Sons of Thunder by Susan May Warren

Posted on March 16th, 2010 by by Administrator

About the Author:

Susan May Warren is the RITA award-winning author of twenty-four novels with Tyndale, Barbour and Steeple Hill. She is also the founder of www.MyBookTherapy.com, a story-crafting service that helps authors discover their voice.

A full listing of her titles, reviews and awards can be found at her website.

Click on the cover photo to see this novel at Amazon.

Sons of Thunder is a beautiful story of redemption. The tale follows the lives of Marko, Dino and Sofia in Greece and America.

I have long been a fan of Susan May Warren’s writing, especially the humor that she brings to her stories.  I was surprised to find Sons of Thunder a departure from the style I have come to associate with her writing, but I was not at all disappointed.  At times the tragedy of the story-line felt heavy to me, but the reality of that heaviness portrayed a very true life picture of God at work in all the muck and mire of this world.   The poignant brokenness brought about by disappointment and tragedy in the lives of her characters make the light of redemption shine all the brighter.

Here is a quote from the novel that captivated me and is still echoing inside my own head.

Dino stared at Marko’s dark profile, the one he remembered from when they’d watch the storms striding over the sea. … “I just can’t seem to get it right.”

Markos said nothing.  Perhaps he hasn’t even heard him.  But then….

“Maybe you’re not supposed to.  Maybe that’s the point.  Maybe we’re all supposed to be a little broken, a little afraid, a little overwhelmed by our own sweeping mistakes.  Otherwise, we might believe we can save ourselves, instead of letting God deliver us.  Maybe being on our knees is the only way we can ever by used by God.”  He looked up at Dino, emotion in his eyes.  “Because without knowing what grace feels like, how will we ever really know how to give it away?”

pg 225 – Sons of Thunder

***Special thanks to Stephanie Garvey of Litfuse Publicity Group for sending me a review copy and HUGE apologies to the author and publisher for posting a day late!!! ***

FIRST: The Country House Courtship

Posted on March 14th, 2010 by by Administrator

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! 

Sadly – I have not yet had time to read the book.  I thoroughly enjoyed the first two books in the series and am looking forward to escaping to regency England with Ms. Burkard’s delightful characters some day soon.  Even without reading The Country House Courtship, I am 100% certain that I can recommend it to you. 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:
Linore Rose Burkard

and the book:

The Country House Courtship

Harvest House Publishers (January 1, 2010)

***Special thanks to Linore Rose Burkard and Dave Bartlett (Harvest House Publishers) for sending me a review copy.***

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:


Linore Rose Burkard is the creator of “Inspirational Romance for the Jane Austen Soul.” Her characters take you back in time to experience life and love during the era of Regency England (circa 1811 – 1820). Fans of classic romances such as Pride & Prejudice, Emma, and Sense & Sensibility, will enjoy Linore’s feisty heroines, heart-throb heroes and happy endings.

Enjoy the free resources on Linore’s website: http://www.LinoreBurkard.com/resources.html

Visit the author’s website.

Product Details:

List Price: $13.99
Paperback: 300 pages
Publisher: Harvest House Publishers (January 1, 2010)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 0736927999
ISBN-13: 978-0736927994

AND NOW…THE FIRST CHAPTER:

London, England, 1818

Mr. Peter O’Brien felt surely he had a devil plaguing him, and the devil’s name was Mr. Phillip Mornay. The paper in his hand should have made him happy. Indeed, it ought to have elicited nothing but joy after two years of holding a curacy that didn’t pay enough to feed a church-mouse. Yet, instead he was staring ahead after reading a letter of recommendation for him as though he’d seen a ghost.

His previous naval commander, Colonel Sotheby, had recommended Mr. O’Brien to a wealthy landowner whose vicarage had gone vacant. It was the sort of letter that a poor Curate should rejoice over. The man who obtained the vicarage in the parish of Glendover, the Colonel said, in addition to having a decent curate’s salary, would have claim to a large glebe, a generous and well built house, and, in short, would see himself by way of having enough to begin a family. (If he found a wife to marry, first, of course. O’Brien could just hear the Colonel’s good-natured laugh ring out at that remark.)

