she had always been passionate about.

Then, about a year after her graduation, the idea to tackle historical fiction appeared in her head, and she began happily pounding away on her laptop. ASENATH is her first novel.

Recently, she traveled to Lower Egypt (specifically Cairo and the Sinai), Israel, and Jordan. She plans to return to Egypt soon, and see more of it. In the past, she has also been to Athens and Rome.

Anna is currently working on a second novel, which still takes place in Ancient Egypt, but hundreds of years after ASENATH.

Visit the author's website.




SHORT BOOK DESCRIPTION:


Two Destinies...One Journey of Love

In a humble fishing village on the shores of the Nile lives Asenath, a fisherman's daughter who has everything she could want. Until her perfect world is shattered.

When a warring jungle tribe ransacks the village and kidnaps her, separating her from her parents, she is forced to live as a slave. And she begins a journey that will culminate in the meeting of a handsome and kind steward named Joseph.

Like her, Joseph was taken away from his home, and it is in him that Asenath comes to find solace...and love. But just as they are beginning to form a bond, Joseph is betrayed by his master's wife and thrown into prison.

Is Asenath doomed to a lifetime of losing everything and everyone she loves?











Product Details:
List Price: $13.99
Paperback: 222 pages
Publisher: Imajin Books (September 24, 2011)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 1926997263
ISBN-13: 978-1926997261

AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:  




Egypt 1554 B.C.

