tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-39482538536484395992024-03-06T14:00:44.214-06:00Lane Hill HouseHistorical Fiction Book ReviewerLane Hill Househttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12952459499802207852noreply@blogger.comBlogger685125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3948253853648439599.post-4850967855441292962017-12-31T19:31:00.001-06:002017-12-31T19:31:58.789-06:00The Ladies of Ivy Cottage by Julie Klassen, © 2017<span style="font-size: large;">Tales From Ivy Hill, Book Two</span><br />
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My Review:<br />
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I eagerly await Julie Klassen's novels as a Christmas present to myself! This story continues from Book One, <i>The Innkeeper of Ivy Hill</i>, which you will enjoy too. This second book may be read as a stand-alone as the days continue at the village.<br />
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Miss Rachel Ashford ~ "I'm afraid I don't care much for books."<br />
--<i>The Ladies of Ivy Cottage</i>, 11.</blockquote>
Oh, how will this progress? How can one hope to gain access to education for a young lady to be accepted into the privileged few of close friendships, a kindred spirit to shelter from being amiss in formalities? To gain reading as the dearest of friends.<br />
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<img alt="Image result for ivy cottage england" src="https://encrypted-tbn0.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcRwKVmK2y3_myPpAGu4c1hFILMkhrf5hPsV1HEbWtnA7KLNK6IO8g" /><br />
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<a href="https://i.pinimg.com/564x/1f/da/8b/1fda8b7de2610cadbfd905390490b634.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Cottage beauty...Madelief on her country walk sees this beautiful cottage in Lacock Village, Wiltshire, UK" border="0" height="200" src="https://i.pinimg.com/564x/1f/da/8b/1fda8b7de2610cadbfd905390490b634.jpg" width="133" /></a>Sometimes the very things we say we do not like become an open door for us. For Miss Ashford, this may be forthcoming... Her father's will states that his gifting to her of his collection of books may not be sold. Library. Library! With her non-interest, others will benefit. Other women mention they have access to interest books and novels to donate, and excitement is in the air! Think of the variety they will have. I am hoping they have historicals :), my favorites.<br />
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It is settled. Books will be moved from the library at Rachel's former home, Thornvale, to the library and the adjoining infrequently used formal drawing room within Ivy Cottage, to form a circulating library for the village of Ivy Hill. No longer will it be necessary to travel the distance to the Salisbury library. A splendid plan, indeed!<br />
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I love reading Julie Klassen's novels. She is so descriptive, you are right there walking down the lane with them. Nodding at the next storekeeper you meet, or touching the fabric you may never be able to buy ~ letting the hem and placing trim to cover the fold crease, laying your one pair of gloves to whiten in the sun... The characters are so real, you somehow expect them to turn and speak to you too. Tender, humble friends you are able to trust your truest thought. I like their gentility and modesty, a sweet unassuming spirit. Easy to be around, known for who they are.<br />
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<a href="https://i.pinimg.com/564x/51/2a/00/512a0041c7ccc2790cc33f8ec41be263.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="コッツウォルズ" border="0" height="400" src="https://i.pinimg.com/564x/51/2a/00/512a0041c7ccc2790cc33f8ec41be263.jpg" width="300" /></a>Subsequently, those left behind must decide they truly missed releasing a truer friend. As I am reading, I wonder if a certain gentleman will get back into the good graces of Rachel, or just retain a memory of her kindness and goodness? Or, has Rachel been the one left, remaining only a friend to smile at without, and mementos becoming all she has? Does it become a guessing game of who will release their true thoughts to become inspected beneath a heart daring to be exposed? A look, a touch, to be uncertain of its meaning; a loss that could have been joined to happiness and joy interwoven. Will they both be left hidden in loneliness longing to be discovered as a true friend everlasting?<br />
<a href="https://i.pinimg.com/564x/c0/64/5e/c0645eb34d440c97c05ad6f8aa52deee.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="Lacock Abbey, Wiltshire, England" border="0" height="400" src="https://i.pinimg.com/564x/c0/64/5e/c0645eb34d440c97c05ad6f8aa52deee.jpg" width="262" /></a><br />
I like several of the secondary characters. Especially, the elderly sexton in charge of digging the graves and maintaining the grounds of the churchyard. But there is more he maintains. Dignity for others with his wise observation that what a person thought, was true to them. What compassion overlooked by many.<br />