But still his own mouth was set in an unpromising hard line: The landowner’s name was Mr. Phillip Mornay, none other than the Paragon, himself. And Mornay, Mr. O’Brien knew, would never grant him the living. To do so would go against everything he knew to be true of him. After all, no man who had once overstepped his bounds with Mr. Mornay’s betrothed, as Mr. O’Brien unfortunately had, would now be presented to the vicarage on the man’s lands. Of all the rotten, devilish luck! To have such a letter of commendation was like gold in the fiercely competitive world of the church, where there were more poor curates looking for a rise in their situations than there were church parishes who could supply them.

Therefore, instead of the boon from heaven this letter ought to have been, Mr. O’Brien was struck with a gloomy assurance that Mornay would sooner accept a popinjay in cleric’s clothing than himself. Even worse, his mother agreed with his appraisal.

He had taken the letter into the morning room of their house on Blandford Street, joining his mother while she sat at her breakfast.

“You do not wish to renew old grievances,” she said. “Mr. Mornay is not, to my knowledge, a forgiving man; shall you be put to the expense and trouble of travelling all the way to Middlesex, only to be turned down in the end? What can you possibly gain in it?”

Mr. O’Brien nodded; he saw her point. But he said, “I may have to do just that. The Colonel will never recommend me for another parish if he learns that I failed to apply myself to this opportunity.”

“Write to him,” replied his mama. “See if you can politely decline this honour, with the understanding that any other offer should be most welcome and appreciated!”

He doubted that any letter , no matter how ‘politely’ written, would be able to manage his desire to avoid this meeting with Mornay, as well as secure the hope of a future recommendation. But he thought about it, put quill to paper and sent the Colonel a reply. He asked (in the humblest terms he could manage) if the man might commend him for a living to be presented by some other landowner, indeed, any other landowner, any other gentleman in England than Phillip Mornay.

He could not explain the full extent of his past doings with Mr. Mornay without making himself sound like an utter fool; how he had hoped to marry the present Mrs. Mornay himself, some years ago. How presumptuous his hopes seemed to him now! Miss Ariana Forsythe was magnificent as the wife of the Paragon. He’d seen them in town after the marriage, but without ever presenting himself before her. It appalled even him that he had once thought himself worthy or equal to that beautiful lady.

When the Colonel’s reply came, there was little surprise in it. He assured Mr. O’Brien that his apprehensions were ill-placed; that Mr. Mornay’s past reputation of being a harsh, irascible man was no longer to the purpose. Colonel Sotheby himself held Mornay in the greatest respect, and insisted that the Paragon had as good a heart as any Christian. In short, (and he made this terribly clear) Mr. O’Brien had best get himself off to Middlesex or he would put the Colonel in a deuced uncomfortable spot. He had already written to Aspindon House, which meant that Mr. O’Brien was expected. If he failed to appear for an interview, he could not expect that another recommendation of such merit and generosity would ever come his way again.

Mr. O’Brien realized it was inevitable: he would have to go to Middlesex and present himself to Mornay. He knew it was a vain cause, that nothing but humiliation could come of it, but he bowed to what he must consider the will of God. He knelt in prayer, begging to be excused from this doomed interview, but his heart and conscience told him he must to it. If he was to face humiliation, had he not brought it upon himself? Had he not earned Mornay’s disregard, with his former obsession with Miss Forsythe, who was now Mrs. Mornay?

He no longer had feelings for the lady, but it was sure to be blesséd awkward to face her! No less so than her husband. Nevertheless, when he rose from his knees, Peter O’Brien felt equal to doing what both duty and honour required. He only hoped that Mr. Mornay had not already written his own letter of objections to the Colonel; telling him why he would never present the living to Peter O’Brien. The Colonel was his best hope for a way out of St. Pancras . It was a gritty, desperate parish with poverty, crime, and hopelessness aplenty—not the sort of place he hoped to spend his life in, for he wanted a family. A wife.