The Nile had just flooded, leaving the ground moist, rich and black. The children of our riverside village, I among them, frolicked about in the cool, gooey earth. In the distance, the ancient river circled the land, glittering with a thousand tiny dancing lights from the sun-god's Boat of a Million Years. A breeze blew, rustling the branches of the palm trees that surrounded our home.
"Kiya!"
No sooner had I looked than a mud ball pelted me hard across the stomach.
"I'll get you for that, Menah." I bent down to gather mud in my hands when another ball landed on my back. He was a quick one, my best friend.
I had just formed a mud ball and was about to raise my arm when Menah suddenly charged forward and pounced on me.
"Now you'll get the tickle torture," he said in a mock evil voice.
"No, Menah. Please, no." But I was overcome by uncontrollable laughter.
"Menah! Kiya!" voices called out, interrupting our playful wrestling.
Our mothers approached.
"Come out now," my mother called. "It is time to prepare for the Feast of Hapi."
Covered in mud from head to toe, Menah and I scrambled toward them.
Mama shook her head, smiling. "You're such a mess."
She led me back to our hut.
"What is going to happen tonight, Mama?" I asked. "I mean, after we pray to Hapi? Will there be games?"
Mama's blue eyes twinkled against her brown skin. "I see no reason why there shouldn't be."
"And lots of food?"
"All the food you could ever want."
"May I wear my lotus necklace today?"
Years ago, when I was very young, Mama had given me a beautiful carved lapis lazuli lotus pendant strung on a simple piece of coarse rope. She told me it had been in her family for many generations and that her grandmother had received it from Hapi himself.
She ruffled my hair. "Of course. Today is, after all, a special day."
As we entered our mud hut, which had been my home since birth, I saw my father mending one of his fisherman's nets. When he saw me, he pretended to cower in fear.
"A mud monster has entered our house."
I laughed. "It's just me, Papa."
He leaned forward and squinted, as if trying to get a good look, though the gesture was comically exaggerated. "Is it? Let me see. Ah yes, it's my little Kiya."
He leapt to his feet, picked me up and swung me around, ignoring the mud that soiled his hands. I squealed with delight.
"Nakhti," Mama said. "I have to get her ready."
"Yes." Papa set me down. He gave me a gentle slap across the back, motioning for me to return to Mama.
"I get to wear the lotus today, Papa."
He smiled. "I am sure you will look very pretty."
Later that afternoon, four priests from a nearby town passed by our village. They shouldered on poles our patron god's idol, which nestled upon a bed of water lilies. A ray of sunlight bounced off the golden image and it flashed with brilliance. Behind the god was a small train of dancing priestesses. They rattled sistrums and twirled around, their white dresses billowing out like clouds.
My fellow villagers and I were assembled outside our village, awaiting the god's arrival. When he appeared, we fell to our knees and touched our foreheads to the sandy ground.
"Glorious Hapi," my father intoned. "We thank you for once again allowing your water to flow and give life. We thank you for nourishing our land and our people. We pray your sacred pitchers never cease to flow. We thank you, great god of the Nile."
My heart swelled with pride. Papa was the most renowned fisherman in our village. Though he was quite an old man - many years older than my mother - he possessed skills and strength that surpassed even those of the younger generations. Everyone thus hailed him as the favoured of the river god.
"Praise be to you, Hapi," I echoed along with the rest of my fellow villagers.
As the idol trailed away, we rose to our feet and gathered up the amulets and flowers, which we would be tossing into the Nile as offerings. It was sunset now and sheer red-orange skies cast a fiery glow upon the river's rippling surface. From a distance, we heard the warbling of river fowl and the screeching of monkeys.
We approached the riverbank. It was still soft and muddy from the inundation. We tossed our offerings in. All the while, Papa chanted hymns of praise. Afterward, we returned to the village for what we children had been anticipating the most - the games.
A kind, respectable widow named Mekten, whom everyone called "Village Mother", held a game called the "statue dance." She played a reed flute while we danced and would stop at random moments without warning. We had to freeze as soon as the music stopped. Those who were still dancing were out of the game.
My friends and I loved it so much that Mekten held several rounds of it. Unfortunately, I always lost, as I always got so caught up in the liveliness of the game. However, she awarded me a small spinning top as a prize for being the best dancer.
I danced so much that I could barely keep my eyes open as we later sat down to the feast. Papa picked me up and carried me back to our hut. I was too tired to protest. As soon as he lay me down, I fell into a deep sleep.
That night, I dreamt I was on a great winged barque sailing along the Nile. It was a bright day, with the white-golden Egyptian sun shining gloriously and flocks of ibises and herons gleaming against the clear blue sky. A group of friendly monkeys, like those who usually wandered near my family's hut, kept me company on the deck, entertaining me with their hilarious antics.
Suddenly, the skies darkened and the water began to thrash against the barque. The monkeys leapt up and down, screeching frantically. I grabbed onto the rail.
Thunder rumbled. Fierce white waves threatened to haul us overboard. The barque tipped to a dangerous level and I began to scream.
Waking, I placed my hand over my heart, which was pounding fiercely. I was about to heave a sigh of relief when I heard the rumbling from my dream. I sat up, my chest constricting in fear once more. The noise sounded like it was coming from outside our hut.
The rumbling stopped.
I heard a strange voice shouting in a language I could not understand.
My father appeared beside me. In the dim light, I could see the outline of his bony profile as he knelt by my side.
"What's that noise, Papa?"
He put his arms around me and before he could answer, a chilling scream sliced through the air. Other screams followed. Soon, the air was filled with a frightening cacophony - screams, cries and more shouts in that strange language.
Papa's grip on me tightened. "Come, Kiya. We must hide you."
The door of our hut flew open.
Two enormous, fearsome-looking warriors towered like the tallest trees. Their faces were thickly painted in bright, garish colours. They wore loincloths made of animal skin and peculiar pointed headdresses that emphasised their unusual height. In their hands were spears that glinted threateningly.
Mama screamed.
One of the warriors shouted something, while waving toward us. Another dashed forward and snatched me out of Papa's protective hold.
"Papa!"
The monster hauled me outside.
I kicked and flailed. "Papa!"
"Kiya!" Papa hurried after me.
Alas, though he was strong and agile, he was no match for these giants. They ran with such enormous strides that in no time he was out of sight.
