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Thursday, January 30, 2014
Monday, June 20, 2011
Book Review: Indelible by Kristen Heitzmann
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:
WaterBrook Press (May 3, 2011)
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Kristen Heitzmann’s gift of crafting stories has ranked her as the award-winning and best-selling author of two historical series and twelve contemporary, psychological and romantic suspense novels including Indivisible. As an artist and musician, Kristen lives in the foothills of the Rocky Mountains with her husband and a continuous stream of extended family, various pets, and wildlife.Visit the author's website.
SHORT BOOK DESCRIPTION:
Award-wining and best-selling author Kristen Heitzmann brings another suspense story to life in Indelible (WaterBrook, May 3, 2011).Follow Trevor MacDaniel, a high country outfitter, as he rescues a toddler from the jaws of a mountain lion. Discover how he can’t foresee the far-reaching consequences of his action, how it will entwine his life with gifted sculptor, Natalie Reeve—and attract a grim admirer.
Find out how Trevor’s need to guard and protect is born of tragedy, prompting his decision to become a search and rescue volunteer. And how Natalie’s gift of sculpting comes from an unusual disability that seeks release through her creative hands.
See how in each other they learn strength and courage as they face an incomprehensible foe…a twisted soul, who is drawn by the heroic story of the child’s rescue. One who sees Trevor as archangel and adversary, and threatens their peaceful mountain community—testing Trevor’s limits by targeting their most helpless and innocent.
Product Details:
List Price: $13.99
Paperback: 336 pages
Publisher: WaterBrook Press (May 3, 2011)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 1400073103
ISBN-13: 978-1400073108
AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:
A veined bolt of lightning sliced the ozone-scented sky as Trevor plunged down the craggy slope, dodging evergreen spires like slalom poles. Rocks and gravel spewed from his boots and caromed off the vertical pitch.
“Trevor.” Whit skidded behind him. “We’re not prepared for this.”
No. But he hurled himself after the tawny streak. He was not losing that kid.
“He’s suffocated,” Whit shouted. “His neck’s broken.”
Trevor leaped past a man—probably the dad—gripping his snapped shinbone. Whit could help there. Digging his heels into the shifting pine needles, Trevor gave chase, outmatched and unwavering. His heart pumped hard as he neared the base of the gulch, jumping from a lichen-crusted stone to a fallen trunk. The cougar jumped the creek, lost its grip, and dropped the toddler. Yes.
He splashed into the icy flow, dispersing scattered leaves like startled goldfish. After driving his hand into the water, he gripped a stone and raised it. Not heavy, not nearly heavy enough.
Lowering its head over the helpless prey, the mountain lion snarled a spine-chilling warning. There was no contest, but the cat, an immature male, might not realize its advantage, might not know its fear of man was mere illusion. Thunder crackled. Trevor tasted blood where he’d bitten his tongue.
Advancing, he engaged the cat’s eyes, taunting it to charge or run. The cat backed up, hissing. A yearling cub, able to snatch a tot from the trail, but unprepared for this fearless challenge. Too much adrenaline for fear. Too much blood on the ground.
With a shout, he heaved the rock. As the cat streaked up the mountainside, he charged across the creek to the victim. He’d steeled himself for carnage, but even so, the nearly severed arm, the battered, bloody feet… His nose filled with the musky lion scent, the rusty smell of blood. He reached out. No pulse.
He dropped to his knees as Whit joined him from behind, on guard. He returned the boy’s arm to the socket, and holding it there with one trembling hand, Trevor began CPR with his other. On a victim so small, it took hardly any force, his fingers alone performing the compressions. The lion had failed to trap the victim’s face in its mouth. By grabbing the back of the head, neck, and shoulder, it had actually protected those vulnerable parts. But blood streamed over the toddler’s face from a deep cut high on the scalp, and he still wasn’t breathing.
Trevor bent to puff air into the tiny lungs, compressed again with his fingers, and puffed as lightly as he would to put out a match. Come on. He puffed and compressed while Whit watched for the cat’s return. Predators fought for their kills—even startled ones.
A whine escaped the child’s mouth. He jerked his legs, emitting a highpitched moan. Trevor shucked his jacket and tugged his T-shirt off over his head. He tied the sleeves around the toddler’s arm and shoulder, pulled the rest around, and swaddled the damaged feet—shoes and socks long gone. Thunder reverberated. The first hard drops smacked his skin. Tenderly, he pulled the child into his chest and draped the jacket over as a different rumble chopped the air. They had started up the mountain to find two elderly hikers who’d been separated from their party. Whit must have radioed the helicopter. He looked up. This baby might live because two old guys had gotten lost.
In the melee at the trailhead, Natalie clutched her sister-in-law’s hands, the horror of the ordeal still rocking them. As Aaron and little Cody were airlifted from the mountain, she breathed, “They’re going to be all right.”
“You don’t know that.” Face splotched and pale, Paige swung her head. Though her hair hung in wet blond strands, her makeup was weatherproof, her cologne still detectable. Even dazed, her brother’s wife looked and smelled expensive.
“The lion’s grip protected Cody’s head and neck,” one of the paramedics had told them. “It could have been so much worse.”
Paige started to sob. “His poor arm. What if he loses his arm?”
“Don’t go there.” What good was there in thinking it?
“How will he do the stuff boys do? I thought he’d be like Aaron, the best kid on the team.”
“He’ll be the best kid no matter what.”
“In the Special Olympics?”
Natalie recoiled at the droplets of spit that punctuated the bitter words.
“He’s alive, Paige. What were the odds those men from search and rescue would be right there with a helicopter already on standby?”
“We shouldn’t have needed it.” Paige clenched her teeth. “Aaron’s supposed to be recovering. He would have been if you weren’t such a freak.”
“What?” She’d endured Paige’s unsubtle resentment, but “ freak” ?
“Let me go.” Paige jerked away, careening toward the SUV.
Natalie heard the engine roar, the gravel flung by the spinning tires, but all she saw was the hate in Paige’s eyes, the pain twisting her brother’s face as he held his fractured leg, little Cody in the lion’s maw, the man leaping after…
She needed to clear the images, but it wouldn’t happen here. Around her, press vans and emergency vehicles drained from the lot, leaving the scent of exhaust and tire scars in the rusty mud. Paige had stranded her.
“Freak.” Heart aching, she took a shaky step toward the road. It hadn’t been that long a drive from the studio. A few miles. Maybe five. She hadn’t really watched—because Aaron was watching for her. Off the roster for a pulled oblique, he had seen an opportunity to finalize her venture and help her move, help her settle in, and see if she could do it. She’d been so thankful. How could any of them have known it would come to this? Trevor’s spent muscles shook with dumped adrenaline. He breathed the moist air in through his nose, willing his nerves to relax. Having gotten all they were going to get from him, most of the media had left the trailhead, following the story to the hospital. Unfortunately, Jaz remained.
She said, “You live for this, don’t you?” Pulling her fiery red hair into a messy ponytail didn’t disguise her incendiary nature or the smoldering coals reserved for him. He accepted the towel Whit handed him and wiped the rain from his head and neck, hoping she wouldn’t see the shakes. The late-summer storm had lowered the temperature enough she might think he was shivering.
“Whose idea was it to chase?”
“It’s not like you think about it. You just act.” Typing into her BlackBerry, she said, “Acted without thinking.”
“Come on, Jaz.” She couldn’t still be on his case.
“Interesting your being in place for the dramatic rescue of a pro athlete’s kid. Not enough limelight lately?”
“We were on another search.” She cocked her eyebrow. “You had no idea the victim’s dad plays center field for the Rockies?”
“Yeah, I got his autograph on the way down.” He squinted at the nearly empty parking lot. “Aren’t you following the story?”
“What do you think this is?”
“You got the same as everyone. That’s all I have to say.”
“You told us what happened. I want the guts. How did it feel? What were you thinking?” She planted a hand on her hip. “Buy me a drink?” He’d rather go claw to claw with another mountain lion. But considering the ways she could distort this, he relented. “The Summit?”
“I’d love to.” She pocketed her BlackBerry and headed for her car. Whit raised his brows at her retreat. “Still feeling reckless?”
“Sometimes it’s better to take her head on.”
“Like the cat?” Whit braced his hips.
“The cat was young, inexperienced.”
“You didn’t know that.”
“There was a chance the child wasn’t dead.”
“What if it hadn’t run?”
“If it attacked, you’d have been free to grab the kid.”
“Nice for you, getting mauled.”
“If it got ugly, I’d have shot it.”
“Shot?”
He showed him the Magnum holstered against the small of his back.
Whit stared at him, stone-faced. “You had your gun and you used a rock?”
“I was pretty sure it would run.”
“Pretty sure,” Whit said. “So, what? It wouldn’t be fair to use your weapon?”
It had been the cat against him on some primal level the gun hadn’t entered into. He said, “I could have hit the boy, or the cat could have dropped him down the gulch. When it did let go, I realized its inexperience and knew we had a chance to scare it off. Department of Wildlife can decide its fate. I was after the child.”
“Okay, fine.” With a hard exhale, Whit rubbed his face. “This was bad.”
Trevor nodded. Until today, the worst he’d seen over four years of rescues was a hiker welded to a tree by lightning and an ice climber’s impalement on a jagged rock spear. There’d been no death today, but Whit looked sick. “You’re a new dad. Seeing that little guy had to hit you right in the gut.” Whit canted his head.
“I’m just saying.” Trevor stuffed his shaking hands into his jacket pockets. The storm passed, though the air still smelled of wet earth and rain. He drove Whit back, then went home to shower before meeting Jazmyn Dufoe at the Summit. Maybe he’d just start drinking now. Arms aching, Natalie drove her hands into the clay. On the huge, square Corian table, two busts looked back at her: Aaron in pain, and Paige, her fairy-tale life rent by a primal terror that sprang without warning. She had pushed and drawn and formed the images locked in her mind, even though her hands burned with the strain.
No word had come from the Children’s Hospital in Denver, where the police chief said they’d taken Cody, or from the hospital that had Aaron. Waiting to hear anything at all made a hollow in her stomach. She heaved a new block of clay to the table, wedged and added it to the mound already softened. Just as she started to climb the stepstool, her phone rang. She plunged her hands into the water bucket and swabbed
them with a towel, silently begging for good news. “Aaron?”
Not her brother, but a nurse calling. “Mr. Reeve asked me to let you know he came through surgery just fine. He’s stable, and the prognosis is optimistic. He doesn’t want you to worry.”
Natalie pressed her palm to her chest with relief. “Did he say anything about Cody? Is there any news?”
“No, he didn’t say. I’m sure he’ll let you know as soon as he hears something.”
“Of course. Thank you so much for calling.”
Natalie climbed back onto the stool, weary but unable to stop. Normally, the face was enough, but this required more. She molded clay over stiff wire-mesh, drawing it up, up, proportionately taller than an average man, shoulders that bore the weight of other people’s fear, one arm wielding a stone, the other enfolding the little one. The rescuer hadn’t held both at once, but she combined the actions to release both images.
She had stared hard at his face for only a moment before he plunged over the ridge, yet retained every line and plane of it. Determination and fortitude in the cut of his mouth, selfless courage in the eyes. There’d been fear for Cody. And himself ? Not of the situation, but something…
It came through her hands in the twist of his brow. A heroic face, aware of the danger, capable of failing, unwilling to hold back. Using fingers and tools, she moved the powerful images trapped by her eidetic memory through her hands to the clay, creating an exterior storage that freed her mind, and immortalizing him—whoever he was. The Summit bar was packed and buzzing, the rescue already playing on televisions visible from every corner. With the whole crowd toasting and congratulating him, Jaz played nice—until he accepted her ride home and infuriated her all over again by not inviting her in.
He’d believed that dating women whose self-esteem reached egotistical meant parting ways wouldn’t faze them. Jaz destroyed that theory. She was not only embittered but vindictive. After turning on the jets, Trevor sank into his spa, letting the water beat his lower- and mid-lumbar muscles.
He pressed the remote to open the horizontal blinds and to look out through the loft windows.
Wincing, he reached in and rubbed the side of his knee. That plunge down the slope had cost him, but, given the outcome, he didn’t consider it a judgment error. That honor went to putting himself once more at the top of Jaz’s hate list. He maneuvered his knee into the pressure of a jet. When he got out, he’d ice it. If he got out.
He closed his eyes and pictured the battered toddler. The crowd’s attention had kept the thoughts at bay, easy to talk about the cat, how mountain lions rarely attacked people, how he and Whit had scared it off, how DOW would euthanize if they caught it, how his only priority had been to get the child. He had segued into the business he and Whit had opened the previous spring, rock and ice climbing, land and water excursions, cross-country ski and snowshoe when the season turned.
That was his business, but rescuing was in his blood, had been since his dad made him the man of the house by not coming home one night or any thereafter. At first, the nightmares had been bad—all the things that could go wrong: fire, snakes, tarantulas, tornadoes. They had populated his dreams until he woke drenched in sweat, cursing his father for trusting him to do what a grown man couldn’t.
The phone rang. He sloshed his arm up, dried his hand on the towel lying beside it, and answered. “Hey, Whit.”
“You doing okay?”
“Knee hurts. You?”
“Oh sure. You know—”
“Hold on. There’s someone at the door.”
“Yeah. Me and Sara.”
Trevor said, “Cute. Where’s your key?”
“Forgot it.”
Gingerly, he climbed over the side, then wrapped a towel around his hips, and let them in.
“You mind?” Whit frowned at the towel, although Sara hadn’t batted an eye.
She came in and made herself at home. Whit carried their twomonth- old asleep in his car seat to a resting place. Trevor threw on Under Armour shorts and a clean T-shirt, then rejoined them. “So what’s up?”
“Nice try, Trevor.” Sara fixed him with a look. “I especially like the practiced nonchalance.”
He grinned. “Hey, I’ve got it down.”
“With Jaz, maybe. No claw marks?”
“Too public.”
Whit rubbed his wife’s shoulder. “We knew you’d worry this thing, so Sara brought the remedy.”
She drew the Monopoly box out of her oversize bag with a grin that said she intended to win and would, wearing them down with her wheeling and dealing. “I’ll take that silly railroad off your hands. It’s no good to you when I have the other three.”
He rubbed his hands, looking into her bold blue eyes. “Bring it.”
The mindless activity and their chatter lightened his mood as Sara had intended. She knew him as well as Whit, maybe better. Each time he caught the concern, he reassured her with a smile. He’d be fine.
Whit played his get-out-of-jail card and freed his cannon. “Hear what’s going in next door to us?”
“No.”
“An art gallery.”
“Yeah?” Trevor adjusted the ice pack on his knee.
“Place called Nature Waits.”
“Waits for what?”
Whit shrugged. “Have to ask the lady sculptor.”
“Won’t exactly draw for our kind of customer.”
“At least it won’t compete.” Sara rolled the dice and moved her pewter shoe. “Another outfitter could have gone in. I’ll buy Park Place.”
Both men mouthed, “I’ll buy Park Place.”
She shot them a smile.
Two hours later, she had bankrupted them with her thoughtful loans and exorbitant use of hotels on prime properties. He closed the door behind them, and it hit. He raised the toilet seat and threw up, then pressed his back to the wall and rested his head, breathing deeply. The shaking returned, and this time he couldn’t blame adrenaline. He had literally puffed the life back into that tiny body. If that child had died in his arms…
Midst came their mighty Paramount, and seemed
Alone th’ antagonist of Heaven, nor less
Than Hell’s dread Emperor, with pomp supreme,
And god-like imitated state.