Prepared to face the interview come what may, Mr. O’Brien determined not to allow Mornay to make quick work of him. He was no longer the youthful swain, besotted over a Miss Forsythe. A stint in the Army, if nothing else, had hardened him, brought him face to face with deep issues of life, and left him, or so he thought, a better man.

******

Aspindon House, Glendover, Middlesex

Ariana Mornay looked for the hundredth time at her younger sister Beatrice, sitting across from her in the elegantly cozy morning room of her country estate, Aspindon. Here in the daylight, Beatrice’s transformation from child to warm and attractive young woman was fully evident . When Mrs. Forsythe and Beatrice had arrived the prior evening, Ariana had seen the change in her sister, of course, but the daylight revealed it in a clarity that neither last night’s flambeaux (lit in honour of their arrival) or the interior candlelight and fire of the drawing room had been able to offer.

Beatrice’s previously brown hair was now a lovely luminous russet. Ringlets peeked out from a morning cap with ruffled lace, hanging over her brow and hovering about the sides of her face. The reddish brown of her locks emphasized hazel-green eyes, smallish mischievous lips and a healthy glow in her cheeks. Beatrice noticed her elder sister was studying her, and smiled.

“You still look at me as if you know me not,” she said, not hiding how much it pleased her to find herself an object of admiration.

“I cannot comprehend how greatly you are altered, in just one year!”

“I regret that we did not come for so long,” put in Mrs. Forsythe, the girls’ mother. She was still feasting her eyes upon Ariana and the children (though the nurse, Mrs. Perler, had taken four year old Nigel, the Mornay’s firstborn, from the room, after he had spilled a glass of milk all over himself minutes ago). “We wished to come sooner, as you know, but Lucy took ill, and I dared not carry the sickness here to you with your new little baby.” At this, she stopped and cooed to the infant, who was upon her lap at the moment.”No, no, no,” she said, in the exaggerated tone that people use when addressing babies, “we can’t have little Miranda getting sick, now can we?”

Ariana smiled. “It matters not, mama. You are here, now. I only wish Papa and Lucy could have joined you.” Lucy, the youngest Forsythe sister, and Papa, had been obliged to stay home until the spring planting had been seen to. Mr. Forsythe did not wish to be wholly bereft of his family, so Lucy, who was a great comfort to him, had been enjoined to remain in Chesterton for his sake.

“I could not bear to wait upon your father a day longer,” she answered with a little smile. “They will come by post chaise after papa has done his service through Easter. And then we will all be together–except for the Norledges. Perhaps when Papa comes, he may bring your older sister and her husband?”

“I would want Aunt Pellham too, in that case,” murmured the blond-haired young woman.

“Oh, my! With your Aunt and Uncle Pellham, and the Norledges, even this large house would be filled with guests, I daresay!” said her mother.

Beatrice was still happily ingesting the thought that Ariana had evidently noticed her womanhood. At seventeen, hers was not a striking sort of beauty—one did not stop in instant admiration upon spying Beatrice in a room, for instance, as had often been the case for Ariana; but the younger girl had no lack of wits, a lively eye and countenance, and, not to be understated, an easy friendliness. Among a group of reserved and proper English young ladies, Beatrice would be the beacon of refuge for the timid; she was welcoming where others were aloof; inquisitive and protective where others looked away.

Nor was she the sort of young woman to glide across a floor, dignified and elegant. Instead, Beatrice was ever having to keep her energy in check; When rising from a chair (her mama had made her practice doing so countless times) she could appear as elegant as the next young woman. She ate nicely, even daintily. But left unchecked, her natural enthusiasm might propel her through a room with alarming speed. Her shawls were ever hanging from her arms, never staying in place over her shoulder; and her mother forbade her from wearing hair jewellery, as it tended to lose its place upon her head. Bandeaux were her lot; besides bonnets, of course.

“It is fortunate that I am only seventeen,” she had said to her mama only last week, while the woman was draping a wide bandeau artfully around Beatrice’s head. “Or I believe you would exile every manner of female head attire from this house, saving turbans! Although my hair holds a curl twice as long as Lucy’s!”