"Papa?" I writhed about in the warrior's iron grip. "Papa!"
I felt a blow to the back of my head and the world turned black.
Cold water slapped my face. When I opened my eyes, I was staring into the massive painted face of my captor.
"Get up," he snarled. His breath was fouler than rotten fish.
I struggled to my feet. Though I was still in a daze, I dared not disobey.
The warrior grabbed my arm and led me through pitch-black darkness. I was certain he was going to kill me. My chest tightened with fear.
He led me out into a brightly lit clearing. It looked like we were in the midst of a dense jungle. A campfire crackled at the centre where the warrior's comrades sat feasting and talking.
Relief washed over me when I noticed my fellow villagers huddled together at the far end. Menah was with them.
I smiled. "Menah!"
The warrior slapped me hard across the face. "You are not to speak. If you do so again, we will kill you."
I shuddered, though I was less frightened than before now that I knew I was not alone.
The warrior dragged me over to the villagers and shoved me amongst them. "Stay with them. No talking and no trying to escape." He glared at us, then went to the fire to join the others.
Menah took my hand.
"Where are my parents?" I asked in a bare whisper.
He looked at me sadly and shook his head.
I knew what that meant. They were not there.
I suddenly threw up.
In a flash, the warrior was before us. "What's going on here?"
No one answered.
"She felt sick and vomited," our village mother Mekten said finally.
The warrior turned to his comrades and said something in their language. They laughed boisterously. He shook his head and returned to them.
Tears spilled from my eyes. Menah held me and rocked me, comforting me. I sobbed for a long time, eventually crying myself to sleep.
What followed was an arduous journey through the jungle. The scorching sun was merciless and mosquitoes bit my arms, legs and face. The entire time, our captors threatened to murder us and I might have actually died with despair had it not been for the familiar faces around me.
I do not know how far we travelled, but just as I thought we would perish, one of the warriors announced we had reached our destination.
It was early evening. We were led toward a tribal encampment illuminated by a towering bonfire. Drumbeats pounded in my ears as we drew nearer. When we entered the camp, I saw tents made of dyed animal hides, as well as poles topped with the decapitated heads of people and animals. I averted my eyes, trying to erase the horrific images from my head.
The drums were deafening as the tribespeople surrounded us. Like our captors, they were wrapped in animal skins. Their bodies were pierced in just about every part and painted in bright colours. I shuddered when a small child with painted teeth and a pierced nose came over and poked at my face.
My fellow villagers and I were lined up in front of the bonfire. I thought for sure they would murder us. I whimpered as one of the warriors strode up to us. I recognised him. He had entered my family's hut.
The warrior paced the length of our row. "Do you know why you are all here?"
No one answered.
He glared at us. "Many years ago, your Pharaoh murdered our chieftain. I am that chieftain's son and will now avenge my father's death. Until your king makes amends, we will continue to destroy your wretched country. If he does not, we will fight until Egypt is no more."
As he reached me, he stopped pacing and smiled, revealing crooked yellow teeth. "What is your name, little girl?" His voice was gentle.
"K-Kiya," I squeaked.
"What a beautiful girl you are. Has anyone ever told you how beautiful you are?"
I did not answer.
"How old are you?"
"Nine."
"Ah. Perfect." His hideous grin widened. "You will be my slave, Kiya. And when your red moon comes, you will become my bride."
I stared at him, too horrified to speak.
He stepped forward. "That flower around your neck goes very well with your lovely face." He fingered the lotus pendant and I pulled back.
"Where are my parents?" I blurted.
"We left them behind, little one. We have no use for them." He laughed cruelly.
My fear was replaced by rage. "I want my parents. Bring me back to my parents."
One of the warriors rushed toward me, but the chieftain held up his hand. He stared into space for a moment. "Very well. If you work hard, I will send for your parents by the time you and I are ready to marry."
My anger began to abate. "You mean that?" I looked into his dark eyes, which were surrounded by a strange painted pattern of dots.
"Yes. So what do you say, little Kiya? Are you going to work hard?"
I hated that he called me "little Kiya." It sounded like he was trying to replace Papa. But I knew that if I wanted to see my parents again, I had to be obedient and silent.
I nodded.
"Good," he said, turning away.
"What is a red moon?" I asked.
Some of my fellow villagers stared at me, aghast, while the tribespeople roared with laughter.
The chieftain approached Mekten. "Be Kiya's advisor and explain to her what a red moon is. I am sure you know full well." He winked at her.
I felt sick at that gesture, even though I did not understand what it meant.
Mekten nodded in submission.
The chieftain waved his arm, inviting his people to pick slaves from among us.
A tall, thin woman with large bone earrings and a cold expression led Mekten and I to the chieftain's large tent. When we stepped inside, I nearly screamed. The place was festooned with more disembodied animal heads, as well as enormous wooden masks with frightening expressions. The dim light from torches cast shadows on the eerie things, making them look almost alive.
The tribeswoman pointed to a dirty mat at the far end of the tent. "You will sleep there. Go now." Mekten and I headed for the mat, but the tribeswoman grabbed Mekten's arm. "Not you. You will stay here."
I stared at them, confused, and the woman glared at me. "Go!"
I hurried over to the mat as the tribeswoman extinguished the torch, plunging the tent into complete darkness.
All was silent. Then the tent's flap rose, revealing the bulky profile of the chieftain. He shuffled inside and the flap swung closed.
Not long after, I heard Mekten crying out in fear and pain. Heavy breathing followed. The louder Mekten screamed, the heavier the breathing grew.
Though I had no idea what was happening, I knew I was hearing something bad. I covered my ears, but it was no use. Similar screams rose from the neighbouring tents. I slept amongst nightmares, waking at times to the sound of terrified cries and heartbreaking sobbing.
The following morning, Mekten acted scared of everything and everyone, which wasn't like her. I wanted to make her feel better, but I didn't know how. Even the most trivial things I did frightened her.
Throughout the day, I kept a distance from her. But at times, I tried to reach out to her. She was, after all, one of our dearest family friends.
"Mekten," I said in a timid voice. "What is a red moon?"
Mekten looked at me with sad eyes. Finally, she took a deep breath and explained everything in a shaky voice before breaking down.