Child snatched from lion’s jaws. Two-year-old spared in deadly attack. Rescuer Trevor MacDaniel, champion of innocents, protector of life. Cameras rolling, flashes flashing, earnest newscasters recounted the tale. “On this mountain, a miracle. What could have been a tragedy became a triumph through the courage of this man who challenged a mountain lion to save a toddler attacked while hiking with his father, center-fielder…”
He consumed the story in drunken drafts. Eyes swimming, he gazed upon the noble face, the commanding figure on the TV screen. In that chest beat valiance. In those hands lay salvation. His heart made a slow drum in his ears. A spark ignited, purpose quickening.
Years he’d waited. He spread his own marred hands, instruments of instruction, of destruction. With slow deliberation, he closed them into fists. What use was darkness if not to try the light?
“Trevor.” Whit skidded behind him. “We’re not prepared for this.”
No. But he hurled himself after the tawny streak. He was not losing that kid.
“He’s suffocated,” Whit shouted. “His neck’s broken.”
Trevor leaped past a man—probably the dad—gripping his snapped shinbone. Whit could help there. Digging his heels into the shifting pine needles, Trevor gave chase, outmatched and unwavering. His heart pumped hard as he neared the base of the gulch, jumping from a lichen-crusted stone to a fallen trunk. The cougar jumped the creek, lost its grip, and dropped the toddler. Yes.
He splashed into the icy flow, dispersing scattered leaves like startled goldfish. After driving his hand into the water, he gripped a stone and raised it. Not heavy, not nearly heavy enough.
Lowering its head over the helpless prey, the mountain lion snarled a spine-chilling warning. There was no contest, but the cat, an immature male, might not realize its advantage, might not know its fear of man was mere illusion. Thunder crackled. Trevor tasted blood where he’d bitten his tongue.
Advancing, he engaged the cat’s eyes, taunting it to charge or run. The cat backed up, hissing. A yearling cub, able to snatch a tot from the trail, but unprepared for this fearless challenge. Too much adrenaline for fear. Too much blood on the ground.
With a shout, he heaved the rock. As the cat streaked up the mountainside, he charged across the creek to the victim. He’d steeled himself for carnage, but even so, the nearly severed arm, the battered, bloody feet… His nose filled with the musky lion scent, the rusty smell of blood. He reached out. No pulse.
He dropped to his knees as Whit joined him from behind, on guard. He returned the boy’s arm to the socket, and holding it there with one trembling hand, Trevor began CPR with his other. On a victim so small, it took hardly any force, his fingers alone performing the compressions. The lion had failed to trap the victim’s face in its mouth. By grabbing the back of the head, neck, and shoulder, it had actually protected those vulnerable parts. But blood streamed over the toddler’s face from a deep cut high on the scalp, and he still wasn’t breathing.
Trevor bent to puff air into the tiny lungs, compressed again with his fingers, and puffed as lightly as he would to put out a match. Come on. He puffed and compressed while Whit watched for the cat’s return. Predators fought for their kills—even startled ones.
A whine escaped the child’s mouth. He jerked his legs, emitting a highpitched moan. Trevor shucked his jacket and tugged his T-shirt off over his head. He tied the sleeves around the toddler’s arm and shoulder, pulled the rest around, and swaddled the damaged feet—shoes and socks long gone. Thunder reverberated. The first hard drops smacked his skin. Tenderly, he pulled the child into his chest and draped the jacket over as a different rumble chopped the air. They had started up the mountain to find two elderly hikers who’d been separated from their party. Whit must have radioed the helicopter. He looked up. This baby might live because two old guys had gotten lost.
In the melee at the trailhead, Natalie clutched her sister-in-law’s hands, the horror of the ordeal still rocking them. As Aaron and little Cody were airlifted from the mountain, she breathed, “They’re going to be all right.”
“You don’t know that.” Face splotched and pale, Paige swung her head. Though her hair hung in wet blond strands, her makeup was weatherproof, her cologne still detectable. Even dazed, her brother’s wife looked and smelled expensive.
“The lion’s grip protected Cody’s head and neck,” one of the paramedics had told them. “It could have been so much worse.”
Paige started to sob. “His poor arm. What if he loses his arm?”
“Don’t go there.” What good was there in thinking it?
“How will he do the stuff boys do? I thought he’d be like Aaron, the best kid on the team.”
“He’ll be the best kid no matter what.”
“In the Special Olympics?”
Natalie recoiled at the droplets of spit that punctuated the bitter words.
“He’s alive, Paige. What were the odds those men from search and rescue would be right there with a helicopter already on standby?”
“We shouldn’t have needed it.” Paige clenched her teeth. “Aaron’s supposed to be recovering. He would have been if you weren’t such a freak.”
“What?” She’d endured Paige’s unsubtle resentment, but “ freak” ?
“Let me go.” Paige jerked away, careening toward the SUV.
Natalie heard the engine roar, the gravel flung by the spinning tires, but all she saw was the hate in Paige’s eyes, the pain twisting her brother’s face as he held his fractured leg, little Cody in the lion’s maw, the man leaping after…
She needed to clear the images, but it wouldn’t happen here. Around her, press vans and emergency vehicles drained from the lot, leaving the scent of exhaust and tire scars in the rusty mud. Paige had stranded her.
“Freak.” Heart aching, she took a shaky step toward the road. It hadn’t been that long a drive from the studio. A few miles. Maybe five. She hadn’t really watched—because Aaron was watching for her. Off the roster for a pulled oblique, he had seen an opportunity to finalize her venture and help her move, help her settle in, and see if she could do it. She’d been so thankful. How could any of them have known it would come to this? Trevor’s spent muscles shook with dumped adrenaline. He breathed the moist air in through his nose, willing his nerves to relax. Having gotten all they were going to get from him, most of the media had left the trailhead, following the story to the hospital. Unfortunately, Jaz remained.
She said, “You live for this, don’t you?” Pulling her fiery red hair into a messy ponytail didn’t disguise her incendiary nature or the smoldering coals reserved for him. He accepted the towel Whit handed him and wiped the rain from his head and neck, hoping she wouldn’t see the shakes. The late-summer storm had lowered the temperature enough she might think he was shivering.
“Whose idea was it to chase?”
“It’s not like you think about it. You just act.” Typing into her BlackBerry, she said, “Acted without thinking.”
“Come on, Jaz.” She couldn’t still be on his case.
“Interesting your being in place for the dramatic rescue of a pro athlete’s kid. Not enough limelight lately?”
“We were on another search.” She cocked her eyebrow. “You had no idea the victim’s dad plays center field for the Rockies?”
“Yeah, I got his autograph on the way down.” He squinted at the nearly empty parking lot. “Aren’t you following the story?”
“What do you think this is?”
“You got the same as everyone. That’s all I have to say.”
“You told us what happened. I want the guts. How did it feel? What were you thinking?” She planted a hand on her hip. “Buy me a drink?” He’d rather go claw to claw with another mountain lion. But considering the ways she could distort this, he relented. “The Summit?”
“I’d love to.” She pocketed her BlackBerry and headed for her car. Whit raised his brows at her retreat. “Still feeling reckless?”
“Sometimes it’s better to take her head on.”
“Like the cat?” Whit braced his hips.
“The cat was young, inexperienced.”
“You didn’t know that.”
“There was a chance the child wasn’t dead.”
“What if it hadn’t run?”
“If it attacked, you’d have been free to grab the kid.”
“Nice for you, getting mauled.”
“If it got ugly, I’d have shot it.”
“Shot?”
He showed him the Magnum holstered against the small of his back.
Whit stared at him, stone-faced. “You had your gun and you used a rock?”
“I was pretty sure it would run.”
“Pretty sure,” Whit said. “So, what? It wouldn’t be fair to use your weapon?”
It had been the cat against him on some primal level the gun hadn’t entered into. He said, “I could have hit the boy, or the cat could have dropped him down the gulch. When it did let go, I realized its inexperience and knew we had a chance to scare it off. Department of Wildlife can decide its fate. I was after the child.”
“Okay, fine.” With a hard exhale, Whit rubbed his face. “This was bad.”
Trevor nodded. Until today, the worst he’d seen over four years of rescues was a hiker welded to a tree by lightning and an ice climber’s impalement on a jagged rock spear. There’d been no death today, but Whit looked sick. “You’re a new dad. Seeing that little guy had to hit you right in the gut.” Whit canted his head.
“I’m just saying.” Trevor stuffed his shaking hands into his jacket pockets. The storm passed, though the air still smelled of wet earth and rain. He drove Whit back, then went home to shower before meeting Jazmyn Dufoe at the Summit. Maybe he’d just start drinking now. Arms aching, Natalie drove her hands into the clay. On the huge, square Corian table, two busts looked back at her: Aaron in pain, and Paige, her fairy-tale life rent by a primal terror that sprang without warning. She had pushed and drawn and formed the images locked in her mind, even though her hands burned with the strain.
No word had come from the Children’s Hospital in Denver, where the police chief said they’d taken Cody, or from the hospital that had Aaron. Waiting to hear anything at all made a hollow in her stomach. She heaved a new block of clay to the table, wedged and added it to the mound already softened. Just as she started to climb the stepstool, her phone rang. She plunged her hands into the water bucket and swabbed
them with a towel, silently begging for good news. “Aaron?”
Not her brother, but a nurse calling. “Mr. Reeve asked me to let you know he came through surgery just fine. He’s stable, and the prognosis is optimistic. He doesn’t want you to worry.”
Natalie pressed her palm to her chest with relief. “Did he say anything about Cody? Is there any news?”
“No, he didn’t say. I’m sure he’ll let you know as soon as he hears something.”
“Of course. Thank you so much for calling.”
Natalie climbed back onto the stool, weary but unable to stop. Normally, the face was enough, but this required more. She molded clay over stiff wire-mesh, drawing it up, up, proportionately taller than an average man, shoulders that bore the weight of other people’s fear, one arm wielding a stone, the other enfolding the little one. The rescuer hadn’t held both at once, but she combined the actions to release both images.
She had stared hard at his face for only a moment before he plunged over the ridge, yet retained every line and plane of it. Determination and fortitude in the cut of his mouth, selfless courage in the eyes. There’d been fear for Cody. And himself ? Not of the situation, but something…
It came through her hands in the twist of his brow. A heroic face, aware of the danger, capable of failing, unwilling to hold back. Using fingers and tools, she moved the powerful images trapped by her eidetic memory through her hands to the clay, creating an exterior storage that freed her mind, and immortalizing him—whoever he was. The Summit bar was packed and buzzing, the rescue already playing on televisions visible from every corner. With the whole crowd toasting and congratulating him, Jaz played nice—until he accepted her ride home and infuriated her all over again by not inviting her in.
He’d believed that dating women whose self-esteem reached egotistical meant parting ways wouldn’t faze them. Jaz destroyed that theory. She was not only embittered but vindictive. After turning on the jets, Trevor sank into his spa, letting the water beat his lower- and mid-lumbar muscles.
He pressed the remote to open the horizontal blinds and to look out through the loft windows.
Wincing, he reached in and rubbed the side of his knee. That plunge down the slope had cost him, but, given the outcome, he didn’t consider it a judgment error. That honor went to putting himself once more at the top of Jaz’s hate list. He maneuvered his knee into the pressure of a jet. When he got out, he’d ice it. If he got out.
He closed his eyes and pictured the battered toddler. The crowd’s attention had kept the thoughts at bay, easy to talk about the cat, how mountain lions rarely attacked people, how he and Whit had scared it off, how DOW would euthanize if they caught it, how his only priority had been to get the child. He had segued into the business he and Whit had opened the previous spring, rock and ice climbing, land and water excursions, cross-country ski and snowshoe when the season turned.
That was his business, but rescuing was in his blood, had been since his dad made him the man of the house by not coming home one night or any thereafter. At first, the nightmares had been bad—all the things that could go wrong: fire, snakes, tarantulas, tornadoes. They had populated his dreams until he woke drenched in sweat, cursing his father for trusting him to do what a grown man couldn’t.
The phone rang. He sloshed his arm up, dried his hand on the towel lying beside it, and answered. “Hey, Whit.”
“You doing okay?”
“Knee hurts. You?”
“Oh sure. You know—”
“Hold on. There’s someone at the door.”
“Yeah. Me and Sara.”
Trevor said, “Cute. Where’s your key?”
“Forgot it.”
Gingerly, he climbed over the side, then wrapped a towel around his hips, and let them in.
“You mind?” Whit frowned at the towel, although Sara hadn’t batted an eye.
She came in and made herself at home. Whit carried their twomonth- old asleep in his car seat to a resting place. Trevor threw on Under Armour shorts and a clean T-shirt, then rejoined them. “So what’s up?”
“Nice try, Trevor.” Sara fixed him with a look. “I especially like the practiced nonchalance.”
He grinned. “Hey, I’ve got it down.”
“With Jaz, maybe. No claw marks?”
“Too public.”
Whit rubbed his wife’s shoulder. “We knew you’d worry this thing, so Sara brought the remedy.”
She drew the Monopoly box out of her oversize bag with a grin that said she intended to win and would, wearing them down with her wheeling and dealing. “I’ll take that silly railroad off your hands. It’s no good to you when I have the other three.”
He rubbed his hands, looking into her bold blue eyes. “Bring it.”
The mindless activity and their chatter lightened his mood as Sara had intended. She knew him as well as Whit, maybe better. Each time he caught the concern, he reassured her with a smile. He’d be fine.
Whit played his get-out-of-jail card and freed his cannon. “Hear what’s going in next door to us?”
“No.”
“An art gallery.”
“Yeah?” Trevor adjusted the ice pack on his knee.
“Place called Nature Waits.”
“Waits for what?”
Whit shrugged. “Have to ask the lady sculptor.”
“Won’t exactly draw for our kind of customer.”
“At least it won’t compete.” Sara rolled the dice and moved her pewter shoe. “Another outfitter could have gone in. I’ll buy Park Place.”
Both men mouthed, “I’ll buy Park Place.”
She shot them a smile.
Two hours later, she had bankrupted them with her thoughtful loans and exorbitant use of hotels on prime properties. He closed the door behind them, and it hit. He raised the toilet seat and threw up, then pressed his back to the wall and rested his head, breathing deeply. The shaking returned, and this time he couldn’t blame adrenaline. He had literally puffed the life back into that tiny body. If that child had died in his arms…
Midst came their mighty Paramount, and seemed
Alone th’ antagonist of Heaven, nor less
Than Hell’s dread Emperor, with pomp supreme,
And god-like imitated state.
Child snatched from lion’s jaws. Two-year-old spared in deadly attack. Rescuer Trevor MacDaniel, champion of innocents, protector of life. Cameras rolling, flashes flashing, earnest newscasters recounted the tale. “On this mountain, a miracle. What could have been a tragedy became a triumph through the courage of this man who challenged a mountain lion to save a toddler attacked while hiking with his father, center-fielder…”
He consumed the story in drunken drafts. Eyes swimming, he gazed upon the noble face, the commanding figure on the TV screen. In that chest beat valiance. In those hands lay salvation. His heart made a slow drum in his ears. A spark ignited, purpose quickening.
Years he’d waited. He spread his own marred hands, instruments of instruction, of destruction. With slow deliberation, he closed them into fists. What use was darkness if not to try the light?