Mrs. Forsythe had paused from her ministrations and met her daughter’s eyes in the looking glass before them. “I daresay you are suited for turbans; perhaps we should shop for some. I believe they are very popular just now.” Since the last thing in the world Beatrice wished to wear upon her head was a turban—no matter how many ladies in the pages of La Belle Assemblée wore them—she simply gave voice to an exasperated huff, evoking a knowing smile upon her mama’s face.

“I should adore a full house of guests,” she said, now. “Please do invite the Norledges’ Ariana! Only think of the diversions we could have; play-acting with enough people to fill all the roles, for a change! Or charades; or even a dance!”

Ariana looked at her sister fondly. “Which dances do you like best?”

“The waltz!” she quickly responded, with a smile to show that she knew it was mischievous to prefer the waltz—the single dance which entailed more contact with the opposite sex than any other ballroom fare. Mrs. Forsythe clucked her tongue, but Beatrice blithely ignored this, taking a peek at her brother-in-law to gauge his reaction, instead. The host of the gathering was reading his morning paper, however, and not listening to the small talk between his wife and her relations.

And relations were virtually all around him. In addition to Beatrice and Mrs. Forsythe, there was his aunt, Mrs. Royleforst, staying with them at the present, and her companion, skinny, nervous Miss Bluford. These two ladies had not appeared yet for breakfast, which was probably on account of Mrs. Royleforst. She found mornings difficult and either slept in, or took a tray in her room.

“What do you think, sir?” asked Mrs. Forsythe, of her host. “Shall my daughter invite the Norledges to join Mr. Forsythe and Lucy when they set out for your house? Or is your home already filled enough for your liking?”

Mr. Mornay looked over his paper enough to acknowledge that he had heard her question. “As it is your and my wife’s family, I think the two of you must decide upon it. As long as there are bed-chambers enough,” he added, looking at Ariana, “you may fill them with guests as you please.”

“Thank you, darling,” she said, making Beatrice stifle a titter. Her sister and her husband were still inordinately romantic, to her mind. Good thing no one else was present save her mother! She would have been embarrassed for them in company.

“Shall I take the baby, mama?” said Ariana, for Miranda was beginning to fuss.

“I suppose she wants to be fed,” agreed her mother. Ariana nodded to a maid who was seated against the wall, who went and received the child from her grandmother and brought her gingerly to her mama. Ariana’s eyes sparkled with happiness as she took her little girl. She murmured to the baby, by turns picking her up and kissing her face, and then just holding her in her arms and gazing at her in loving adoration. “I shan’t feed her yet,” she said. “She isn’t insisting upon it.”

Beatrice’s thoughts were still upon the diversions that would be possible with a large group staying at the house. “If they all come, can you and Mr. Mornay hold a ball, Ariana? Or, will you take me to London this year for the Season? Then I may go to as many balls as I like, and you will not have the expense of holding them!”

“If she takes you to London for the Season,” put in her mama, “she will have a great deal more expense than just that of a ball! Besides which, you are too young for such.”

Beatrice looked at her mama, her enthusiasm temporarily dampened. “But my sister sees I am older, now,” she said, looking at Ariana with a silent plea in her gaze. “And I am not too young for a Season, according to the magazines. Many girls my age do have their coming out, mama!”

“Many gels,” she returned, instantly, “have little sense, and their parents, no better; your papa and I did not allow either of your sisters to go about in society at your age. You have been already too pampered, if you ask me. London society is out of the question!”

Beatrice was now thoroughly dampened in her spirits, but she looked about and settled her eyes upon her brother-in-law. “I daresay Mr. Mornay has seen many a girl of my age–and younger—make their debut during the Season. And to no ill effect! Why, I am sure some of them have made the most brilliant matches! Many a man of good standing prefers a younger lady for his wife. You had ought to let me go while I am young enough to enjoy this advantage.”

Mr. Mornay was frowning behind his newspaper. He knew that his young relation wanted his support in the matter, but Mr. Mornay was assuredly not in the habit of coming to the aid of young women, particularly regarding a London Season. So he said nothing, though an ensuing silence in the room told him the ladies waited for his opinion.