My Thoughts:


I am extremely behind in my reading, so I haven't even started this one yet.  Keep visiting, though, because it looks really good.  As soon as things calm down here, this will top my TBR pile!!

2/21/12

Guest Post: Author Sandra Ralya

Want a Growing Marriage?



My husband and I were reading a financial book about how to make your money grow when one of the principles jumped off the page at me:

What you focus on grows.

Because it’s such a simple principle, I couldn’t get it out of my mind and began applying it to all areas of life, especially relationships.

Most women have the desire to grow a more intimate relationship with their husband yet few focus their desire long enough to do anything about it.
Thus, nothing changes.

•Ignorance,

•Distractions, and/or

•hopelessness are often to blame.

I should know. Just 19 when I said, “I do”, I was ignorant about how to grow my marriage. Our pre-marriage counseling consisted of one two-hour meeting with my pastor and that wasn’t enough to prepare me for the emotional, spiritual, and verbal abuse my husband doled out on a regular basis. The abuse produced pain and grief. I could think of little else than surviving.

Hope for our future crumbled.

Over time, I began sharing my pain with a few trusted, godly women. Venting my pain and hearing their honest feed-back helped me see that the abuse I was suffering wasn’t my fault.

I began seeing a Christian counselor who gave me tools that helped restore me to a place of strength and dignity.

The best choice I made was to dig into God’s word and find out what He wanted to say to me about my marriage. In the Bible I found the following verses which applied to my situation:

•“…Your godly lives will speak to them [husbands] better than any words.
They will be won over by watching your pure godly behavior.” (I Peter 3:1,2)
In place of preaching to my husband, I began entrusting my difficult situation to God through prayer—listening for His instruction.

•“Instead, we will hold to the truth in love…” (Ephesians 4:15)
I began to exchange preaching for speaking the truth in love—in as few words as possible.

•“See that no one pays back evil for evil, but always try to do good…” (I Thessalonians 5:15)
 On my new path, I chose to respond in kindness and enforce healthy boundaries in place of angry
retaliation.

When I dug into the word, I learned that my husband wasn’t the only one sinning. My responses to Tom were often sinful and my response was the only thing I was responsible for.  (What I wanted was to change my husband but I couldn’t find a biblical reference to support my desire and neither will you)!

Focused on God and His Word, I was able to reverse negative behavioral patterns in my life which had long plagued me.

When I did what I could do—keeping my focus on God, HE DID WHAT I COULD NOT!

He healed me and ultimately my marriage—to the praise of His glorious grace!

What you focus on grows.

Are you focused on growing your marriage?

2/20/12

FIRST: Not in the Heart

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


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






Today's Wild Card author is:







and the book:






Tyndale House Publishers, Inc. (January 20, 2012)





***Special thanks to Audra Jennings – The B&B Media Group – for sending me a review copy.***




ABOUT THE AUTHOR:


As a child, Chris Fabry wrote stories, songs and poems. The creative process invigorated him. He may not have been a fast reader, but the words on the page had a deep effect. So he vowed that if he ever had the chance to write, he would take it.

After high school, Fabry attended and graduated from the W. Page Pitt School of Journalism at Marshall University in Huntington, WV. After graduation, Fabry and his wife felt a desire for biblical education, so his pastor suggested they check out Moody Bible Institute in Chicago. At Moody, Fabry met Jerry Jenkins who learned of his desire to write and encouraged him to pursue his dream. In 1998, Jenkins and Dr. Tim LaHaye hired him to write Left Behind: The Kids series. He wrote 35 books in that series over the next six years. He later collaborated with Jenkins on the Red Rock Mysteries series and The Wormling series, and in 2008 he worked solo on the NASCAR-based RPM series.

Since then he has published four novels for adults: Dogwood, June Bug, Almost Heaven and his newest novel, Not in the Heart. Each of his first three books was nominated for a Christy Award in the Contemporary Standalone Category, winning in 2009 for Dogwood and in 2011 for Almost Heaven. In addition to his fiction work, Fabry also collaborated on two best-selling football biographies with Ohio State’s Jim Tressel and Drew Brees of the New Orleans Saints. Altogether, Fabry has published more than 70 books for children and adults.

Fabry’s other passion is broadcasting. As part of the DECCA program in high school, he worked at WNST Radio in Milton, WV. During his senior year at Marshall University, he worked for WSAZ-TV as a weekend reporter. In 1985, he began hosting Open Line, a national call-in show which he hosted until 1997. In 1993, he began a six-year stint as co-host of Mornings with Greg and Chris on WMBI in Chicago. Then in May of 2008 he began Chris Fabry Live! which received the 2008 Talk Personality of the Year Award from the National Religious Broadcasters. He can also be heard daily on Love Worth Finding, featuring the teaching of the late Dr. Adrian Rogers.

Chris and his wife of almost 30 years, Andrea, are the parents of nine children.


Visit the author's website.




SHORT BOOK DESCRIPTION:



Truman Wiley used to report news stories from around the world, but now the most troubling headlines are his own. He’s out of work, out of touch with his family, out of his home. But nothing dogs him more than his son’s failing heart.

With mounting hospital bills and Truman’s penchant for gambling his savings, the situation seems hopeless . . . until his estranged wife throws him a lifeline—the chance to write the story of a death row inmate, a man convicted of murder who wants to donate his heart to Truman’s son.

As the execution clock ticks down, Truman uncovers disturbing evidence that points to a different killer. For his son to live, must an innocent man die? Truman’s investigation draws him down a path that will change his life, his family, and the destinies of two men forever.












Product Details:
List Price: $13.99

Paperback: 432 pages
Publisher: Tyndale House Publishers, Inc. (January 20, 2012)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 1414348614
ISBN-13: 978-1414348612






AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER: 








30 days before execution







The trouble with my wife began when she needed Jesus and I
needed a cat. Life can be that way. That’s part of the reason I was on Sanibel
Island in the cottage I had always dreamed of owning and she was in Tallahassee
tending to the sick son of our youth. But it’s more complicated. There was more
troubling me than religion or people who think problems can be solved with a
leap of faith.