Thursday, June 16, 2011
Book Review: An Essential Guide to Speaking in Tongues by Ron Phillips
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:
An Essential Guide to Speaking in Tongues
Charisma House (June 7, 2011)
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Ron Phillips is senior pastor of Abba’s House in Chattanooga, Tennessee. Under his ministry, this church has experienced tremendous growth and has exploded into new realms of renewal and spiritual awakening. His weekly television and daily radio programs are broadcast worldwide and are available on the Internet. He is a sought-after speaker and the author of numerous books, including Our Invisible Allies and Everyone’s Guide to Demons and Spiritual Warfare.Visit the author's website.
SHORT BOOK DESCRIPTION:
What does it mean to speak in tongues? What does the Bible say about it? · How can I experience it for myself?
Many people have questions about how the Holy Spirit can work in their lives—especially when it comes to speaking in tongues. In An Essential Guide to Speaking in Tongues, Ron Phillips explains the gift of tongues and unfolds fresh revelation and comprehensive biblical support for the practice along with powerful illustrations from his own life.
As a Spirit-filled Southern Baptist pastor, Phillips brings a welcome balance to the topic, helping you to understand that speaking in tongues is a blessing of God that gives you the ability to boldly approach God’s throne with the Holy Spirit’s power and language.
Discover how speaking in tongues can become an essential part of the life of every believer...including you!
Product Details:
List Price: $9.99
Paperback: 128 pages
Publisher: Charisma House (June 7, 2011)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 1616382406
ISBN-13: 978-1616382407
AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:
The Holy Spirit and His Work
Jack Harris has an interesting hobby. The eighty-sixyear-old pensioner is given a new jigsaw puzzle every year for Christmas. Most of his puzzles take no more than a few months casual work to assemble. He took up this hobby to occupy his time during the winter months, which made working in his garden impossible. In 2002, Jack was given a five-thousand-piece puzzle for Christmas, and this puzzle would prove to be a special challenge.
Jack did not finish the puzzle by spring. He hadn’t even finished it by the next Christmas. In fact, this massive puzzle took up residence on Jack’s dining room table for over seven years. Upon placing the final piece into its position, Jack stood back to admire his work, and it was then that he noticed the puzzle was missing a piece.
Had the piece been eaten by a dog? Accidentally thrown away? Had it never been in the box to begin with? No one knows. His daughter—who originally gave her father the puzzle—tried to contact the maker of the puzzle to procure a spare piece, but it had taken Jack so long to finish the puzzle that they no longer made it. She said, of her father, “He was just so disappointed when he found one piece was missing. It’s sad really because now it will never be complete.”
So many churches should feel tremendous sympathy for Jack Harris. You see, they experience the feeling of a missing piece—a missing person, really—every day.
The “missing person” in today’s church is the Holy Spirit. Though the church confesses the Holy Spirit to be fully God, He is seldom worshiped and often ignored.
The Holy Spirit is the third person of the Godhead. The Holy Spirit did not come into existence on the Day of Pentecost, but He came into prominence. John 7:38–39 is where we are clearly told that at the ascension and glorification of Jesus, the Holy Spirit was to be given or poured out upon the church without measure.
“He who believes in Me, as the Scripture has said, out of his heart will flow rivers of living water.” But this He spoke concerning the Spirit, whom those believing in Him would receive; for the Holy Spirit was not yet given, because Jesus was not yet glorified.
Acts 2 records that remarkable and powerful moment! There were sounds not heard since the Holy Spirit roared over the waters of creation. There were sights eyes had never seen in divided tongues of fire. There was a supernatural miracle of speaking and understanding that took place.
The History of Pentecost
Let’s contemplate the history of Pentecost. We have mentioned the events of Pentecost as recounted in Acts 2. This is, in fact, the “Pentecost” that most people think of when hearing the word Pentecostal. However, the fact is that Pentecost has a much richer history and meaning.
At the first Passover, the Hebrews made their exodus from slavery in Egypt. Fifty days later this newly emancipated nation sat in the shadow of Mount Sinai. Understand the scene here. It’s been almost two months since their liberation, and the children of Israel are becoming frustrated already. Moses descended from Sinai and gave God’s commands (not the Ten Commandments yet, but the promises and covenant conditions), and the people willingly agreed. God then tells Moses to inform the people that He wants to speak in such a way that the people can hear God speak for themselves. God gave Moses instructions that the people were to sanctify themselves in a number of ways, and on the third day, which was Pentecost, God would come down upon the mountain and speak. So it was on that third day, the people assembled themselves as God had instructed.
God descended on the mountain, and the people saw fire and heard thunder and the sound of trumpets. According to Exodus 19:16, this sound was so loud that people in the camp trembled. Here, the narrative becomes cloudy if the reader doesn’t understand the varieties of Jewish literary approaches. In Exodus 19:19 it says that when Moses spoke, “God answered him by voice.” The implication here is that some people heard simply noise (thunder, wind, and trumpets), and some heard God’s voice. Chapter 19 continues on with Moses going up the mountain to speak to God. Then in the last verse of chapter 19, it says that Moses went back down the mountain to speak with the people.
Now watch how chapter 20 opens: “And God spoke all these words, saying . . . ” What we have here is a classic Eastern literary device—similar to an ellipsis—where, essentially, the first verse of chapter 20 (remember, chapters and verses didn’t exist in the Hebrew text) is the continuation of the story that is begun in Exodus 19:19. So, when it says there that “God answered him by a voice,” the next thing to happen chronologically is Exodus 20:1.
So what was it that God wanted the Israelites to hear? Read Exodus 20:2–17, and you see that the words God spoke to the Israelites were the Ten Commandments. In short, God wanted His word to live inside them! But the people were too afraid. Again, some heard only rumblings and loud noises. “Then they said to Moses, ‘You speak with us, and we will hear. But let not God speak with us, lest we die’” (Exod. 20:19).
Fast-forward approximately fifteen hundred years to the events of Acts chapter 2. The apostles and other disciples are gathered in the upper room. Christ Himself has sanctified them and told them to wait. Let’s take a close look at what the Greek text tells us.
Then there appeared to them divided tongues, as of fire, and one sat upon each of them.
—Acts 2:3
Take note here of the word sat. This word in the Greek is kathizo, which can mean to sit or hover, but in its form here it means to dwell. So this fire came down to dwell in the believers there.
And they were all filled with the Holy Spirit and began to speak with other tongues [in other languages], as the Spirit gave them utterance.
—Acts 2:4
Without making the attempt to become overly exhaustive, let’s just look here at the words “began to speak.” It is beyond a question of debate that the people there were saying something. But what?
And when this sound occurred, the multitude came together, and were confused, because everyone heard them speak in his own language.
—Acts 2:6
A certain multitude of people heard these men and women speaking in their, the hearers’, own language. The implication in verses 6–12 is that various hearers heard various speakers in their, the hearers’, native language. This seems to make short work of those who say that the glossa (tongues) given on Pentecost was an earthly language. But is there more evidence to support this?
Others mocking said, “They are full of new wine.”
—Acts 2:13
Have you ever wondered what these others heard? We have already said that it is beyond debate that those present in the upper room were saying something; so why did some hear their own language and some hear the kind of babbling that would cause them to believe that the disciples were simply drunk on new wine?
Let’s compare the two events. At the first Pentecost in Exodus, God tried to place His word in the hearts of His children, but they refused out of fear. The Pentecost of Acts
2 found His children ready to receive. Simply stated, Pentecost, as well as the baptism of the Holy Spirit, is God breaking open the windows of heaven to place the same Spirit that raised Jesus from the dead into the lives of those who are willing to accept it.
Are you willing?
The Curse of Babel
After the Flood, mankind was joined together and united in geography, culture, language, and purpose. Today, this kind of unity is much sought after, but look at what is said in Genesis 11:6 (kjv) regarding this situation:
And the Lord said, Behold, the people is one, and they have all one language; and this they begin to do: and now nothing will be restrained from them, which they have imagined to do.
The word translated imagined has, in the Hebrew, a very negative connotation. The word truly implies plotting or scheming. Essentially, God saw the wickedness in their hearts and saw that the ability of the people to do wickedness was enhanced by their ability to all speak a unified language. So God saw fit to confound their languages and disperse them from that one place.
It is this curse that lasted through the centuries up until the time of Christ. God raised up governments and empires that unified much of the known world. Consider it: at the time of Jesus, the Roman Empire had succeeded the Grecian empire of Alexander the Great, facilitated travel throughout the empire by building roads, and unified the empire’s speech by adopting a form of Greek as its common language. This facilitated the spread of the gospel, to be sure, but it was also a physical manifestation of a greater spiritual truth.
At Pentecost the curse of Babel was reversed, and all the nations could hear the good news of Jesus. There was a powerful sermon based upon Old Testament prophecy: “This is what was spoken by the prophet Joel . . . ” (Acts 2:16). The message of Jesus was preached, three thousand received salvation, and the church was born. Acts 2:38 speaks of the gift of the Spirit, but what does the Holy Spirit do?
The Work of the Spirit Is Indispensable
A cursory search through Scripture shows us that the Holy Spirit has a place of extreme prominence and significance. We turn the pages of our spiritual history and find that Scripture teaches us that the Holy Spirit:
• Was the agent of Creation (Gen. 1:2)
• Inspired the sacred Scriptures (2 Pet. 1:21)
• Conceived the Lord Jesus in the womb of Mary (Luke 1:35)
• Filled Jesus at His baptism (Matt. 3:16)
• Taught through Jesus (Isa. 61:1; Luke 4:18)
• Raised Jesus from the dead (Rom. 8:11)
• Birthed the church into being (Acts 2)
• Convicts the world of sin, righteousness, and judgment (John 16:7–11)
• Brings the new birth (John 3:5–8)
• Speaks to the church today (Rev. 2–3)
• Enables us to pray (Rom. 8:26)
• Makes the Word of God come alive (Heb. 4:12)
• Makes worship possible (John 4:20–24)
• Glorifies Jesus (John 16:13–14)
The Work of the Spirit Is Individual
We will discuss this in slightly more detail later, but it is important to note that your experience with the Holy Spirit will be your experience. It won’t be some pale imitation of the experience had by a loved one, a mentor, or a pastor you admire. God wishes to enable a work in you that can only be one by you! That is one of the many reasons obedience to the call of God is so important. The work God has for you to do is work only you can do. To help the believer accomplish this, God has sent His precious Holy Spirit.
The gift of the Spirit is God Himself indwelling the believer (Acts 2:38). The gifts of the Spirit are the abilities of Jesus manifested through His people. The filling of the Holy Spirit is the action or power of Jesus in and through His people. This is a repeated event. (See Ephesians 5:18.) Primarily the filling is the enabling of the believer to bear witness to Christ. The baptism of the Holy Spirit is the acceptance by Jesus into the realm of the Spirit, especially the body of Christ, the church. This is a once and for all event. (See 1 Corinthians 12:13; Matthew 3:11.) The fruit of the Spirit is the attitude of Jesus demonstrated in the life of the believer. (See Galatians 5:22–23.) The call of the Spirit is the anointing of Jesus sometimes described as the Spirit coming upon (Greek, epi, “into”) an individual for a special service.
The Work of the Holy Spirit Is Inscrutable!
Make no mistake about this: the Holy Spirit will not be used! Those who think they can live in sin and still flow in the work of the Spirit are headed for disaster. Those who would live without a devotional life are rushing in “where angels fear to tread.”
The Holy Spirit will not be managed. The Holy Spirit will never fit into our human mold. He will be in control, or He will not stay. This might seem constricting or even tyrannical to those who do not understand that “where the Spirit of the Lord is, there is liberty” (2 Cor. 3:17).
The Holy Spirit cannot be contained. (See John 3:8.) Like a mighty wind the Spirit of God moves. The hurricane of heaven that roared over creation acts in sovereignty. Like a mighty flooding river the Spirit moves and overflows. Ezekiel 47:1–12 pictures the river of God flowing out of the temple. Jesus said in John 7:38 that out of the temple of our hearts there could be a river of living water. Like a mighty fire the Holy Spirit of God consumes. Hebrews 12:29 says, “Our God is a consuming fire.” To try to contain the Spirit of God is an impossible task! He will break the dam of denominationalism.
He will transform tradition. One might as well try to harness a hurricane or fetter a fire or flood! Beloved, when you receive Jesus Christ, the Holy Spirit comes to live in you.
He is the Spirit of the Father and of the Son. He comes to bring gifts, to bear fruit, to fill, to anoint, and to enable.
The question to all of us is this: Do you have the Holy Spirit? “If any man have not the Spirit of Christ, he is none of his”
(Rom. 8:9, kjv).
The believer is “led by the Spirit of God,” and God’s Spirit bears witness with the believer’s spirit that he is a child of God (Rom. 8:14–16). The Spirit of Christ sends the birthing of “Abba Father” into your hearts (Gal. 4:6). (See also 1 John 3:24; 4:13.) A final question as we open this book on the grace of tongues: Does the Holy Spirit have you?
Jack Harris has an interesting hobby. The eighty-sixyear-old pensioner is given a new jigsaw puzzle every year for Christmas. Most of his puzzles take no more than a few months casual work to assemble. He took up this hobby to occupy his time during the winter months, which made working in his garden impossible. In 2002, Jack was given a five-thousand-piece puzzle for Christmas, and this puzzle would prove to be a special challenge.
Jack did not finish the puzzle by spring. He hadn’t even finished it by the next Christmas. In fact, this massive puzzle took up residence on Jack’s dining room table for over seven years. Upon placing the final piece into its position, Jack stood back to admire his work, and it was then that he noticed the puzzle was missing a piece.
Had the piece been eaten by a dog? Accidentally thrown away? Had it never been in the box to begin with? No one knows. His daughter—who originally gave her father the puzzle—tried to contact the maker of the puzzle to procure a spare piece, but it had taken Jack so long to finish the puzzle that they no longer made it. She said, of her father, “He was just so disappointed when he found one piece was missing. It’s sad really because now it will never be complete.”
So many churches should feel tremendous sympathy for Jack Harris. You see, they experience the feeling of a missing piece—a missing person, really—every day.
The “missing person” in today’s church is the Holy Spirit. Though the church confesses the Holy Spirit to be fully God, He is seldom worshiped and often ignored.
The Holy Spirit is the third person of the Godhead. The Holy Spirit did not come into existence on the Day of Pentecost, but He came into prominence. John 7:38–39 is where we are clearly told that at the ascension and glorification of Jesus, the Holy Spirit was to be given or poured out upon the church without measure.
“He who believes in Me, as the Scripture has said, out of his heart will flow rivers of living water.” But this He spoke concerning the Spirit, whom those believing in Him would receive; for the Holy Spirit was not yet given, because Jesus was not yet glorified.
Acts 2 records that remarkable and powerful moment! There were sounds not heard since the Holy Spirit roared over the waters of creation. There were sights eyes had never seen in divided tongues of fire. There was a supernatural miracle of speaking and understanding that took place.
The History of Pentecost
Let’s contemplate the history of Pentecost. We have mentioned the events of Pentecost as recounted in Acts 2. This is, in fact, the “Pentecost” that most people think of when hearing the word Pentecostal. However, the fact is that Pentecost has a much richer history and meaning.