Ariana, who knew better, offered, “Let us discuss it another time. There are months, yet, before the Season. And with Miranda so young, I cannot decide at this point, in any case.”

Beatrice, who had no idea she was treading on dangerous ground, said, “Only let Mr. Mornay tell us his thoughts! I know my mother will listen if you tell her, sir,” she said, directly to him.

He put his paper down reluctantly, and then looked at Beatrice. “I think Ariana was young to face society at nineteen. At your age, you need to be sheltered, not put forth among the wolves.”

Her face fell so entirely, that he almost chuckled at it. “Why are you so eager for a Season?”

She smiled a little. This was better; he was inviting her to explain so that her mother could see the good advantage in it. “I have long lived with the memory of my sister’s tales of her experiences in London;” she said. “She met you there! Her coming out is what brought her to marriage, to Aspindon, to a better life! I have had my fill of Chesterton, I assure you! The prospects for marrying well in that region are as dismal as ever, if not worse;” she said. (Ariana closed her eyes at this; she could hardly bear to hear her sister telling all the reasons Phillip would most despise.) “Why does it seem that all the eligible young men in the county are either in a regiment somewhere, or at sea, or in need of a fortune? I must go to London or Bath, where there are more men one can meet!”

She paused, looking at him earnestly. “I have no fortune, sir, as you are well aware. And with your connexions, I am certain to make very advantageous acquaintances! What could be more certain? I shall end up, no doubt, just as my sister has, with a man like you, sir!” Beatrice evidently thought she was giving him a great compliment. She waited, expecting a gracious answer.

“Oh, Beatrice!” moaned Mrs. Forsythe. “You foolish gel!”

Mr. Mornay stood up, after folding his paper to a neat size. He said, “It takes more than wearing a corset to say a young lady is grown up, would you not agree?” He directed his remark to the whole room, and then settled his eyes upon Beatrice for one second too long, before giving a small bow to the women in general, and turning to leave the room. Beatrice considered his words for a moment. He had rested his eyes on her long enough so that she knew exactly what he meant.

Mr. Frederick met his master at the door, holding out a salver with a letter for Mr. Mornay, who took it but then looked curiously at the butler.

“It arrived in that condition, sir! I daresay it was lost in the mail or some such thing.”

“Hmm, very good, Freddie.” He held up a battered and ink-soiled missive for his wife to see, while eyeing it dubiously.

She looked amused. “Who is it from?”

He unfolded the paper, as the sealing wax was almost entirely worn off already, and scanned the signature at the bottom. “Colonel Sotheby. I’ll read it in my office.” She nodded, and Mr. Mornay left the room.

Beatrice was still smarting from his earlier remark, and said, as soon as he’d gone, “How ‘grown up’ can I be, when I am forced to exist in a small country village, with no prospects, and genteel company only upon a Sunday?”

“You overstate your case! That is not true,” answered her mama, disapprovingly.

“And as for wearing a corset,” Beatrice continued, after taking a sip of tea, “I do not pretend that wearing one is what makes me of age for a Season. I have formed my principles upon sound reason. I have sat beneath the tutelage of my father and of Mr. Timmons, and of his curate, and I should say my principles are well-founded.”

“We are glad to hear it,” Ariana said, with great forbearance, “but really, you should not be setting your mind upon seeking a man like my husband; you should be intent upon finding the man that God has chosen for you.”

“And so I am!” she protested, her eyes wide and laughing. “But look at the advantage He gives me in having you for my sister! Am I to ignore that? When it could be the very means of bringing me and my future husband together?”

Ariana played absently with little Miranda’s blanket, tucking it in about her chin more snugly. She met her sister’s eyes. “London is not the only place a young woman may meet a husband. And if you want my husband’s approval of your plan, the last thing in the world you should tell him is that you want to meet a man like him! Or that you wish to marry above you in any way!”
“But is it above me? To marry well? When my sister is Mrs. Mornay of Aspindon House?”

“It is above you,” said her mother, “because you are Miss Forsythe of Chesterton.”

“I am a gentleman’s daughter,” she replied.

“With no dowry to speak of,” said her mama.

Beatrice’s cheeks began to burn. “With a rich and famous brother-in-law!” she said, petulantly.