Said cottage was a tiny house that seems to be the rage
among those who believe we are warming the planet with each exhale. I didn’t
buy it because of that, but I recycle my Coors Light cans. My little
contribution to the cause. Lately it’s been a hefty contribution. There was one
bedroom in the back and a little bathroom, a walk-through kitchen, and a living
area that I used as an office. Murrow usually sat in the window looking out at
the beach with as much interest as I have in paying both of my mortgages. It’s
not that I don’t want to pay. I can’t.



I was on the bed, surfing news sites, fueling the ache about
my lack of direction and lack of a job. The satellite TV company disconnected
me a few months ago, so I got my news online from the unprotected network of a
neighbor who can’t encrypt his wireless router.



I could see the downsizing coming in every area of the
conglomerate media company. I knew it would hit the newsroom, but I always
thought when the music stopped, I would have a chair. What I got was severance,
a pat on the back, and a shelf full of awards I stuffed into a suitcase that
sat in the attic of a cottage I couldn’t afford.



I closed my laptop and told Murrow I’d be back, as if she
cared, and walked barefoot out the front door and down the long, wooden
stairway to the beach. I bought this cottage for these long, head-clearing
walks. The sound of the waves crashing against doubts and fears. The smell of
the ocean and its salty cycle of life and death.



A mom and a dad dressed in white strolled along the beach
with two kids who squealed every time the water came close.



I walked the other way.



The phone rang as I passed a dead seagull. Not a good omen.



“Tru, it’s me.”



The woman of my dreams. The woman of my nightmares.
Everything good and bad about my life. The “I do” that “I didn’t.”



“Ellen. What’s up?”



“How are you?” She said it with a measure of compassion, as
if she weren’t holding back years of boiling anger. As if she didn’t have
something else she wanted to ask me and wasn’t just setting the stage for the
coup de grâce.



“I’m good. Just taking a walk on the beach.”



Wish you weren’t here. Wish you
weren’t still in my head. Wish you hadn’t called. Wish the last twenty years
were something I could bury in the sand. What were you thinking marrying a guy
like me? My life is a sand castle and my days are wind and water.



“Hear anything back yet? Any offers?”



“There’s nothing plural about my job prospects. Not even
singular. I did hear from the Fox station in Des Moines yesterday. They went
with somebody with longer hair and bigger lungs.”



She spoke with a wry smile. “It’s only a matter of time; you
know that.”



“Right. It’s always been a matter of time, hasn’t it?”



She let the irony hang there between us, and I could picture
her in her wedding dress and without it. Then the first time we met in the
university newsroom, big glasses and frilly blouse. Hair that smelled like the
ocean and felt like silk. A sharp wit, infectious laugh, and the tenacity of a
bloodhound on every story she covered. I thought we were always going to be on
the same page, but somehow I kept chasing headlines and she moved to the Life
section.



“I have something that might interest you,” she said.



“How old is she?” I’m not always a smart aleck with the
people I love. When I’m asleep, they tell me I don’t say much of anything.



“It’s not a she. It’s a he with a pretty good story. A great
story. A life changer.”



“Not into guys.”



She sighed and plowed ahead. “Have you heard of Terrelle
Conley?”



That was like asking a history major if she’d ever heard of
Alexis de Tocqueville. “I know he’s facing the needle.”



“Right. Next month.”



“Wonder what his last meal will be. How do they choose that
anyway? Shrimp and steak or lobster bisque? Macaroni and cheese? How can you
enjoy a meal knowing you only have hours left? Or what movie to watch? What
would you choose?”



“I know his wife, Oleta. She wants somebody to write the
story from his perspective. The whole family does.”



I laughed. “In thirty days or less.”



“They’ve scraped up some money. Not much, but it could
probably help.”



“How much is ‘probably’?”



“I don’t know exactly, but I was thinking you could call
Gina and find out if—”



“I’m not with Gina or the agency anymore. She dropped me.
Said it was a hard decision on their part. I guess they took a vote.”



“I’m sorry.”



“Just another bump in the literary highway. I don’t think writing
is my thing, anyway.” I said it halfheartedly, coaxing some kind of compliment.



“You’re a great writer,” she obliged. “You haven’t had as
many opportunities lately, but . . .”



“I haven’t had any politicians who want to be president or
sports stars who’ve been accused of steroids approach me in a few years. That’s
what you mean,” I said. “Where did you meet Olatha?”



“Oleta. I met her at church.”



Groan. How did I know that was coming?



I paused at a sand castle that had been constructed with
several five-gallon buckets. Towels and chairs had been abandoned for the
moment. Water filled the moat, and I heard laughter from a bungalow perched
like a lighthouse above. A couple in love.



“You must have some idea of how much.”



“A few thousand. We didn’t talk about that. The important
thing . . . it’s not just an opportunity for you. It’s for
Aiden.”



“Now you’re really getting cryptic. You want to back up?”



“Terrelle’s wife is in a study group with me. She’s known
about Aiden’s condition for years. Always asks for updates. Terrelle came up
with the idea—he wants to be a donor. A second chance for Aiden.”