At the first Passover, the Hebrews made their exodus from slavery in Egypt. Fifty days later this newly emancipated nation sat in the shadow of Mount Sinai. Understand the scene here. It’s been almost two months since their liberation, and the children of Israel are becoming frustrated already. Moses descended from Sinai and gave God’s commands (not the Ten Commandments yet, but the promises and covenant conditions), and the people willingly agreed. God then tells Moses to inform the people that He wants to speak in such a way that the people can hear God speak for themselves. God gave Moses instructions that the people were to sanctify themselves in a number of ways, and on the third day, which was Pentecost, God would come down upon the mountain and speak. So it was on that third day, the people assembled themselves as God had instructed.
God descended on the mountain, and the people saw fire and heard thunder and the sound of trumpets. According to Exodus 19:16, this sound was so loud that people in the camp trembled. Here, the narrative becomes cloudy if the reader doesn’t understand the varieties of Jewish literary approaches. In Exodus 19:19 it says that when Moses spoke, “God answered him by voice.” The implication here is that some people heard simply noise (thunder, wind, and trumpets), and some heard God’s voice. Chapter 19 continues on with Moses going up the mountain to speak to God. Then in the last verse of chapter 19, it says that Moses went back down the mountain to speak with the people.
Now watch how chapter 20 opens: “And God spoke all these words, saying . . . ” What we have here is a classic Eastern literary device—similar to an ellipsis—where, essentially, the first verse of chapter 20 (remember, chapters and verses didn’t exist in the Hebrew text) is the continuation of the story that is begun in Exodus 19:19. So, when it says there that “God answered him by a voice,” the next thing to happen chronologically is Exodus 20:1.
So what was it that God wanted the Israelites to hear? Read Exodus 20:2–17, and you see that the words God spoke to the Israelites were the Ten Commandments. In short, God wanted His word to live inside them! But the people were too afraid. Again, some heard only rumblings and loud noises. “Then they said to Moses, ‘You speak with us, and we will hear. But let not God speak with us, lest we die’” (Exod. 20:19).
Fast-forward approximately fifteen hundred years to the events of Acts chapter 2. The apostles and other disciples are gathered in the upper room. Christ Himself has sanctified them and told them to wait. Let’s take a close look at what the Greek text tells us.
Then there appeared to them divided tongues, as of fire, and one sat upon each of them.
—Acts 2:3
Take note here of the word sat. This word in the Greek is kathizo, which can mean to sit or hover, but in its form here it means to dwell. So this fire came down to dwell in the believers there.
And they were all filled with the Holy Spirit and began to speak with other tongues [in other languages], as the Spirit gave them utterance.
—Acts 2:4
Without making the attempt to become overly exhaustive, let’s just look here at the words “began to speak.” It is beyond a question of debate that the people there were saying something. But what?
And when this sound occurred, the multitude came together, and were confused, because everyone heard them speak in his own language.
—Acts 2:6
A certain multitude of people heard these men and women speaking in their, the hearers’, own language. The implication in verses 6–12 is that various hearers heard various speakers in their, the hearers’, native language. This seems to make short work of those who say that the glossa (tongues) given on Pentecost was an earthly language. But is there more evidence to support this?
Others mocking said, “They are full of new wine.”
—Acts 2:13
Have you ever wondered what these others heard? We have already said that it is beyond debate that those present in the upper room were saying something; so why did some hear their own language and some hear the kind of babbling that would cause them to believe that the disciples were simply drunk on new wine?
Let’s compare the two events. At the first Pentecost in Exodus, God tried to place His word in the hearts of His children, but they refused out of fear. The Pentecost of Acts
2 found His children ready to receive. Simply stated, Pentecost, as well as the baptism of the Holy Spirit, is God breaking open the windows of heaven to place the same Spirit that raised Jesus from the dead into the lives of those who are willing to accept it.
Are you willing?
The Curse of Babel
After the Flood, mankind was joined together and united in geography, culture, language, and purpose. Today, this kind of unity is much sought after, but look at what is said in Genesis 11:6 (kjv) regarding this situation:
And the Lord said, Behold, the people is one, and they have all one language; and this they begin to do: and now nothing will be restrained from them, which they have imagined to do.
The word translated imagined has, in the Hebrew, a very negative connotation. The word truly implies plotting or scheming. Essentially, God saw the wickedness in their hearts and saw that the ability of the people to do wickedness was enhanced by their ability to all speak a unified language. So God saw fit to confound their languages and disperse them from that one place.
It is this curse that lasted through the centuries up until the time of Christ. God raised up governments and empires that unified much of the known world. Consider it: at the time of Jesus, the Roman Empire had succeeded the Grecian empire of Alexander the Great, facilitated travel throughout the empire by building roads, and unified the empire’s speech by adopting a form of Greek as its common language. This facilitated the spread of the gospel, to be sure, but it was also a physical manifestation of a greater spiritual truth.
At Pentecost the curse of Babel was reversed, and all the nations could hear the good news of Jesus. There was a powerful sermon based upon Old Testament prophecy: “This is what was spoken by the prophet Joel . . . ” (Acts 2:16). The message of Jesus was preached, three thousand received salvation, and the church was born. Acts 2:38 speaks of the gift of the Spirit, but what does the Holy Spirit do?
The Work of the Spirit Is Indispensable
A cursory search through Scripture shows us that the Holy Spirit has a place of extreme prominence and significance. We turn the pages of our spiritual history and find that Scripture teaches us that the Holy Spirit:
• Was the agent of Creation (Gen. 1:2)
• Inspired the sacred Scriptures (2 Pet. 1:21)
• Conceived the Lord Jesus in the womb of Mary (Luke 1:35)
• Filled Jesus at His baptism (Matt. 3:16)
• Taught through Jesus (Isa. 61:1; Luke 4:18)
• Raised Jesus from the dead (Rom. 8:11)
• Birthed the church into being (Acts 2)
• Convicts the world of sin, righteousness, and judgment (John 16:7–11)
• Brings the new birth (John 3:5–8)
• Speaks to the church today (Rev. 2–3)
• Enables us to pray (Rom. 8:26)
• Makes the Word of God come alive (Heb. 4:12)
• Makes worship possible (John 4:20–24)
• Glorifies Jesus (John 16:13–14)
The Work of the Spirit Is Individual
We will discuss this in slightly more detail later, but it is important to note that your experience with the Holy Spirit will be your experience. It won’t be some pale imitation of the experience had by a loved one, a mentor, or a pastor you admire. God wishes to enable a work in you that can only be one by you! That is one of the many reasons obedience to the call of God is so important. The work God has for you to do is work only you can do. To help the believer accomplish this, God has sent His precious Holy Spirit.
The gift of the Spirit is God Himself indwelling the believer (Acts 2:38). The gifts of the Spirit are the abilities of Jesus manifested through His people. The filling of the Holy Spirit is the action or power of Jesus in and through His people. This is a repeated event. (See Ephesians 5:18.) Primarily the filling is the enabling of the believer to bear witness to Christ. The baptism of the Holy Spirit is the acceptance by Jesus into the realm of the Spirit, especially the body of Christ, the church. This is a once and for all event. (See 1 Corinthians 12:13; Matthew 3:11.) The fruit of the Spirit is the attitude of Jesus demonstrated in the life of the believer. (See Galatians 5:22–23.) The call of the Spirit is the anointing of Jesus sometimes described as the Spirit coming upon (Greek, epi, “into”) an individual for a special service.
The Work of the Holy Spirit Is Inscrutable!
Make no mistake about this: the Holy Spirit will not be used! Those who think they can live in sin and still flow in the work of the Spirit are headed for disaster. Those who would live without a devotional life are rushing in “where angels fear to tread.”
The Holy Spirit will not be managed. The Holy Spirit will never fit into our human mold. He will be in control, or He will not stay. This might seem constricting or even tyrannical to those who do not understand that “where the Spirit of the Lord is, there is liberty” (2 Cor. 3:17).
The Holy Spirit cannot be contained. (See John 3:8.) Like a mighty wind the Spirit of God moves. The hurricane of heaven that roared over creation acts in sovereignty. Like a mighty flooding river the Spirit moves and overflows. Ezekiel 47:1–12 pictures the river of God flowing out of the temple. Jesus said in John 7:38 that out of the temple of our hearts there could be a river of living water. Like a mighty fire the Holy Spirit of God consumes. Hebrews 12:29 says, “Our God is a consuming fire.” To try to contain the Spirit of God is an impossible task! He will break the dam of denominationalism.
He will transform tradition. One might as well try to harness a hurricane or fetter a fire or flood! Beloved, when you receive Jesus Christ, the Holy Spirit comes to live in you.
He is the Spirit of the Father and of the Son. He comes to bring gifts, to bear fruit, to fill, to anoint, and to enable.
The question to all of us is this: Do you have the Holy Spirit? “If any man have not the Spirit of Christ, he is none of his”
(Rom. 8:9, kjv).
The believer is “led by the Spirit of God,” and God’s Spirit bears witness with the believer’s spirit that he is a child of God (Rom. 8:14–16). The Spirit of Christ sends the birthing of “Abba Father” into your hearts (Gal. 4:6). (See also 1 John 3:24; 4:13.) A final question as we open this book on the grace of tongues: Does the Holy Spirit have you?
My Take
If you are curious about speaking in tongues or just looking for a book to hand to someone else, this is an excellent resource. I plan to use this to hand to others who are looking for more information on this sometimes controversial topic. Ron Phillips has done a wonderful job of explaining the scriptural and historical basis as well as the reasons why you might want to speak in tongues. The book is small and easy to read, making it a wonderful, easy to use tool.
Wednesday, June 15, 2011
Book Review: The Judas Gospel by Bill Myers
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:
Howard Books; Original edition (June 14, 2011)
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Myers holds a degree in Theater Arts from the University of Washington and an honorary doctorate from the Theological Institute of Nimes, France, where he taught. As an author/screenwriter/director his work has won over 50 national and international awards, including the C.S. Lewis Honor Award. His books have sold more than 8 million copies and three of his novels are being made into movies, including The Wager, starring Randy Travis. Visit the author's website.
SHORT BOOK DESCRIPTION:
Judas, the disciple responsible for betraying Jesus, has a conversation with God and proposes to him that if God had used his powers to market Jesus that Judas would have, Jesus would have been more successful in saving the world, with more people following him. Judas has heard rumors that God is preparing another prophet and talks God into letting Judas return to earth to prove his point using this new prophet, a woman who possesses supernatural abilities and who is stalked by a serial killer through her horrifying dreams of his victims. Judas takes her pure ministry and turns it into a marketing circus, and he comes to realize that in mixing commerce with God, bigger isn’t better and that God is interested in reaching individuals, not masses.Product Details:
List Price: $14.99
Paperback: 320 pages
Publisher: Howard Books; Original edition (June 14, 2011)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 143915354X
ISBN-13: 978-1439153543
AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:
PROLOGUE
________
CHANCES ARE you hate me. Believer or nonbeliever, if you've heard the story, you despise me. And believer or nonbeliever, that makes you a hypocrite. All of you. Believers, because you refuse to embrace the very forgiveness He pleaded for others, even those who tortured Him to death. And nonbelievers, because you pretend to hate the traitor of someone you hate.
"But I don't hate Him," you say.
Really? Pretending you don't hate someone who says all your attempts at being good are worthless? Pretending you don't hate someone who claims to be the only way to God? Pretending you don't hate someone who wants to rule your life? Who are you kidding? You're not fooling anyone, least of all Him.
But hate Him or worship Him, one thing you can say, He's no hypocrite. He stuck to the truth all the way through His execution. And He still holds to it today. (Old habits die hard.) Truth is His currency… and His Achilles' heel. That's why I knew He'd allow me into His presence. If my question was asked in truth, He'd respond in truth.
Now I'm sure there are some who will debate how I had access to Him—those of you who love to argue about gnats while swallowing camels. And why not? After all, debating about dancing angels and pinheads is far easier than breaking a sweat by actually obeying. Or, as the Accuser recently confided in me, "Spending time arguing theology is the perfect way to ensure a burning world continues to burn."
In any case, my eternal state is not up for discussion. Though I will say I have displayed more remorse and repentance over my sin than most of you ever have over your own. And as to whether I'm actually in hell, I guess that depends upon your definition of the place.
But I digress.
When I came before Him, I was forced to my knees. Not by any cosmic bullying, but by the sheer weight of His glory. Yet when He spoke, His voice was kind and full of compassion.
"Hello, my friend. It's been a long time."
My eyes immediately dropped to the ground and my chest swelled with emotion. So much time had passed and He still had that power over me. Angry at His hold, I took a ragged breath and then another before blurting out like a petulant child, "You… never gave me a chance!"
I was answered by silence. He waited until I found the courage, or foolishness, to raise my head. When I did, the love in His eyes burned through me and I had to look back down. Still, He continued to wait.
I took another breath. Finally, angrily swiping at my eyes, I tried again. "If we… if we would have handled Your mission my way"—I swallowed and continued—"the world would not be in the mess it's in today."
"Your way?"
I nodded, refusing to look up. "You could have ruled the world."
"I am ruling the world."
I shook my head. "Not souls. But nations, governments. Every earthly power imaginable could have been Yours."
"Kingdoms come and go. Souls are eternal."
"Tell that to the tortured and murdered who scream Your name as an oath every day." I waited for His wrath to flare up, to consume me. But I felt nothing. I heard no rebuke. Only more silence. He knew I wasn't finished. I took another breath and continued, "If You would have used Your powers my way, everyone would have followed You."
I heard Him chuckle softly. "And you would have made Me a star."
"The likes of which the world had never seen."
"I did all right."
"You could have done better."
He waited again, making sure I had nothing more to say. This time I had the good sense to remain silent.
Finally He spoke. "What do you propose, My friend?"
I hesitated.
"Please. Go ahead."
Still staring at the ground, I answered: "Rumor has it You're preparing another prophet—though her background is questionable."
"Moses was a murderer. David an adulterer." I felt His eyes searching me. "I've always had a soft spot for the broken."
I nodded and took another swipe at my tears.
"What would you like?"
Another breath and I answered: "Let me return to Earth. Let me show You what could have been if You had followed my leading." I hesitated, then looked up, trying to smile. "Hasn't that always been Your favorite method of teaching? Letting us have our way until we wind up proving Yours?"
His eyes sparkled at my little joke. I tried to hold His gaze but could not.
After another pause He finally spoke: "When would you like to begin?"
And that's how it started—how He gave me the opportunity to prove to Him, to you, and to all of creation, what could have been accomplished if He'd proclaimed His truth my way.
I'll say no more. Neither here nor at the end. Instead, I'll practice what He, himself, employs. I'll let the story unfold, allowing truth to speak for itself.
CHAPTER ONE
________
THE FIRST thing Rachel smells is smoke. That's how it always begins. Not the smoke of wood, but the acrid, chemical smell of burning drapes, melting carpet, smoldering sofa. The air is suffocating. Hot waves press against her face and mouth, making it difficult to breathe. Her mother stands before her in a white flowing gown. Flames engulf the woman's legs, leaping up and rising toward her waist where she holds little Rebecca. The two of them stare at Rachel, their eyes pleading for help, their faces filled with fear, confusion, and accusation as Rachel stands holding a lit candle in a small glass holder.
Mother and sister waver and dissolve, disappearing into the smoke. Suddenly Rachel is standing in the doorway of an upscale bathroom. The same bathroom she stood inside last night. And the night before. The marble tile is cool to her bare feet. There is no smoke now, only fog. So thick she sees nothing. But she can hear. There is the sound of splashing water. Someone in a tub. The room is filled with the sweet scent of rose bath oil.