“That does not signify!” said her mother.

“It does, to me!”

“It should not!” Mrs. Forsythe was quickly growing ashamed of her daughter, and she was relieved that Mr. Mornay had left the room, and was not hearing Beatrice right now. Ariana’s eyebrows were raised and she was doing her best to act as though she had no part in the dialogue.

“But it does, mama!”

“Beatrice! You have already said far too much on this topic, which proves to me your great ignorance of the world.” She held up her hand for silence as Beatrice was about to protest; “Not another word! I shan’t have it, not another word.” Mrs. Forsythe turned her attention to her elder daughter.

“I think I will visit the Nursery to see how Nigel is faring. Do you mind?”

“Of course not! He will enjoy showing you his toys.” She smiled, while her mother rose to leave the room. “I’ll be up myself, shortly, to feed the baby.”

“Very good.” She nodded to her daughter, and then her eye fell upon Beatrice. “I think it would be wise if you said nothing more regarding a Season. In fact, I forbid you to mention it to Mr. Mornay again! Do you understand me?”

“I do, mama.” Beatrice was not happy but she recognized the tone of voice her mother was using. She considered, moreover, that it would be a simple matter to keep from mentioning her hopes to the man, for he evidently would not encourage her in them. But as for herself, she would continue to think of the Season in London. She would continue to hope; and some other day, when Ariana was in a good disposition, she would prevail upon her to sponsor her in London.

Beatrice did not want to seem disrespectful, but she knew that Mr. Mornay was quite in error regarding her. He did not know, for instance, that she was determined to make a good match, and recognized it as her lot in life. Every inch she saw of Aspindon just confirmed her sense that a rich life awaited her. She was born for it. And now all that was necessary was to meet her future husband—the man who could make it all happen. She had long prayed for just such a meeting, and knew that it was bound to occur. All she had to do was be properly outfitted, and in the proper company, for it to do so.

All she had to do was change her sister and brother-in-law’s mind on the matter. How difficult could that be?

Journey 3-2-2010

Posted on March 2nd, 2010 by by Administrator

So will it be on the earth and among the nations, as when an olive tree is beaten, or as when gleanings are left after the grape harvest.  They raise their voices, they shout for joy; from the west they acclaim the LORD’s majesty.  Therefore in the east give glory to the LORD; exalt the name of the LORD, the God of Israel, in the islands of the sea.  From the ends of the earth we hear singing: “Glory to the Righteous One.” Isaiah 24:13-16

Spring is starting to make an appearance here in Budapest.  The snow has melted and the bulbs are starting to push their way out of the earth toward the sun.  Just the other day I smiled when I noticed the green shoots alongside the driveway.  Imagine my amazement when just days later I saw flowers!  The bulbs were snowdrops and they are one of the first flowers to bloom at winter’s end.  They mature rapidly and give rise to the hope that spring is on the horizon.

I’m flying to the US this week and will be attending a Mission’s Conference at Idlewild Baptist in Florida.  I’m really looking forward to hearing the reports of what God is doing around the world and I’ve been thinking about the different fields that we serve in.  Some serve in fields of snowdrops.  Just beneath the surface are blooms pushing toward the light.  A little sun, a little warming of the soil and they break forth in all their beauty.  Others serve in fields of century plants.

The century plant was so named because of the belief that it bloomed only once a century, though in some climates it blooms every 60 years.  The seed of the bloom is there within the plant, but it takes years, decades even, of nutrients, water and light before a bloom will ever appear.  Yet, it will come in its own time as long as the plant never ceases to receive the sun and water that nurtures the life within it.

Our difficulty is that we tend to look at the day to day results rather than the big picture.  When God calls us to serve Him we never know if He is calling us to a field of snowdrops or of century plants.  Our job, in either case, is to bring the water of life and to shine the light of Jesus liberally while patiently waiting for God to produce the “fruit” of the bloom of salvation.

And we have this promise from Isaiah.  “So will it be on the earth…”   Even through all the hardships of life, the trials and the ultimate judgment of God, the remnant of the olive tree and the grape harvest and the snowdrops and the century plants will bloom and will bring glory to God from east to west and throughout the whole earth!