I should have been doing cartwheels. Our eighteen-year-old
son could get a new lease on life? Instead, I was skeptical, like any good
journalist. “Ellen, there’s no chance. Do you know how long something like that
would take?”



“It’s been in process for a while.”



“Why didn’t you tell me?”



“You haven’t exactly been available.”



“The prison system, the authorities, they’ll never let
this—”



“The governor is taking it seriously. I’ve heard he’s
working with the legislature. It’s not a done deal, but there’s a chance.”



The governor. The hair rose on the back of my neck.



“Ellen, there’s some law firm in Tallahassee salivating at
all the appeals and counterappeals that are going to happen. This is less than
a long shot.”



“Yeah, but right now it’s looking like a pretty good long
shot.” There was emotion in her voice and for the first time I noticed noise in
the background.



“Where are you?”



She swallowed hard and I imagined her wiping away a tear. My
wife has had plenty of practice.



“At the hospital again,” she said. “ICU.”



I cursed under my breath and away from the phone. Not just
because of all the hospital bills I knew were coming my way, but also because
this was my son. I’ll be honest—the bills were the first thing I thought of,
but picturing him hooked up to tubes and needles again crushed me.



“How is he?”



“Not good. They’re monitoring him. Same story.”



“How long have you been there?”



“Since late last night. He was having trouble breathing.
Lots of pain. He asks about you.”



Guilt. She had to get that in there, didn’t she?



“Tell him to hang in there, okay?”



“Come see him. It would mean so much.”



“Yeah. I will.” I said it fast, though I knew I’d have to
launder all the cat hair from my clothes because Aiden’s deathly allergic to
cats just like I’m allergic to the inside of the death chamber.



Someone spoke over the intercom near her and the sound took
me back to those first days when I wasn’t as scared of hospitals. Back then I
could watch a movie or a TV show with a medical setting. Now I can’t even watch
the TV promos. My chest gets tight and the smell of alcohol and Betadine and
the shape of needles invades, mingling with the cries of a young child in pain
and another memory of a man on a gurney.



We discovered Aiden’s heart malady by accident. Ellen was
into natural food, natural medicine, whole-grain seaweed sandwiches and eggs
that came from free-range chickens who had bedtime stories read to them each
night before they settled into their nests. Natural childbirth with a midwife.
All that stuff. She was convinced antibiotics were the forbidden fruit, so she
didn’t run to the HMO every time our kids were sick. But something told her to
take Abby in for some chest congestion she couldn’t get rid of. Aiden was with
her, and on a lark the doctor placed the stethoscope on his chest.



Ellen cried when she tried to explain the look on the
woman’s face. They’d missed it when he was born.



That sent us on a crash course of congenital heart defects
and a series of surgeries and treatments that would change our lives. Ellen
hates hospitals as much as I do, but you do what you must for your kids.



“Terrelle has the same blood type,” Ellen said. “He’s about
the same size as Aiden, maybe a little smaller, which is good.”



“Ellen, you know this is not going to happen, right? There
are so many hoops and holes. They don’t let doctors execute people.”



“There are guidelines, but they don’t have a problem
harvesting organs from an already-deceased donor.”



“Anybody who’s pro-life will howl. I thought you were
pro-life.”



“I am, but this is something Terrelle wants.”



“Doesn’t matter. They harvest organs from prisoners in
China, but we’re not in China.” Though you wouldn’t know it by shopping at
Walmart.



“I know all that. But I also know my son is going to die.
And Terrelle and his wife want something good to come out of their tragedy.
They asked if you would write his story. I got to thinking that maybe . . .”



She broke a little and hearing her cry felt like some lonely
prayer drifting away and hitting the empty shores of heaven. Not that I believe
there is one, but you know, metaphorically speaking.



“You were thinking what?” I said.



“Maybe all of this is not really for Aiden. Maybe all we’ve
been through in the last eighteen years is for somebody else. If they deny
Terrelle’s request and Aiden doesn’t make it, maybe writing this story will
make a difference for someone down the road.”



Her altruism was more than I could handle. “Look, I don’t
care about all the people with sick kids. I don’t care about prisoners who want
to make up for their crimes. I don’t care about protesters or the politicians
who’ve found a wedge issue. I just want my son to live. Is that asking too
much?”



The emotion surprised me and I noticed the family in white
had changed direction but now quickly herded their children away from me.



It was Ellen’s turn to sound collected. “Do you have time to
work on something like that in the next thirty days? It would at least pay a
few bills.”



“If they’re trying to get a stay of execution, they need to
go straight to the press. Forget a book deal, forget a magazine exposé—it’s
already too late. Get somebody at one of the local stations to pick it up and
run with it—”



“Tru, they don’t want a stay. He wants to give his heart to
Aiden. And somebody has to get the story down before it’s over. No matter how
it goes, this will make a great story.”



I was already mulling titles in my head. A Heart from Death Row. Change of Heart. Pitter-Pat. Life in
Vein. Aorta Made a Better Choice.