A nearby dog yaps, its bark shrill and relentless.
A woman shouts from the tub, "Who's there?" Her voice is strong and authoritative, masking the fear she must feel.
Rachel tries to answer, but no sound comes from her throat.
"Who are you? How did you get in?" She hears the woman rising, water dripping from her body.
The dog continues to bark.
"Get out of here!" the woman yells. Water splashes. She swears. The sound of a struggle begins. Someone falls, knees thudding into the tub. There is the squeak of flesh against porcelain. Coughing, gagging. A scream that is quickly submerged underwater, muffled and bubbling.
Rachel hears herself gasping and grunting. She feels her own hands around the woman's throat.
The dog barks crazily.
The last of the burbling screams fades. The struggle ends. There is only the gentle sound of water sloshing back and forth, back and forth.
And the yelping dog.
Rachel rises and turns, fearful of what she knows she will see through the fog. As in the previous dreams, a bathroom mirror floats before her. But this evening there is something different. This evening there are letters scrawled across it in black cherry lipstick. Her scrawling:
Tell Them
In the mirror she sees a tiny red glow dancing across her hand, the hand that holds the burning candle. It's there every night, like a firefly. But instead of her own frightened face staring back at her, she sees the face of someone else: bald, white, and pale. A swastika tattooed on the side of the neck. Man, woman, she can't tell. But it is leering. And it is climbing out of the mirror toward her.
She screams and throws the candle at the reflection. The mirror shatters, breaking into a dozen pieces, a dozen images of the face sneering up at her. Until they change. Until they morph into different faces. Froglike. Reptilian. Each climbing out of its broken shard—snarling, reaching for her feet, clutching at her ankles until, mustering all of her strength, she wakes with a stifled scream.
Nineteen-year-old Rachel Delacroix lay in bed, heart pounding, T-shirt soaked and clinging. At first she thought it was from the water of the tub… until she realized it was her own cold sweat.
"Rachel?" Her father appeared in the doorway, his bald black head glistening in the streetlight from the hall window. The same window that held the broken air conditioner they could not afford to replace. "Are you all right?"
"Mmm?" she mumbled, pretending to be asleep.
"Was it—did you have another dream?"
She gave no answer.
"You're not taking your medicine, are you."
She remained silent, hoping he'd think she'd gone back to sleep.
"Rachel?"
More silence. She could hear him standing there nearly half a minute before he turned and wearily shuffled back down the hall to his room. Tomorrow was church and he needed to get his rest. Still, she knew full well he'd not be able to go back to sleep.
Hopefully, neither would she.
She opened her eyes and stared at the ceiling, then turned to the art posters on the surrounding walls—the Monets, the Van Goghs, the Renoirs. How often they gave her comfort. Even joy. But not tonight. Tonight, as in the past two nights she'd had the dream, they would give her nothing at all.
________
IT WAS BARELY past nine in the morning and the attic was like an oven. The Santa Anas had been blowing for several days, and Sean Putnam doubted the house had dropped below eighty degrees all night. That's why he was up here now—to save whatever was left of his paintings. To bring the canvases downstairs where it was cooler and the paint wouldn't dry out and crack. Over the past months he'd already thrown away dozens, mostly self-portraits; clear signs of what he now considered to have been his self-absorbed youth.
"Dad!"
He turned toward the stairs and shouted. As was the case with many Down syndrome children, the multiple ear infections had left his son hard of hearing. "I'll be there in a second."
"Well, hurry! We don't want to be late."
"I'll be right there."
"Well, hurry."
He quietly mused. Tomorrow would be Elliot's first day in middle school. A scary time for both of them. Yet it was all part of the plan he and Beverly had agreed upon. A plan conceived as the cancer began eating away and taking her. They wanted to make sure Elliot was prepared as much as possible to face the real world. Integrating him into the public school system seemed the best choice. They'd talked about it often during her final days. And it was the last conversation they had before she slipped into unconsciousness.
Now, barely a year later, he was making good on those plans.
"Dad."
"I'll be right there."
Elliot was nervous. He had been all week. That's why Sean had agreed to this trial run. That's why, though it was nine-fifteen on a Sunday morning, the two of them would pile into the old Ford Taurus and drive over to Lincoln Middle School. A rehearsal for tomorrow's big day. An attempt to help Elliot relax by eliminating any surprises.
Too bad Sean couldn't do the same for himself. Because he wasn't just anxious about his son. Tomorrow was a big day for him as well. He'd finally graduated from the Los Angeles Police Academy, and tomorrow would be his first day on patrol in a black-and-white. That was the other reason he was up here in the attic. "To put away childish things." He wasn't sure where he'd first heard that phrase, probably from his old man. But it made it no less true. The days of being a long-haired art student had come and gone. Now it was time to be a man. To make the necessary sacrifices and take care of what was left of his family.
He quickly flipped through the remaining canvases until one slowed him to a stop. Not because of any artistic skill, but because of the subjects—six-week-old Elliot lying naked on his mother's tummy, his little fist clenched, nursing at her breast. It still moved him in ways he could not explain. Somehow, some way, he'd been able to capture the truth of that moment… mother and child lost in the act of life, their faces filled with contentment, glowing with an indefinable peace.
"Dad…"
He reached down and scooped up the canvas. "I'm on my way." He tucked the painting under his arm and headed back downstairs, where he would find someplace safe to keep it.
© 2011 Bill Myers
________
CHANCES ARE you hate me. Believer or nonbeliever, if you've heard the story, you despise me. And believer or nonbeliever, that makes you a hypocrite. All of you. Believers, because you refuse to embrace the very forgiveness He pleaded for others, even those who tortured Him to death. And nonbelievers, because you pretend to hate the traitor of someone you hate.
"But I don't hate Him," you say.
Really? Pretending you don't hate someone who says all your attempts at being good are worthless? Pretending you don't hate someone who claims to be the only way to God? Pretending you don't hate someone who wants to rule your life? Who are you kidding? You're not fooling anyone, least of all Him.
But hate Him or worship Him, one thing you can say, He's no hypocrite. He stuck to the truth all the way through His execution. And He still holds to it today. (Old habits die hard.) Truth is His currency… and His Achilles' heel. That's why I knew He'd allow me into His presence. If my question was asked in truth, He'd respond in truth.
Now I'm sure there are some who will debate how I had access to Him—those of you who love to argue about gnats while swallowing camels. And why not? After all, debating about dancing angels and pinheads is far easier than breaking a sweat by actually obeying. Or, as the Accuser recently confided in me, "Spending time arguing theology is the perfect way to ensure a burning world continues to burn."
In any case, my eternal state is not up for discussion. Though I will say I have displayed more remorse and repentance over my sin than most of you ever have over your own. And as to whether I'm actually in hell, I guess that depends upon your definition of the place.
But I digress.
When I came before Him, I was forced to my knees. Not by any cosmic bullying, but by the sheer weight of His glory. Yet when He spoke, His voice was kind and full of compassion.
"Hello, my friend. It's been a long time."
My eyes immediately dropped to the ground and my chest swelled with emotion. So much time had passed and He still had that power over me. Angry at His hold, I took a ragged breath and then another before blurting out like a petulant child, "You… never gave me a chance!"
I was answered by silence. He waited until I found the courage, or foolishness, to raise my head. When I did, the love in His eyes burned through me and I had to look back down. Still, He continued to wait.
I took another breath. Finally, angrily swiping at my eyes, I tried again. "If we… if we would have handled Your mission my way"—I swallowed and continued—"the world would not be in the mess it's in today."
"Your way?"
I nodded, refusing to look up. "You could have ruled the world."
"I am ruling the world."
I shook my head. "Not souls. But nations, governments. Every earthly power imaginable could have been Yours."
"Kingdoms come and go. Souls are eternal."
"Tell that to the tortured and murdered who scream Your name as an oath every day." I waited for His wrath to flare up, to consume me. But I felt nothing. I heard no rebuke. Only more silence. He knew I wasn't finished. I took another breath and continued, "If You would have used Your powers my way, everyone would have followed You."
I heard Him chuckle softly. "And you would have made Me a star."
"The likes of which the world had never seen."
"I did all right."
"You could have done better."
He waited again, making sure I had nothing more to say. This time I had the good sense to remain silent.
Finally He spoke. "What do you propose, My friend?"
I hesitated.
"Please. Go ahead."
Still staring at the ground, I answered: "Rumor has it You're preparing another prophet—though her background is questionable."
"Moses was a murderer. David an adulterer." I felt His eyes searching me. "I've always had a soft spot for the broken."
I nodded and took another swipe at my tears.
"What would you like?"
Another breath and I answered: "Let me return to Earth. Let me show You what could have been if You had followed my leading." I hesitated, then looked up, trying to smile. "Hasn't that always been Your favorite method of teaching? Letting us have our way until we wind up proving Yours?"
His eyes sparkled at my little joke. I tried to hold His gaze but could not.
After another pause He finally spoke: "When would you like to begin?"
And that's how it started—how He gave me the opportunity to prove to Him, to you, and to all of creation, what could have been accomplished if He'd proclaimed His truth my way.
I'll say no more. Neither here nor at the end. Instead, I'll practice what He, himself, employs. I'll let the story unfold, allowing truth to speak for itself.
CHAPTER ONE
________
THE FIRST thing Rachel smells is smoke. That's how it always begins. Not the smoke of wood, but the acrid, chemical smell of burning drapes, melting carpet, smoldering sofa. The air is suffocating. Hot waves press against her face and mouth, making it difficult to breathe. Her mother stands before her in a white flowing gown. Flames engulf the woman's legs, leaping up and rising toward her waist where she holds little Rebecca. The two of them stare at Rachel, their eyes pleading for help, their faces filled with fear, confusion, and accusation as Rachel stands holding a lit candle in a small glass holder.
Mother and sister waver and dissolve, disappearing into the smoke. Suddenly Rachel is standing in the doorway of an upscale bathroom. The same bathroom she stood inside last night. And the night before. The marble tile is cool to her bare feet. There is no smoke now, only fog. So thick she sees nothing. But she can hear. There is the sound of splashing water. Someone in a tub. The room is filled with the sweet scent of rose bath oil.
A nearby dog yaps, its bark shrill and relentless.
A woman shouts from the tub, "Who's there?" Her voice is strong and authoritative, masking the fear she must feel.
Rachel tries to answer, but no sound comes from her throat.
"Who are you? How did you get in?" She hears the woman rising, water dripping from her body.
The dog continues to bark.
"Get out of here!" the woman yells. Water splashes. She swears. The sound of a struggle begins. Someone falls, knees thudding into the tub. There is the squeak of flesh against porcelain. Coughing, gagging. A scream that is quickly submerged underwater, muffled and bubbling.
Rachel hears herself gasping and grunting. She feels her own hands around the woman's throat.
The dog barks crazily.
The last of the burbling screams fades. The struggle ends. There is only the gentle sound of water sloshing back and forth, back and forth.
And the yelping dog.
Rachel rises and turns, fearful of what she knows she will see through the fog. As in the previous dreams, a bathroom mirror floats before her. But this evening there is something different. This evening there are letters scrawled across it in black cherry lipstick. Her scrawling:
Tell Them
In the mirror she sees a tiny red glow dancing across her hand, the hand that holds the burning candle. It's there every night, like a firefly. But instead of her own frightened face staring back at her, she sees the face of someone else: bald, white, and pale. A swastika tattooed on the side of the neck. Man, woman, she can't tell. But it is leering. And it is climbing out of the mirror toward her.
She screams and throws the candle at the reflection. The mirror shatters, breaking into a dozen pieces, a dozen images of the face sneering up at her. Until they change. Until they morph into different faces. Froglike. Reptilian. Each climbing out of its broken shard—snarling, reaching for her feet, clutching at her ankles until, mustering all of her strength, she wakes with a stifled scream.
Nineteen-year-old Rachel Delacroix lay in bed, heart pounding, T-shirt soaked and clinging. At first she thought it was from the water of the tub… until she realized it was her own cold sweat.
"Rachel?" Her father appeared in the doorway, his bald black head glistening in the streetlight from the hall window. The same window that held the broken air conditioner they could not afford to replace. "Are you all right?"
"Mmm?" she mumbled, pretending to be asleep.
"Was it—did you have another dream?"
She gave no answer.
"You're not taking your medicine, are you."
She remained silent, hoping he'd think she'd gone back to sleep.
"Rachel?"
More silence. She could hear him standing there nearly half a minute before he turned and wearily shuffled back down the hall to his room. Tomorrow was church and he needed to get his rest. Still, she knew full well he'd not be able to go back to sleep.
Hopefully, neither would she.
She opened her eyes and stared at the ceiling, then turned to the art posters on the surrounding walls—the Monets, the Van Goghs, the Renoirs. How often they gave her comfort. Even joy. But not tonight. Tonight, as in the past two nights she'd had the dream, they would give her nothing at all.
________
IT WAS BARELY past nine in the morning and the attic was like an oven. The Santa Anas had been blowing for several days, and Sean Putnam doubted the house had dropped below eighty degrees all night. That's why he was up here now—to save whatever was left of his paintings. To bring the canvases downstairs where it was cooler and the paint wouldn't dry out and crack. Over the past months he'd already thrown away dozens, mostly self-portraits; clear signs of what he now considered to have been his self-absorbed youth.
"Dad!"
He turned toward the stairs and shouted. As was the case with many Down syndrome children, the multiple ear infections had left his son hard of hearing. "I'll be there in a second."
"Well, hurry! We don't want to be late."
"I'll be right there."
"Well, hurry."
He quietly mused. Tomorrow would be Elliot's first day in middle school. A scary time for both of them. Yet it was all part of the plan he and Beverly had agreed upon. A plan conceived as the cancer began eating away and taking her. They wanted to make sure Elliot was prepared as much as possible to face the real world. Integrating him into the public school system seemed the best choice. They'd talked about it often during her final days. And it was the last conversation they had before she slipped into unconsciousness.
Now, barely a year later, he was making good on those plans.
"Dad."
"I'll be right there."
Elliot was nervous. He had been all week. That's why Sean had agreed to this trial run. That's why, though it was nine-fifteen on a Sunday morning, the two of them would pile into the old Ford Taurus and drive over to Lincoln Middle School. A rehearsal for tomorrow's big day. An attempt to help Elliot relax by eliminating any surprises.
Too bad Sean couldn't do the same for himself. Because he wasn't just anxious about his son. Tomorrow was a big day for him as well. He'd finally graduated from the Los Angeles Police Academy, and tomorrow would be his first day on patrol in a black-and-white. That was the other reason he was up here in the attic. "To put away childish things." He wasn't sure where he'd first heard that phrase, probably from his old man. But it made it no less true. The days of being a long-haired art student had come and gone. Now it was time to be a man. To make the necessary sacrifices and take care of what was left of his family.
He quickly flipped through the remaining canvases until one slowed him to a stop. Not because of any artistic skill, but because of the subjects—six-week-old Elliot lying naked on his mother's tummy, his little fist clenched, nursing at her breast. It still moved him in ways he could not explain. Somehow, some way, he'd been able to capture the truth of that moment… mother and child lost in the act of life, their faces filled with contentment, glowing with an indefinable peace.
"Dad…"
He reached down and scooped up the canvas. "I'm on my way." He tucked the painting under his arm and headed back downstairs, where he would find someplace safe to keep it.