Taste-buds

Posted on February 28th, 2010 by by Administrator

I’ve changed quite a bit since I moved to Hungary in 2005, but I think the most drastic change might have occurred in my taste-buds.

Today I felt like baking so I pulled out a new cookie recipe that someone had given me.  It looked good, but I cut down on the sugar just in case.   I pulled them out of the oven and they smelled yummy.  How can fresh baked cookies not smell good?  Then came the taste test.

I have to admit it, I only allowed two bites to draw my conclusion.  By that time my taste-buds were screaming bloody murder.  TOO SWEET, ack, cough, gag, sigh.  I suppose I’ve lived in Europe too long to really enjoy a lot of common, sugary American desserts.  Oh well – at least I won’t be tempted to overeat.

Then again, maybe I’ll go bake some shortbread.

Simon’s Cat

Posted on February 25th, 2010 by by Administrator

These Simon’s Cat videos never cease to make me laugh.

Of course, when it’s my cat destroying the house to chase a fly I share Simon’s frustrated sigh.  At least I’ve never swallowed a fly, I think I might die!

Irish Roots

Posted on February 17th, 2010 by by Administrator

Yesterday something went terribly wrong at the hair salon and I ended up with red hair. My stylist said that the product that she was used was too strong to do anything to for at least two weeks.  There isn’t a Sally’s Beauty Supply in this country that I can run to and grab a toner, so I guess I really do have to wait.

That being the case, I decided to make the best of it and celebrate my Irish roots (literally).

O Ireland isn’t it grand you look –
Like a bride in her rich adornin?
And with all the pent-up love of my heart
I bid you the top o’ the mornin!
John Locke

Journey 2-5-10

Posted on February 5th, 2010 by by Administrator

As it is written: “I have made you [Abraham] a father of many nations.”  He is our father in the sight of God, in whom he believed – the God who gives life to the dead and calls things that are not as though they were.  Romans 4:17

I love this verse.  I could spend years pondering all that it encompasses, from grace through faith, salvation for the gentiles, to the resurrection miracle of how God redeems bringing life from death.  Yet, the phrase that I find most captivating says that God “calls things that are not as though they were.”   Can you hear my mind stretching to the verge of exploding?

We stand here inside time and observe how things appear in the “here an now”.  I am not [yet] righteous – I still sin.  Evil has not [yet] been vanquished – this world is filled with horrible tragedy.  Death has not [yet] been overcome.

In contrast, God stands outside of time.  He sees time’s beginning, middle and end in a way that we can not begin to comprehend.  Outside of time, I am [already] righteous, remade and clothed in the imperishable.  Outside of time evil has [already] been eternally dealt with, the end of the battle is fact.  Outside of time there is no more death, it is [already] vanquished.

We say that these things are not [yet], but God tells us that they are [already].  In Isaiah 48 God states: “therefore I told these things long ago; before they happened I announced them to you,”  “I foretold the former things long ago, my mouth announced them and I made them known; then suddenly I acted, and they came to pass” and “From the first announcement I have not spoken in secret, at the time it happens, I am there.”

This truth gifts us with certainty.  The promises of God are not just to come, they are already.  We can place the whole weight of our confidence and trust and faith and hope upon the God who calls things that are not as though they were.  We can rest in His promises.

Double Trouble Book Contest

Posted on February 2nd, 2010 by by Administrator

I love Susan May Warren’s writing.  Her new book “Double Trouble,” the second book in the PJ Sugar series, is in stores now.

I’ll be blogging about the book later this Spring.  I didn’t get to participate in this blog tour so I ordered the book and I’ll pick it up in March when I’m in the States.  I’ll post more about it later, but for now you can check out this great contest on Facebook.

DoubleTrouble Be sure to enter the Double Trouble Prize Package Giveaway by clicking on the ‘Double the Sass” button.  Susan’s giving away an iPod prize package that is anything but troubling! Check it out!  (If you don’t use Facebook then click here to enter.)