She continued, “They know your history. What you’ve seen.
How you’re against the death penalty and why. For all your faults, Tru, you’re
the best reporter I’ve ever known. You get to the heart of the story like
nobody else. I think you should consider it.”



The Heart of the Story. Another
good title. I could tell she was buttering me up. I love being buttered up by
lovely women. But I hate the complications of life with beautiful women.



“I don’t write evangelical tracts.”



“Why are you so stubborn?” she whisper-screamed at me. Her
voice had an echo like she had moved into the bathroom or stairwell. “Why do
you have to look at this as some kind of spiritual conspiracy against you
instead of a gift? This is being handed to you on a platter. Don’t push it
away. I don’t care if you agree with them about God. You didn’t agree with
every sports figure or politician.”



“The only way I know how to do this job is to ferret out the
truth and tell it. Flat out. The way I see it. And if you’re expecting me to
throw in the third verse of a hymn every other chapter and quote the Gospel of
Terrelle, I can’t do that. Call somebody from the Christian right.”



“Tru, it’s because of who you are and how you tell the story
that they want you. Just talk with her. Let her explain. If you don’t like the
situation, they’ll go somewhere else. But they have to act quickly.”



The sun was coming down behind me and the wind picked up off
the water. I could smell the first hint of an impending storm. Or maybe I
forgot my deodorant.



“I’ll think about it.”



I hadn’t been gone that long, but as I walked up the
stairs, I heard a vehicle pulling away from the house. The taillights had
disappeared into the distance by the time I made it to my front door.



Murrow was still in the window, looking down on me with that
superior look. Humans are such a waste of oxygen,
she seemed to say. Maybe she was right. Maybe we are a waste of oxygen and the
best thing would be for us to be wiped from the planet. But something inside
said that wasn’t true. Something inside pushed me to keep moving, like an ant
dragging a piece of grass along the sidewalk until a strong wind blows it away.
The ant picks up another and starts over. I get exhausted just watching them.



On the front door was a legal document stating that whereby
and forthwith said mortgage company had begun said process with an intent to
foreclose and otherwise vacate said occupant’s tail onto the street to wit and
wheretofore so help them God, amen. I had received several such letters in the
mail, filing them carefully, hoping the rising tide of foreclosures would save
my little cottage until I got a new job.



I ripped the notice down and used it to wipe the sand from
my feet. And then a thought struck. A horrible, no-good, bad thought. The
newspaper. They published my name with each intent to foreclose. That meant
others would know where I was. Others, as in people I owed. Bad people.



Another car passed, slowly. Tinted windows. A low rumble of
expensive metal and fuel.



I hurried to the back of the little house and pulled out
every suitcase I could find and stowed everything of value. Books. Pictures of
me with newsmakers. Cloudy memories of trips abroad, war zones, interviews with
generals and dignitaries who went on to fame or perished in motorcades that
didn’t make it through IEDs.



It was hard not to sit and absorb the memories, but the
passing car gave urgency. I jammed every journal and notebook in with the
pictures, then put one suitcase with clothes in the trunk of my car and took
the rest on my shoulder down the sandy path to the Grahams’ house. Sweet
people. He retired from the Air Force and they moved for the sun and salty air.
Both should have died long ago from arthritis and other maladies, but they were
out walking the beach every day like two faithful dogs, paw in paw.



Jack and Millie were on the front porch, and I asked if I
could borrow some space in their garage for a suitcase or two. “I need to take
a trip. Someone new will be living in my house.”



“Relatives coming?”



“No, someone from the Bank of America wants it.”



Millie struggled to get out of her rocker and stood by a
white column near the front door. “If you need help, Truman, we’d be glad to.”



Jack nodded and the gesture almost brought tears to my eyes.
“How much are you short?” he said.



“Just a spot in the garage is all I need.”



“What about your cat?” Millie said.



“Murrow’s going with me.”



“If we can do anything at all . . . ,”
Jack’s voice trailed.



“I appreciate it. I appreciate both of you. Thanks for your
kindness.”



“We pray for Aiden every day,” Millie said.



The garage was spotless. Everything hanging up or neatly
placed on shelves. I should have joined the Air Force. In the back I found an
empty space near some gardening tools. I shook Jack’s hand gently and gave
Millie a hug. I only turned and looked at them once as I walked back to the
house. They stood like sentinels, the fading light of the sun casting a golden
glow around them and their house.



When Murrow saw the cat carrier, she bolted under the sofa
and I threatened to sell her to the local Chinese restaurant. An open can of
StarKist and my tender, compassionate voice helped coax her into the carrier,
and we were off.



I texted my wife: Will call your
friend tomorrow. Can I use Abby’s room?



The phone buzzed in my shirt pocket as I drove along the
causeway into darkening clouds. Key under frog. No
cats. The next text gave Oleta’s number and a short message. You were made for this story.



Maybe she was right. Maybe I was the one for this job. One
loser telling the story of his kindred spirit. I sure didn’t have anything
better to do. But with the window down and my hand out, being pushed back by
the cool air, it felt less like the start of a new chapter and more like the
end of one.


 For my Review Click Here!