© 2011 Bill Myers
My Take
Once I started this book, I could hardly put it down. I got hooked in the first few pages and could hardly bear to stop reading to do mundane things like eat and sleep. i finished the book in record time and was sorry to see it end. The story of a young girl with an extraordinary gift is make real by the natural course of events that you could see happening to someone in her position. There are numerous twists and turns along the way to keep things interesting. I look forward to Bill Myers' next book with great anticipation.
Monday, June 13, 2011
Book Review: The Canary List
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:
WaterBrook Press (June 21, 2011)
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Sigmund Brouwer is the bestselling author of Broken Angel and nineteen other novels, with close to three million books in print. His work has appeared in Time, The Tennessean, on Good Morning America and other media. Sigmund is married to recording artist Cindy Morgan and has two young daughters.
Visit the author's website.
SHORT BOOK DESCRIPTION:
Best-selling author Sigmund Brouwer of Broken Angel, releases another suspense thriller in The Canary List (WaterBrook Press, June 21, 2011).Jaimie is just a twelve year-old girl, bumped around between foster homes and relegated to school classes for challenged kids, those lagging in their test scores or with behavioral issues. But her real problem is that she can sense something the other kids can’t—something dark. Something compelling her to run for her life.
And all Crockett Grey wants is to mark the anniversary of his daughter’s death alone.
But when his student Jaimie comes to him terrified, her need for protection collides with his grief, initiating a tangled web of bizarre events that sends them both spiraling toward destruction.
Crockett’s one hope of getting his life back is to uncover the mysterious secrets of Jaimie’s past and her strange gift. It isn’t long before his discoveries lead him to a darker conspiracy, secrets guarded by the highest seat of power in the world—the Vatican.
Product Details:
List Price: $13.99
Paperback: 320 pages
Publisher: WaterBrook Press (June 21, 2011)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 0307446468
ISBN-13: 978-0307446466
AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:
Prologue
She knew that they hurt the boy, because he told her, always, the mornings after he was returned.
She was the only one the boy trusted. She was five and he was four. Each time he was returned to the house, it seemed he had grown smaller.
Black walls and candles, he said. Hoods and robes, like the scary people in Scooby Doo cartoons. Except it wasn’t a cartoon. He couldn’t describe what the people in hoods and robes did to him because he would start shaking and sobbing as he made the attempt.
He told her it must be something they ate that made them so mean to him. Hales.
She didn’t know what hales were and neither did he. But he told her about two pieces of wood crossed, and how they trampled it and kept repeating about the hales they had ate in, but he never knew what they ate the hales in, because they never finished explaining. They just said ‘hales ate in’ and left it at that.
On the last night she saw the boy, she was in his bedroom at the foster home. They heard the car drive up and looked out the window and saw it was
them again. She had his toy bow and arrow set, and she vowed to the boy that she wouldn’t let them take him again.
She was ready when the man in the mask came into the bedroom. She aimed the arrow at the eyes of the tall man, and the rubber suction cup of the
toy arrow hit him squarely in his left eye. He cursed and lifted the mask and rubbed his eye before he realized that she was the one who had fired the arrow,
not the boy. He dropped the mask into place and, with a snort of rage, stepped forward and swept her away with a blow across her face.
“I am The Prince,” he said, as she struggled to her knees. He moved to stand over her. “Bow to me.”
His face. She had seen it before. He was someone she saw at church on Sundays. In a robe at the front, handing out bread to people as they bowed
down in front of him.
She did not want to bow.
Instead she rose in defiance and spit on his leg. He lashed out again, hitting her across the cheek. She tried to scream, but the pain was too great.
Another man in another mask stepped into the bedroom and pulled him away. Then they took the boy.
She never saw the boy again. He went to live at another house, the people at the house said.
But the man with the mask came back. He wore the mask while he hurt her again. In horrible ways. He promised if she told anyone, he could come
back and kill her and then kill the people of the house.
So she didn’t tell anyone. She tried to believe it was a dream. A very bad dream.
But some nights she would wake up and shiver and cry and wonder where the boy was. And she would wonder, too, what hales were and what they ate the hales in and how it was that hales could make people so horrible.
Chapter 1
Evil hunted her.
It had driven her toward the beach, where, protected by the dark of night, Jaimie Piper crept toward the front window of a small bungalow a few
blocks off the ocean in Santa Monica.
She knew it was wrong, sneaking up on her schoolteacher like this, but she couldn’t help herself. She was afraid—really afraid—and she wanted his help.
First she had to make sure he was alone. If he was with someone else, she wouldn’t bother him.
The sound of night bugs was louder than the traffic on the main boulevard that intersected this quiet street. It was June, and the air was warm and
had the tangy smell of ocean. The grass was cool and wet. She felt the dew soaking through her canvas high-top Converse sneakers. Jaimie wasn’t one to
worry about fashion. She just liked the way the sneakers felt and looked. Okay, maybe she liked them too because none of the other kids her age wore them.
Jaimie was twelve. Slender and tall, she had long, fine hair that she tended to wear in a ponytail with a ball cap. If she let it hang loose, it softened her appearance to the point where others viewed her as girlie, something she hated.
The alternative was to cut it herself, because her foster parents didn’t like wasting money by sending her to a beauty salon, but cutting it herself would just remind her that she was nothing but a foster kid, so she just let it grow. And wore Converse sneakers that looked anything but girlie.
Not only was it wrong to be sneaking up on her teacher’s house, but it was wrong even to know where he lived. Jaimie knew that. But his wallet had been open on his desk once, with his driver’s license showing behind a clear plastic window, and she’d read it upside down while she was talking to him and had memorized his address.
Although this was the first time she’d stopped, she had ridden her bike past his house plenty of times, wondering what it would be like if she lived in
the little house near the beach.
It wasn’t the house that drew her. It was dreaming about what it would be like to have a family, and it seemed the perfect house for a family with a mom and a dad and a couple of girls.
A real family. A house that they had lived in for years and years, with a yard and a couple of dogs. Beagles. She loved beagles.
Her mom would be a little pudgy but someone who laughed all the time. Jaimie didn’t like the moms she saw who were cool and hip and trying to outdo their daughters in skinniness and tight-fitting jeans.
Her dad would not have perfect hair and drive a BMW. Jaimie didn’t have friends, because Jaimie wasn’t a friend kind of person, but she knew girls at
school with dads like that, and those girls didn’t seem happy. If Jaimie had a dad, he’d be the kind of guy who went to barbers, not stylists, and had hair that
was always a couple of weeks past needing a barber, who wore jeans and didn’t tuck in his shirt and always dropped everything to listen to whatever story his
girl wanted to tell him.
A dad like Mr. G, her teacher. He drove an old Jeep, the kind with canvas top and roll bars. Sometimes she’d see a surfboard strapped to the top of it, canvas top gone. Mr. G had that kind of surfer-dude look, with the long hair and a long nose bent a little. Not perfect kind of handsome, but a face you still
looked at twice. Some of the girls in her class had a crush on him.
Not Jaimie.
She just wished she could have a dad like him and a house like the house he lived in. Sometimes when she was really lonely, she would ride her bike in the neighborhood, pretending it was her home and that when she got there, she’d be able to wheel up the sidewalk and drop her bike on the grass and leave
it there, because if it really was her family, no one would get upset about little things like that.
It wasn’t that she just had a good feeling about him. It was that Jaimie knew Mr. G could be trusted. Jaimie had a sense about people, a sense that sometimes haunted her.
Like earlier tonight, when she’d met a guy who had come to her house to talk to her foster parents. She’d watched his eyes as he checked the layout of the
house, standing in the kitchen, saying that he was from Social Services. She had taken her bracelet off to hand wash some dishes, and without it on her
wrist, she’d felt the Evil that radiated from him. Evil that hunted her.
So while the man with Evil was talking to her foster parents, she’d grabbed her bracelet and snuck out of the house and jumped on her bike. Dusk was just turning black when she began the twenty-minute ride from the large old house toward the ocean, where she often snuck at night anyway to walk the beach.
But the feeling of Evil was still so real she couldn’t shake it. She wanted—no, needed—to talk to someone about it. Wanted—no, needed—to feel safe. Somehow.
The one person who had promised to help wasn’t answering her phone. That only left Mr. G. The only other person in the world she could trust.
She made it to the side of the window at his house. She inched her head up to peek through the glass.
She saw a single candle.
And Mr. G on the couch. Holding a big book open in his lap.
She watched, knowing she shouldn’t watch.
It looked like he was talking to the book.
And then he glanced up, and for that split second, it seemed like he was staring right into her eyes.
She knew that they hurt the boy, because he told her, always, the mornings after he was returned.
She was the only one the boy trusted. She was five and he was four. Each time he was returned to the house, it seemed he had grown smaller.
Black walls and candles, he said. Hoods and robes, like the scary people in Scooby Doo cartoons. Except it wasn’t a cartoon. He couldn’t describe what the people in hoods and robes did to him because he would start shaking and sobbing as he made the attempt.
He told her it must be something they ate that made them so mean to him. Hales.
She didn’t know what hales were and neither did he. But he told her about two pieces of wood crossed, and how they trampled it and kept repeating about the hales they had ate in, but he never knew what they ate the hales in, because they never finished explaining. They just said ‘hales ate in’ and left it at that.
On the last night she saw the boy, she was in his bedroom at the foster home. They heard the car drive up and looked out the window and saw it was
them again. She had his toy bow and arrow set, and she vowed to the boy that she wouldn’t let them take him again.
She was ready when the man in the mask came into the bedroom. She aimed the arrow at the eyes of the tall man, and the rubber suction cup of the
toy arrow hit him squarely in his left eye. He cursed and lifted the mask and rubbed his eye before he realized that she was the one who had fired the arrow,
not the boy. He dropped the mask into place and, with a snort of rage, stepped forward and swept her away with a blow across her face.
“I am The Prince,” he said, as she struggled to her knees. He moved to stand over her. “Bow to me.”
His face. She had seen it before. He was someone she saw at church on Sundays. In a robe at the front, handing out bread to people as they bowed
down in front of him.
She did not want to bow.
Instead she rose in defiance and spit on his leg. He lashed out again, hitting her across the cheek. She tried to scream, but the pain was too great.
Another man in another mask stepped into the bedroom and pulled him away. Then they took the boy.
She never saw the boy again. He went to live at another house, the people at the house said.
But the man with the mask came back. He wore the mask while he hurt her again. In horrible ways. He promised if she told anyone, he could come
back and kill her and then kill the people of the house.
So she didn’t tell anyone. She tried to believe it was a dream. A very bad dream.
But some nights she would wake up and shiver and cry and wonder where the boy was. And she would wonder, too, what hales were and what they ate the hales in and how it was that hales could make people so horrible.
Chapter 1
Evil hunted her.
It had driven her toward the beach, where, protected by the dark of night, Jaimie Piper crept toward the front window of a small bungalow a few
blocks off the ocean in Santa Monica.
She knew it was wrong, sneaking up on her schoolteacher like this, but she couldn’t help herself. She was afraid—really afraid—and she wanted his help.
First she had to make sure he was alone. If he was with someone else, she wouldn’t bother him.
The sound of night bugs was louder than the traffic on the main boulevard that intersected this quiet street. It was June, and the air was warm and
had the tangy smell of ocean. The grass was cool and wet. She felt the dew soaking through her canvas high-top Converse sneakers. Jaimie wasn’t one to
worry about fashion. She just liked the way the sneakers felt and looked. Okay, maybe she liked them too because none of the other kids her age wore them.
Jaimie was twelve. Slender and tall, she had long, fine hair that she tended to wear in a ponytail with a ball cap. If she let it hang loose, it softened her appearance to the point where others viewed her as girlie, something she hated.
The alternative was to cut it herself, because her foster parents didn’t like wasting money by sending her to a beauty salon, but cutting it herself would just remind her that she was nothing but a foster kid, so she just let it grow. And wore Converse sneakers that looked anything but girlie.
Not only was it wrong to be sneaking up on her teacher’s house, but it was wrong even to know where he lived. Jaimie knew that. But his wallet had been open on his desk once, with his driver’s license showing behind a clear plastic window, and she’d read it upside down while she was talking to him and had memorized his address.
Although this was the first time she’d stopped, she had ridden her bike past his house plenty of times, wondering what it would be like if she lived in
the little house near the beach.
It wasn’t the house that drew her. It was dreaming about what it would be like to have a family, and it seemed the perfect house for a family with a mom and a dad and a couple of girls.
A real family. A house that they had lived in for years and years, with a yard and a couple of dogs. Beagles. She loved beagles.
Her mom would be a little pudgy but someone who laughed all the time. Jaimie didn’t like the moms she saw who were cool and hip and trying to outdo their daughters in skinniness and tight-fitting jeans.
Her dad would not have perfect hair and drive a BMW. Jaimie didn’t have friends, because Jaimie wasn’t a friend kind of person, but she knew girls at
school with dads like that, and those girls didn’t seem happy. If Jaimie had a dad, he’d be the kind of guy who went to barbers, not stylists, and had hair that
was always a couple of weeks past needing a barber, who wore jeans and didn’t tuck in his shirt and always dropped everything to listen to whatever story his
girl wanted to tell him.
A dad like Mr. G, her teacher. He drove an old Jeep, the kind with canvas top and roll bars. Sometimes she’d see a surfboard strapped to the top of it, canvas top gone. Mr. G had that kind of surfer-dude look, with the long hair and a long nose bent a little. Not perfect kind of handsome, but a face you still
looked at twice. Some of the girls in her class had a crush on him.
Not Jaimie.
She just wished she could have a dad like him and a house like the house he lived in. Sometimes when she was really lonely, she would ride her bike in the neighborhood, pretending it was her home and that when she got there, she’d be able to wheel up the sidewalk and drop her bike on the grass and leave
it there, because if it really was her family, no one would get upset about little things like that.
It wasn’t that she just had a good feeling about him. It was that Jaimie knew Mr. G could be trusted. Jaimie had a sense about people, a sense that sometimes haunted her.
Like earlier tonight, when she’d met a guy who had come to her house to talk to her foster parents. She’d watched his eyes as he checked the layout of the
house, standing in the kitchen, saying that he was from Social Services. She had taken her bracelet off to hand wash some dishes, and without it on her
wrist, she’d felt the Evil that radiated from him. Evil that hunted her.
So while the man with Evil was talking to her foster parents, she’d grabbed her bracelet and snuck out of the house and jumped on her bike. Dusk was just turning black when she began the twenty-minute ride from the large old house toward the ocean, where she often snuck at night anyway to walk the beach.
But the feeling of Evil was still so real she couldn’t shake it. She wanted—no, needed—to talk to someone about it. Wanted—no, needed—to feel safe. Somehow.
The one person who had promised to help wasn’t answering her phone. That only left Mr. G. The only other person in the world she could trust.
She made it to the side of the window at his house. She inched her head up to peek through the glass.
She saw a single candle.
And Mr. G on the couch. Holding a big book open in his lap.
She watched, knowing she shouldn’t watch.
It looked like he was talking to the book.
And then he glanced up, and for that split second, it seemed like he was staring right into her eyes.
My Take
Get ready for a wild ride. This is a fun read that takes you around the world, confronting evil in high places. Numerous twists and turns along the way keep things very interesting. It will take you a while to figure out why the book is called what it is, but it's a lot of fun getting there and when you do arrive, it's a great a-ha moment. I was pleasantly surprised by this book, because I had a bad experience with a previous book by this author. I started with trepidation, but was quickly pulled into the story.