Prize Details:

Double Trouble, the brand new PJ Sugar novel by Susan May Warren, is in stores now! To celebrate the release, we’re running a HUMDINGER of a contest!!

One Grand Prize winner will receive a $150 SUPER SLEUTH prize package that includes:

* A brand new iPod Shuffle (perfect for those all-night stakeouts)

* A $10 iTunes gift card (we recommend the ALIAS soundtrack)

* A $10 Amazon gift card (why yes, they do sell spy pens)

* A $10 Starbucks gift card (for fuel, obviously)

* A pair of designer sunglasses (be stealthy AND super chic)

* A gorgeous scarf from World Market (can also be used as a blindfold, and/or for tying up bad guys)

* AND signed copies of both Nothing But Trouble & Double Trouble. (romance! danger! intrigue! sooo much better than Surveillance for Dummies!)

Glimpses of Grace

Posted on January 29th, 2010 by by Administrator

Yesterday I met a friend downtown and took the opportunity to do some much needed shopping.  My boots have been falling apart for months now.  I’ve been wearing them for five years, walking absolutely everywhere in them.  They have really been nothing short of amazing, but as do all good things, they have come to their end.  First, the soles started to leak allowing the snow to attack my fragile toes.  Then the zipper on the right boot broke and their death knell sounded.

So I went to the mall hoping for a miracle, that I could find boots of a reasonable quality at a decent price.  Wonder of wonders, I found a pair made by the same brand as my recently demised pair for HALF off!  I was so pleased.  Then I went in search of gloves.  I lost one of my gloves and have been wearing cheap fabric gloves in their place.  My poor, frozen fingers were longing for another pair of warm, lined, waterproof hand warmers.  This was more challenging than the boots, because I had to go into stores and ask the shopkeepers if they had waterproof, lined gloves.  And the prices – oh my!  In the last of the twenty some shops I tried I finally found a pair of leather, lined gloves in my size.  Even better, they were on sale and less than half the price of all the gloves I had looked at so far.

I tucked my purchases in my car and headed home thinking how blessed I was to find such deals on the things I needed.  Then later that night I discovered that a church had sent me a personal gift from their Missions collection that covered more than the total cost of my purchases.  God had given me exactly what I needed, provided the funds for the purchase and even gave me some extra to tuck away for the next need that arises.

That is grace.

The ladies group that I meet with on Wednesday is studying Romans.  As much as I know the truth, I still struggle with the reality of grace.  I don’t deserve any of this abundance that God gives so freely.  I don’t deserve the blood that Christ spilled for my sin or the love that God pours upon me day by day. They are GIFTS of grace. In the same way I didn’t earn those new boots and gloves.  In every way they were a gift, first from God and then from the people who care about His work in this part of the world.   I don’t work a “normal” job.  Profit productivity studies don’t provide my salary.

In the same way, I don’t earn God’s favor.  He gives it freely.

Some days I look around and wonder what God is up to.  How does this day fit into His eternal plan?  Why does He have me in this place at this time?  I admit I often don’t understand.  But I’m not asked to understand, just to trust and live in obedience.

As I’ve been reading about Abraham I have wondered what thoughts flitted through his mind on those nights when the desert silence shouted of the eternal.  What did he think in those twenty five years that followed the promise of offspring (Gen. 12:4,7) and the birth of Isaac (Gen 21:5).  I wonder if he went to bed at night wondering how his day of unsettled wandering fit into God’s plans.  I wonder if as he watched Isaac grow to a man, he remembered laughing at God and pondered the abundance of undeserved grace poured out on his life.

Grace is truly a gift beyond understanding.  May we cherish it today – even when we can’t begin to comprehend it.

Cat in the Box

Posted on January 28th, 2010 by by Administrator

The snow is coming down by the bucket-load and I have to go and dig out my car to head into town.  Not the boys though.  They are as snug as two bugs in a rug…or at least as snug as a cat in a box.  I’m a bit jealous of how they get to spend their day.

Finn got the raw end of the deal though.  Gus took the larger box leaving the larger cat to squeeze into the smaller box.  Finn has since moved on to sleeping in-between the pillows on my bed.  What a life!