2/17/12

Mornings with Jesus: Review and Giveaway

"Be still and know that I am God" is one of the most beautiful verses from the Bible, but it's not easy to practice in this busy world. Mornings with Jesus will help you do just that "be still" in Jesus' beautiful and powerful presence.

For those who are seeking a deeper experience in their relationship with Christ, Mornings with Jesus offers a fresh perspective of who Jesus is (the Healer, the Son of God, the Comforter, the Good Shepherd) and what that means for day-to-day life.

With a warm and friendly voice, 365 short devotional writings on the character and teachings of Jesusencourage readers to greet each day by drawing near to Him and inviting His presence into their day.

Spend time with Jesus at the beginning of each day and experience His nearness and peace in a new way throughout the year.  

This is a great devotional, with contributions from a number of great authors: Judy Baer, Gwen Ford Faulkenberry, Tricia Goyer, Sharon Hinck, Keri Wyatt Kent, Erin Keeley Marshall, Camy Tang.  I love it, and I highly recommend it!  Each day consists of a Scripture reading, a story/ application, and a "faith step" or challenge for the day.  I am going to share the second day because this book spoke to my heart right from the beginning.
 
"Give us today our daily bread."  Matthew 6:11(NIV)
In ancient days, god fed his people with manna: bread from heaven that appeared each morning with the dew.  Each day, they could only gather enough for that day, because any excess would rot overnight.  Hoarding was not only prohibited but also impossible.  centuries later, Jesus taught His followers to pray, not for lottery winnings or fat 401(k)s or even a week's worth of provisions, but for "daily bread."
  During his time on earth, Jesus chose to live in poverty.  His human family was not well-off.  As an itinerant rabbi, he depended on the hospitality of strangers and the financial support of several wealthy women (see Luke 8:1-2) and other benefactors.  He trusted that His heavenly Father would provide daily bread.
  Daily bread is so, well, daily.  there's not a lot of security in it.  You have to be grateful each day, and then get up the next day and say, "Do it again, God!"  You have to learn to live with a manna mindset.  It is at once frightening and exhilarating, scary and joyful.
  You have to pray for that bread (or mortgage payment) each day, and trust that it will be provided, that there will be enough.  To pray for daily bread is to be willing to gather only enough manna for this day.  In our self-indulgent world, "enough" is a powerful but unpopular word.  And yet, it is a word of freedom.
  What's true of physical resources is true of spiritual resources as well. Each day, we must ask for and receive spiritual nourishment, and trust that Jesus will provide enough love, enough strength, for us to continue our journey of trust with Him.
__________________________________________________________________________
FAITH STEP:   Ask Jesus to give you a manna mindset--and enough of whatever it is that you need this day: love, strength, money, food.  Thank Him for knowing your needs and generously meeting them.
                     Keri Wyatt Kent

This is a great addition to anyone's devotional collection.  It would make a great gift, but be sure to get one for yourself.  With the different voices and viewpoints, each morning there is a fresh word from the Lord.  God is using this book to touch and change my life and I'm sure He will use it in yours as well!!

I received a free copy from Litfuse in exchange for my honest review.
Click here to buy your copy now.  
Or for a chance to win a copy, just leave a comment with your email by next Friday.  Winner will be chosen by random.org and announced on Saturday, February 25.

2/3/12

Not in the Heart by Chris Fabry

I've read a number of Chris Fabry's books, and I have to say that I am a big fan.  His stories give such a vivid picture of people and living.  In Not in the Heart, Truman Wiley is separated from his family with no job and huge debt caused not only by his personal gambling problem, but also his son's rising hospital bills.  Ellen Wiley is caring for their son and daughter on her own and weary of Truman's addiction and the problems it has caused, but she is not ready to give up on him yet.  She calls Truman with a job opportunity--to write a memoir of a convicted murderer sentenced to die in one month.  The man is married to a good friend of Ellen's, and they still profess his innocence.  The biggest catch, though, is that this man wants to donate his heart to Truman's son upon his execution.

Truman's addiction has hurt everyone in his life; relationships are strained, to say the very least.  He has so much potential but is fighting what looks to be a losing battle with his demons.  Collectors are stalking him, and he loses both his house and his car.  He is both selfish and struggling, hurting but hurtful.  He is so real.  This is part of what makes Fabry such an exceptional author; the characters truly come alive while you are reading.  The actions, feelings, and motivations are clear.

 The emotions stirred in me were strong as well, which is another of Fabry's strength.  His novels make you think.  Always I ask myself, "well, what would I do, what is right?"  For me, the best books are the ones that you carry with you long after you put them down, pondering the different situations or themes.  This novel is one that will stick with you, especially if you can relate to the characters or context.  I know a couple of people with severe addictions that have lost practically everything and thrown away relationships because of it.  It is difficult because, as I said above, they are both hurting and hurtful, but I will continue to pray for them.    I believe that God can change anyone.  

Bottom line, this is another great book by Chris Fabry.  I would honestly recommend his whole collection!
I received this book in exchange for my honest review from the B&B Media Group.