Thursday, June 9, 2011
book Review: The Trigger by Hon Hoh
The Trigger
by Hon Hoh
***Special thanks to Audra Jennings, Senior Media Specialist, The B&B Media Group for sending me a review copy.***
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Hon S. Hoh is a gifted teacher of the Word. He is a minister committed to the calling that God has placed on his life. He began studying the Book of Revelation in Bible college, and he is passionate about reaching people with the truth and love of Christ. Hoh has been a pastor in Australia for over ten years and is gifted in preaching, teaching, and visionary leadership. He is a graduate of the University of Melbourne (Psychology), the Swinburne Institute of Technology, the Bible College of Victoria, and the Harvest Bible College (M.A. Ministry). Hoh worked in the field of social welfare prior to entering pastoral ministries.
Hoh is the author of Risen Lamb, Empowered Saints: The Book of Revelation Made Easy (Maryland: McDougal Publishing, 2002). His latest book, The Trigger: A Novel on the Revelation, is based closely on the theology expressed in his first book.
Hoh is the founder and executive director of Living Impact Inc, a non-denominational Christian ministry with an emphasis on global missions. He founded the ministry to help fulfil the Great Commission in reaching some of the poorest and most unevangelized peoples of the world. Living Impact started at the turn of the century, in 1999.
Visit the author's website.
SHORT BOOK DESCRIPTION:
Do each of us play a role in the kingdom of God? Can the choices we make affect God’s timing of future events? Hon Hoh examines these questions while taking his readers on a riveting adventure in The Trigger: A Novel on the Revelation. Through twists and turns, readers will be led on a powerful journey. The Trigger follows three individuals (a pastor, a spy, and a missionary) from three continents (the United States, China, and Australia) who find their lives merged in a single divine purpose: to win the last unreached people group on earth and usher in the Second Coming of Christ. They must succeed in order to release the trigger for the return of the Lamb as declared in Matthew 24:14.
In their way stands a legion of demonic principalities intent on destroying the plan. Against the backdrop of unprecedented persecution and the onslaught of cataclysmic events, they must remain steadfast in order to carry out the priority revealed to them by God. It is evident that no believer will escape the greatest tribulation in human history and that only the matchless return of the King can deliver mankind from evil’s reign.
The climactic battle between Good and Evil unfolds as Lucifer executes his definitive act of defiance: the global genocide of all Christians. With the sound of the trumpets reverberating throughout the heavens, the events that have been set in motion must now complete their course. Eternity and the fate of the earth are at stake, and there is no plan B.
Far more than just another End-Times novel and theologically distinct from the Left Behind series, Hoh will alter the way you see the world and prepare you for the future. This novel is based closely on Hoh’s theology expressed in his book Risen Lamb, Empowered Saints: The Book of Revelation Made Easy. Although the events described are entirely fictional, they are but one of many plausible scenarios in which the end could occur. Though these depictions may not arise for more than another hundred years, it is conceivable that they could begin to unfold within the next decade—or less.
Hoh has written a thought-provoking and exciting novel that looks at the events leading up to the Second Coming and challenges us all to follow the plans that Christ has for our lives.
Product Details:
List Price: $19.99
Paperback: 368 pages
Publisher: Living Impact (May 16, 2011)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 0578071959
ISBN-13: 978-0578071954
AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:
Josh felt exhilarated as he left the apartment of one of the five key leaders of the persecuted church in China. Preaching and teaching the scriptures was one of Josh’s greatest ministry gifts. A distinct and powerful anointing of the Spirit came upon him whenever he was engaged in the delivery of the Word of God. That was abundantly evident while he was speaking in the underground churches of Shanghai, China.
“Jai Jian—goodbye,” Josh blurted out awkwardly. They were about the only Chinese words he had managed to learn in the past three weeks.
“Tank you for being good blessing to our people,” said Tai, one of the leaders sending him off. “Soli we cannot go wit you to airport; it not safe for us to do that for long time now. Government eyes everywhere, you know.”
“I understand. God bless you, brothers.” Josh waved his final farewell as the yellow taxi drove slowly away.
Everything had gone remarkably smooth. Despite the heightened crackdown on underground churches in the past six months, he had not run into trouble with the Public Security Bureau. Around five hundred Han Chinese had made first-time decisions to follow Christ during the many evangelistic meetings in and around the Shanghai area. Josh’s teaching had been well received by congregations of all sizes, a few of which had as many as a thousand worshippers. The secret police had been well aware of those larger congregations for many years. According to the latest statistics, 48% of mainland Chinese professed to be Christian, but only 15% were registered with the government endorsed Three-Self Patriotic Church. The Communist Party was clearly worried.
The journey to Hongqiao Airport was relatively short; soon Josh was lining up to check in for his flight to Australia. He was looking forward to his stopover Down Under before traveling home. The queue was long, but Josh was relaxed, thankful that his Shanghai mission had gone so incredibly well. He had at least a dozen intriguing stories waiting to fascinate Beverly and Rebecca, the two most precious women in his life.
His moment of reverie was quickly interrupted by a loud squeal as a dark green van braked to a stop at the entrance of the airport. Within seconds, a group of uniformed police stormed in the double glass doors. Josh quickly counted—there were eight of them. He tried to convince himself that it was just a routine operation in communist China, especially with the ongoing international clampdown on terrorist suspects.
To his dismay, the officers were moving in his direction. As they approached the United Airlines counter, Josh instinctively looked away. Surely they can’t be searching for me. The commotion was drawing closer to where he stood. He could feel his heart begin to race.
Please, Lord, make them blind to my presence if it’s me they’re After.
He had barely completed his lightning prayer when he felt a firm tap on his shoulder.
“Are you Mr. McGuire?” One of the officers inquired.
“Why?”
“Show me passport.”
“Sure, but can you tell me what’s happening? I mean, is there a problem?” Josh handed the officer his American passport, trying to keep as calm as possible.
With barely a glance at the document, the officer announced, “Come wit us, Mr. McGuire.”
Grabbing his bags, Josh hoped they would ask him some questions at the airport, but they placed him in the police van instead and sped off, honking impatiently at the passersby.
“May I know where you’re taking me, please?”
“Headquarter.”
“The local police headquarters?”
“No. MSS.”
“Forgive my ignorance, sir, what is this MSS?”
“Ministry of State Security! No more questions.”
Josh’s heart immediately sank with that curt reply. The Ministry of State Security was the Chinese equivalent of the CIA, or worse, the Soviet KGB in the former USSR. Josh figured that he could be in serious trouble. What did they want from him? What if they were after the names of his contacts, or wanted him to divulge some incriminating evidence? What was he going to do? Josh slid his left hand slowly on top of his trouser pocket to make sure his cell was still there. Perhaps he should call the American Embassy, if they’ll even let him. At least he was assured of one
thing, folks at home were praying. Bev would be, no doubt about that. His staff, his elders, and his band of intercessors had also assured him of their daily prayers.
What’s your purpose for allowing this to happen, Lord? Strengthen me now that I may know and fulfill your will in this .Josh closed his eyes to focus on Jesus. It took a while for his heart to stop pounding. Gradually he began to sense the presence of God permeate his soul.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~<>~~~~~~~~~~~
Michael was about to enter, then hesitated. The Twenty Four were in session, and he had no desire to interrupt. It was not that he was intimidated—the Twenty Four and the archangels had always gotten along perfectly well ever since the dawn of time, and angels have no human apprehensions—not archangels anyway. Like Michael, the twenty-four elders were spiritual beings of an exalted order, not humans, even though they were referred to as “elders” in that sacred scroll called the Apocalypse.
He knew the session they were having with the Lamb was of paramount importance. At the appropriate moment, Michael made an entrance into the throne room, kneeling before the King of Kings. He had always felt amazed before the presence of the Resurrected One. Since the ascension of Jesus over two thousand years ago, the splendor of the Lamb had never ceased to create a sense of awe and wonderment in him. The face of Jesus beamed with pure power, and His voice thundered mightier than Niagara Falls. The matchless Lamb of God was on the throne—the only one worthy to open the seven seals, slain in weakness yet risen with power. For centuries angels had striven to determine Yahweh’s plan of salvation, but they couldn’t—until the crucifixion and resurrection.
The Lamb stood to welcome Michael into the celestial council, and immediately the Twenty Four bowed in worship as Jesus rose to His feet. Michael could not get accustomed to that either.
The glorified Son of God, the Alpha and the Omega, approached to make him feel welcome while he elders knelt in meek reverence to the Almighty. Then again, the Ascended One did put His hand on old Apostle John, saying, “Do not be afraid,” when the beloved disciple first received the vision of Revelation. John was trembling with dread as any man would.
“Forgive me for interrupting, my LORD,” Michael said. “The accuser has come to make his demands once again.”
“We know what he wants,” one of the Twenty Four said.
Michael nodded. “Yes, he wants all restraints to be removed so that he can begin his vengeful and wicked scheme.”
“Tell the evil one,” Jesus said, “that Gabriel will be out of his way only at the appointed time. If he maneuvers for more information, you may reveal a little extra at your own discretion.”
“Yes, my LORD.” Michael took a bow to the Lamb and the elders before exiting the throne room. As he was leaving the chamber, he heard one of the spiritual beings ask, “While we are on the matter, LORD, may I inquire if our favored servant is on schedule?”
“Most definitely,” the Lamb said. “It is progressing exactly as I have anticipated; he truly does have an obedient heart.”
Michael smiled, and sped to his destination in a brilliant beam of light.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~<>~~~~~~~~~~~
The interrogation room was bright and clinical. The entire building looked new, or at least recently renovated. In the middle of the room was a chrome rectangular table with a red chair on each side. The walls were painted stark white, with no sign of a two way mirror on any of them. The guards confiscated Josh’s phone and ordered him to sit and wait for the interrogating officer. He looked at his wristwatch; it was 10:15 A.M.
An hour later, the door swung open. Two sagacious-looking agents entered swiftly, files in hand. The female officer sat down without a word, studying the files. The silence was disquieting and deafening, with the only sound an antiquated Mandarin clock on the wall.
Tick, tock, tick, tock, on it went.
“Mr. McGuire, what have you been doing in Shanghai?” the woman finally asked.
“I came as a tourist. This is my first time in China.” Josh was relieved to tell the truth. He was touring the underground house churches and some Three-Self congregations, and he had ticked the ‘tourist’ box on the disembarkation form on arrival.
“Have you been visiting illegal churches?”
“Why do you ask?” Josh tried to give nothing away. Maybe they are only fishing for information, he hoped.
“We know you’ve been preaching Christianity at some illegal gatherings.”
Josh swallowed hard. “Have you been following me? Why is it illegal to worship God?”
The man who was standing next to the female officer weighed in, “We don’t want to waste your time, Mr. McGuire, and believe me, you don’t want to waste ours. Whether you get out of here in a matter of hours, days, or weeks is up to you. Just answer the questions.”
For a moment Josh was glad he didn’t say months or years.
“Who are your contacts for the house churches? We want all their names!”
Josh was silent. He could not give them the names of the underground leaders. It would implicate them, and they could be imprisoned for years as a result. Those flourishing house churches could be closed down forever. Josh did not want to jeopardize the work of God, no matter what they might do to him personally. He decided to keep quiet.
“Names, Mr. McGuire!”
Josh stared hard at the files on the table in front of him.
“Your contacts, McGuire, or you will know the true meaning of PAIN,” the male officer hollered, pounding the table with his huge palm.
Josh clasped his hands tight beneath the table and raised his eyes to bravely meet the agent’s.
The man swung his fist in a rapid move, striking Josh with the back of his knuckles. The blow landed hard upon his right cheek. He fell off his chair on to the floor, and bubbles of blood instantly oozed from his nose.
A solid kick directed firmly at the abdomen followed.
Josh gritted his teeth to endure the agony. He had never been punched or kicked by a grown man in his life. He’d had fights with others when he was a young boy, but that was long ago and far different.
“I…demand…to see the U.S. ambassador,” Josh managed to say, groaning as he sat up on the floor. “You…have no right to strike me…. I’m a citizen of the United States.”
“Sure, you can tell that to the chief when you see him!”
The two agents stormed out the room, infuriated by Josh’s refusal to cooperate.
Did he say the chief? That was probably the last person Josh wanted to see; he could imagine a three-headed beast coming to torture him. With his handkerchief, Josh wiped the blood off his nose. Oh, Lord Jesus, help me to fear nothing and no one. Help me to be your faithful witness, and when your purpose for this is completed, get me out of here.
There was nothing Josh could do in the interrogation room but wait, pray, and not allow his imagination to run wild with anxiety. He remembered the strong anticipation he’d had for this trip and the thrill he’d felt at the airport before boarding. For a long time, particularly after the much-needed renovation, JFK has been his favorite airport. Actually, he had quite enjoyed visiting international airports around the world. This in spite of September Eleventh, which had taken place thirty-one years ago. Airports had not been quite the same since; for some, flying had permanently lost its appeal, with pleasure being replaced by apprehension and in some cases loathing because of those obtrusive security checks. The same couldn’t be said for Josh, though. Perhaps it still gave him
a sense of adventure—the restaurants and cafes, the bookstores, the movement of different people, planes taking off, each stirring within him a feeling of embarking toward something exciting.
It was often hard saying goodbye for the pastor and his wife, even if it was only for four weeks. One month could seem like a long time, and it sure did feel that way for Josh and Bev, particularly for this trip. He was travelling to a “closed” country on a mission, ministering and preaching at different underground churches. In the continuing era of international terrorism, he knew how difficult it would be for Bev not to worry about this particular mission of his. But her faith in God’s willingness and capacity to protect His own in any and every circumstance had rarely wavered over the years.
Josh remembered Rebecca, who’d been waiting ruefully at the front door, looking a little sad but eager to give Josh her warmest goodbye hug. “Go give them all you’ve got, Dad. I’ll be waging war on your behalf 24-7, both mom and I.” She’d given him the tightest bear squeeze a teenager can muster.
“I know you will, my panda bear. And you’ll look after mom for me, won’t you?”
He used to call her panda bear when she was little. He would never forget that cherished occasion when Rebecca was just four years old. She was playing in bed with both him and Bev when he cuddled her gently and asked, “Will you still be my panda bear when you grow up?”
“Yes, a BIG ONE!” was her spontaneous reply. They all broke into laughter. It was one of those precious moments enshrined forever in his memory. Now she was sixteen, and exceedingly pretty with her mesmerizing blue eyes.
Josh recalled giving Bev a long caress. “The Lord is with you as always, my dear, so there’s nothing to fear. Love you heaps.”
“We’ll be fine, hon, don’t worry about us. I’ll be praying hard for you. Hurry on now, Bill’s been out there a long time.”
Senator Bill Davies had been patiently waiting in his white limousine for Josh to say his good-byes. He usually insisted on chauffeuring his pastor to JFK, knowing that Bev didn’t fancy the 90-minute drive.
“Love ’em lots, don’t you? Gonna miss them, I bet?” the Senator had said when Josh climbed into the back seat.
“Nah! Not much,” Josh had joked, half-smiling, staring blankly out the tinted window.
“You’re a great pastor, Josh, and you have a wonderful relationship with Bev and Rebecca. Everyone in the church knows that. But tell me, why do you do this?”
“Do what, pal?”
“Go preaching to these dangerous and peculiar places.”
“Compelled to.”
“Just make sure we don’t have to send in our Special Forces to get you out of the ‘Middle Kingdom,’ okay?”
“Oh, I won’t bother; God has already sent His units ahead of me. Your guys are no match for His.”
The Senator had smiled and nodded. “Dead right there.”
Given what had just transpired in the last four hours, Josh sure hoped Bill wouldn’t have to stage a rescue from Shanghai.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~<>~~~~~~~~~~~
The Prince of Darkness had been pacing restlessly. His hollow eyes revealed nothing except a pit of venomous hatred stretching back through eternity. “What took you so long? Did He just delay you as usual?” The voice of Satan, once called Lucifer, was deep and demeaning.
“Keep your sarcasm to yourself,” Michael commanded, unfazed by Satan’s provocation, though saddened at the sight of such insatiable evil. “You shall not begin global persecution of the faithful until the time foreordained by the LORD God Almighty. Gabriel will not be out of your way until then.”
“Spare me your totalitarian autocratic babble. Tell me when that time is.”
“When the designated one is born again—”
“And who might that be?”
“You know.”
“I see. You mean the one whom my foot soldier has been pestering the last few years. Why is that pathetic, insignificant soul so important?”
“The LORD rebukes you, Satan. I do not want to see your face here ag—”
“Oh, you surely will. Just let Him know that I have the right to begin implementing my great plan for the earth when the hour arrives. I will not wait for even half a second longer.”
As the devil swept out on his scheming way, Gabriel appeared alongside Michael. His being emitted a pure, shimmering glow, much like his comrade except for a tint of sapphire.
“The Day is drawing very near indeed,” Gabriel said.
“You are right, my friend. The Great Commission has made outstanding progress over the past two decades. The gospel of our LORD has touched almost every people of every nation.”
“Only one city and one group remain…our very last bastion.”
“Hmm. The final frontier...”
From an enormous distance, they were taking an extended gaze at the Earth.
She was exceptionally beautiful.
“Jai Jian—goodbye,” Josh blurted out awkwardly. They were about the only Chinese words he had managed to learn in the past three weeks.
“Tank you for being good blessing to our people,” said Tai, one of the leaders sending him off. “Soli we cannot go wit you to airport; it not safe for us to do that for long time now. Government eyes everywhere, you know.”
“I understand. God bless you, brothers.” Josh waved his final farewell as the yellow taxi drove slowly away.
Everything had gone remarkably smooth. Despite the heightened crackdown on underground churches in the past six months, he had not run into trouble with the Public Security Bureau. Around five hundred Han Chinese had made first-time decisions to follow Christ during the many evangelistic meetings in and around the Shanghai area. Josh’s teaching had been well received by congregations of all sizes, a few of which had as many as a thousand worshippers. The secret police had been well aware of those larger congregations for many years. According to the latest statistics, 48% of mainland Chinese professed to be Christian, but only 15% were registered with the government endorsed Three-Self Patriotic Church. The Communist Party was clearly worried.
The journey to Hongqiao Airport was relatively short; soon Josh was lining up to check in for his flight to Australia. He was looking forward to his stopover Down Under before traveling home. The queue was long, but Josh was relaxed, thankful that his Shanghai mission had gone so incredibly well. He had at least a dozen intriguing stories waiting to fascinate Beverly and Rebecca, the two most precious women in his life.
His moment of reverie was quickly interrupted by a loud squeal as a dark green van braked to a stop at the entrance of the airport. Within seconds, a group of uniformed police stormed in the double glass doors. Josh quickly counted—there were eight of them. He tried to convince himself that it was just a routine operation in communist China, especially with the ongoing international clampdown on terrorist suspects.
To his dismay, the officers were moving in his direction. As they approached the United Airlines counter, Josh instinctively looked away. Surely they can’t be searching for me. The commotion was drawing closer to where he stood. He could feel his heart begin to race.
Please, Lord, make them blind to my presence if it’s me they’re After.
He had barely completed his lightning prayer when he felt a firm tap on his shoulder.
“Are you Mr. McGuire?” One of the officers inquired.
“Why?”
“Show me passport.”
“Sure, but can you tell me what’s happening? I mean, is there a problem?” Josh handed the officer his American passport, trying to keep as calm as possible.
With barely a glance at the document, the officer announced, “Come wit us, Mr. McGuire.”
Grabbing his bags, Josh hoped they would ask him some questions at the airport, but they placed him in the police van instead and sped off, honking impatiently at the passersby.
“May I know where you’re taking me, please?”
“Headquarter.”
“The local police headquarters?”
“No. MSS.”
“Forgive my ignorance, sir, what is this MSS?”
“Ministry of State Security! No more questions.”
Josh’s heart immediately sank with that curt reply. The Ministry of State Security was the Chinese equivalent of the CIA, or worse, the Soviet KGB in the former USSR. Josh figured that he could be in serious trouble. What did they want from him? What if they were after the names of his contacts, or wanted him to divulge some incriminating evidence? What was he going to do? Josh slid his left hand slowly on top of his trouser pocket to make sure his cell was still there. Perhaps he should call the American Embassy, if they’ll even let him. At least he was assured of one
thing, folks at home were praying. Bev would be, no doubt about that. His staff, his elders, and his band of intercessors had also assured him of their daily prayers.
What’s your purpose for allowing this to happen, Lord? Strengthen me now that I may know and fulfill your will in this .Josh closed his eyes to focus on Jesus. It took a while for his heart to stop pounding. Gradually he began to sense the presence of God permeate his soul.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~<>~~~~~~~~~~~
Michael was about to enter, then hesitated. The Twenty Four were in session, and he had no desire to interrupt. It was not that he was intimidated—the Twenty Four and the archangels had always gotten along perfectly well ever since the dawn of time, and angels have no human apprehensions—not archangels anyway. Like Michael, the twenty-four elders were spiritual beings of an exalted order, not humans, even though they were referred to as “elders” in that sacred scroll called the Apocalypse.
He knew the session they were having with the Lamb was of paramount importance. At the appropriate moment, Michael made an entrance into the throne room, kneeling before the King of Kings. He had always felt amazed before the presence of the Resurrected One. Since the ascension of Jesus over two thousand years ago, the splendor of the Lamb had never ceased to create a sense of awe and wonderment in him. The face of Jesus beamed with pure power, and His voice thundered mightier than Niagara Falls. The matchless Lamb of God was on the throne—the only one worthy to open the seven seals, slain in weakness yet risen with power. For centuries angels had striven to determine Yahweh’s plan of salvation, but they couldn’t—until the crucifixion and resurrection.
The Lamb stood to welcome Michael into the celestial council, and immediately the Twenty Four bowed in worship as Jesus rose to His feet. Michael could not get accustomed to that either.
The glorified Son of God, the Alpha and the Omega, approached to make him feel welcome while he elders knelt in meek reverence to the Almighty. Then again, the Ascended One did put His hand on old Apostle John, saying, “Do not be afraid,” when the beloved disciple first received the vision of Revelation. John was trembling with dread as any man would.
“Forgive me for interrupting, my LORD,” Michael said. “The accuser has come to make his demands once again.”
“We know what he wants,” one of the Twenty Four said.
Michael nodded. “Yes, he wants all restraints to be removed so that he can begin his vengeful and wicked scheme.”
“Tell the evil one,” Jesus said, “that Gabriel will be out of his way only at the appointed time. If he maneuvers for more information, you may reveal a little extra at your own discretion.”
“Yes, my LORD.” Michael took a bow to the Lamb and the elders before exiting the throne room. As he was leaving the chamber, he heard one of the spiritual beings ask, “While we are on the matter, LORD, may I inquire if our favored servant is on schedule?”
“Most definitely,” the Lamb said. “It is progressing exactly as I have anticipated; he truly does have an obedient heart.”
Michael smiled, and sped to his destination in a brilliant beam of light.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~<>~~~~~~~~~~~
The interrogation room was bright and clinical. The entire building looked new, or at least recently renovated. In the middle of the room was a chrome rectangular table with a red chair on each side. The walls were painted stark white, with no sign of a two way mirror on any of them. The guards confiscated Josh’s phone and ordered him to sit and wait for the interrogating officer. He looked at his wristwatch; it was 10:15 A.M.
An hour later, the door swung open. Two sagacious-looking agents entered swiftly, files in hand. The female officer sat down without a word, studying the files. The silence was disquieting and deafening, with the only sound an antiquated Mandarin clock on the wall.
Tick, tock, tick, tock, on it went.
“Mr. McGuire, what have you been doing in Shanghai?” the woman finally asked.
“I came as a tourist. This is my first time in China.” Josh was relieved to tell the truth. He was touring the underground house churches and some Three-Self congregations, and he had ticked the ‘tourist’ box on the disembarkation form on arrival.
“Have you been visiting illegal churches?”
“Why do you ask?” Josh tried to give nothing away. Maybe they are only fishing for information, he hoped.
“We know you’ve been preaching Christianity at some illegal gatherings.”
Josh swallowed hard. “Have you been following me? Why is it illegal to worship God?”
The man who was standing next to the female officer weighed in, “We don’t want to waste your time, Mr. McGuire, and believe me, you don’t want to waste ours. Whether you get out of here in a matter of hours, days, or weeks is up to you. Just answer the questions.”
For a moment Josh was glad he didn’t say months or years.
“Who are your contacts for the house churches? We want all their names!”
Josh was silent. He could not give them the names of the underground leaders. It would implicate them, and they could be imprisoned for years as a result. Those flourishing house churches could be closed down forever. Josh did not want to jeopardize the work of God, no matter what they might do to him personally. He decided to keep quiet.
“Names, Mr. McGuire!”
Josh stared hard at the files on the table in front of him.
“Your contacts, McGuire, or you will know the true meaning of PAIN,” the male officer hollered, pounding the table with his huge palm.
Josh clasped his hands tight beneath the table and raised his eyes to bravely meet the agent’s.
The man swung his fist in a rapid move, striking Josh with the back of his knuckles. The blow landed hard upon his right cheek. He fell off his chair on to the floor, and bubbles of blood instantly oozed from his nose.
A solid kick directed firmly at the abdomen followed.
Josh gritted his teeth to endure the agony. He had never been punched or kicked by a grown man in his life. He’d had fights with others when he was a young boy, but that was long ago and far different.
“I…demand…to see the U.S. ambassador,” Josh managed to say, groaning as he sat up on the floor. “You…have no right to strike me…. I’m a citizen of the United States.”
“Sure, you can tell that to the chief when you see him!”
The two agents stormed out the room, infuriated by Josh’s refusal to cooperate.
Did he say the chief? That was probably the last person Josh wanted to see; he could imagine a three-headed beast coming to torture him. With his handkerchief, Josh wiped the blood off his nose. Oh, Lord Jesus, help me to fear nothing and no one. Help me to be your faithful witness, and when your purpose for this is completed, get me out of here.
There was nothing Josh could do in the interrogation room but wait, pray, and not allow his imagination to run wild with anxiety. He remembered the strong anticipation he’d had for this trip and the thrill he’d felt at the airport before boarding. For a long time, particularly after the much-needed renovation, JFK has been his favorite airport. Actually, he had quite enjoyed visiting international airports around the world. This in spite of September Eleventh, which had taken place thirty-one years ago. Airports had not been quite the same since; for some, flying had permanently lost its appeal, with pleasure being replaced by apprehension and in some cases loathing because of those obtrusive security checks. The same couldn’t be said for Josh, though. Perhaps it still gave him
a sense of adventure—the restaurants and cafes, the bookstores, the movement of different people, planes taking off, each stirring within him a feeling of embarking toward something exciting.
It was often hard saying goodbye for the pastor and his wife, even if it was only for four weeks. One month could seem like a long time, and it sure did feel that way for Josh and Bev, particularly for this trip. He was travelling to a “closed” country on a mission, ministering and preaching at different underground churches. In the continuing era of international terrorism, he knew how difficult it would be for Bev not to worry about this particular mission of his. But her faith in God’s willingness and capacity to protect His own in any and every circumstance had rarely wavered over the years.
Josh remembered Rebecca, who’d been waiting ruefully at the front door, looking a little sad but eager to give Josh her warmest goodbye hug. “Go give them all you’ve got, Dad. I’ll be waging war on your behalf 24-7, both mom and I.” She’d given him the tightest bear squeeze a teenager can muster.
“I know you will, my panda bear. And you’ll look after mom for me, won’t you?”
He used to call her panda bear when she was little. He would never forget that cherished occasion when Rebecca was just four years old. She was playing in bed with both him and Bev when he cuddled her gently and asked, “Will you still be my panda bear when you grow up?”
“Yes, a BIG ONE!” was her spontaneous reply. They all broke into laughter. It was one of those precious moments enshrined forever in his memory. Now she was sixteen, and exceedingly pretty with her mesmerizing blue eyes.
Josh recalled giving Bev a long caress. “The Lord is with you as always, my dear, so there’s nothing to fear. Love you heaps.”
“We’ll be fine, hon, don’t worry about us. I’ll be praying hard for you. Hurry on now, Bill’s been out there a long time.”
Senator Bill Davies had been patiently waiting in his white limousine for Josh to say his good-byes. He usually insisted on chauffeuring his pastor to JFK, knowing that Bev didn’t fancy the 90-minute drive.
“Love ’em lots, don’t you? Gonna miss them, I bet?” the Senator had said when Josh climbed into the back seat.
“Nah! Not much,” Josh had joked, half-smiling, staring blankly out the tinted window.
“You’re a great pastor, Josh, and you have a wonderful relationship with Bev and Rebecca. Everyone in the church knows that. But tell me, why do you do this?”
“Do what, pal?”
“Go preaching to these dangerous and peculiar places.”
“Compelled to.”
“Just make sure we don’t have to send in our Special Forces to get you out of the ‘Middle Kingdom,’ okay?”
“Oh, I won’t bother; God has already sent His units ahead of me. Your guys are no match for His.”
The Senator had smiled and nodded. “Dead right there.”
Given what had just transpired in the last four hours, Josh sure hoped Bill wouldn’t have to stage a rescue from Shanghai.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~<>~~~~~~~~~~~
The Prince of Darkness had been pacing restlessly. His hollow eyes revealed nothing except a pit of venomous hatred stretching back through eternity. “What took you so long? Did He just delay you as usual?” The voice of Satan, once called Lucifer, was deep and demeaning.
“Keep your sarcasm to yourself,” Michael commanded, unfazed by Satan’s provocation, though saddened at the sight of such insatiable evil. “You shall not begin global persecution of the faithful until the time foreordained by the LORD God Almighty. Gabriel will not be out of your way until then.”
“Spare me your totalitarian autocratic babble. Tell me when that time is.”
“When the designated one is born again—”
“And who might that be?”
“You know.”
“I see. You mean the one whom my foot soldier has been pestering the last few years. Why is that pathetic, insignificant soul so important?”
“The LORD rebukes you, Satan. I do not want to see your face here ag—”
“Oh, you surely will. Just let Him know that I have the right to begin implementing my great plan for the earth when the hour arrives. I will not wait for even half a second longer.”
As the devil swept out on his scheming way, Gabriel appeared alongside Michael. His being emitted a pure, shimmering glow, much like his comrade except for a tint of sapphire.
“The Day is drawing very near indeed,” Gabriel said.
“You are right, my friend. The Great Commission has made outstanding progress over the past two decades. The gospel of our LORD has touched almost every people of every nation.”
“Only one city and one group remain…our very last bastion.”
“Hmm. The final frontier...”
From an enormous distance, they were taking an extended gaze at the Earth.
She was exceptionally beautiful.
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