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As each day turns into the next, Rachel discovering the interchange she receives along with the circulating library becoming an offering to others, her days become full. The gathering of supplies by the workmen building the shelving brings new acquaintances to Ivy Cottage. One is an introduction of a relative of a student at the girls school on the premises that might not have been accomplished in any other way. So interesting how our ordinary days become exactly what the Lord has in mind for us to discover.<br />
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<a href="https://i.pinimg.com/564x/21/89/56/218956e1a8dcc03a1272b755cb95467e.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; display: inline; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Lacock Abbey, Wiltshire" border="0" height="320" src="https://i.pinimg.com/564x/21/89/56/218956e1a8dcc03a1272b755cb95467e.jpg" width="320" /></a>I like the confidences shared between Jane Bell and Mercy Grove; a trustworthy reminder to keep our heart active with a dear friend knowing it will be kept close and undisturbed. Mercy has others coming to confide in her. I like how she is approachable and cares about others with wisdom.<br />
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As you meet the people of Ivy Hill, I am sure you will become as fond of them as I am. I like how new people are added to the story, so casually, yet necessary to the other characters and the value to themselves.<br />
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Thank you, Julie Klassen, for this wonderful village and its occupants ~ visiting and choosing to become more than passersby.<br />
<img src="http://inkeepersivyhill.businesscatalyst.com/images/print_ready_ivyhill_map.jpg" height="478" width="640" /><br />
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Overview of Book Two: A gentlewoman in reduced circumstances, Miss Rachel Ashford lives as a guest in Ivy Cottage. With her meager funds rapidly depleting, she is determined to earn her own livelihood . . . somehow. Her friend Jane Bell and the other village women encourage her to open a circulating library with the many books she’s inherited from her father. As villagers donate additional books and Rachel begins sorting through the volumes, she discovers mysteries hidden among them. A man who once broke her heart helps her search for clues, but both find more than they bargained for.<br />
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Rachel’s hostess, Mercy Grove, has given up thoughts of suitors and finds fulfillment in managing her girls school. So when several men take an interest in Ivy Cottage, she assumes pretty Miss Ashford is the cause. Exactly what—or whom—has captured each man’s attention? The truth may surprise them all.<br />
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<a href="http://talesfromivyhill.com/">Village Directory</a><br />
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EnJ*O*Y this excerpt from <i>The Ladies of Ivy Cottage</i> ~ Chapter One<br />
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Jesus did many other things as well. If every</div>
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one of them were written down, I suppose</div>
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that even the whole world would not have</div>
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room for the books that would be written.</div>
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—John 21:25 <span style="font-size: x-small;">NIV</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">CHAPTER</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">ONE</span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: x-small;">September 1820</span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: x-small;">Ivy Hill, Wiltshire, England</span></b><br />
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Rachel Ashford wanted to throw up her hands. Her private education by governess had not prepared her for this. Standing in the Ivy Cottage schoolroom, she paused in her prepared speech to survey the pupils. Fanny whispered to Mabel, Phoebe played with the end of her plaited hair, young Alice stared out the window, and Sukey read a novel. Only the eldest pupil, Anna, paid attention. And she was the most well-mannered among them and therefore least in need of the lesson. Whenever Mercy taught, the girls sat in perfect posture and seemed to hang on her every word.<br />
Rachel was tempted to raise her voice but took a deep breath and continued evenly. “Always wear gloves on the street, at church, and other formal occasions, except when eating. Always accept gentlemanly offers of assistance graciously. Never speak in a loud, coarse voice, and—”<br />
Fanny grunted. “That’s the only voice I’ve got!”<br />
A few of her classmates giggled.<br />
“Girls, please try to remember that boisterous laughter is not acceptable in polite company. A lady always speaks and moves with elegance and propriety.”<br />
“Well, I am not in polite company,” Fanny retorted. “I’m with you lot.”<br />
Rachel bit the inside of her cheek and persisted, “Vulgarity is unacceptable in any form and must continually be guarded against.”<br />
“Then don’t venture into the kitchen when Mrs. Timmons is overcharged by the butcher. You’ll hear vulgarities to make you blush, Miss Ashford.”<br />
Rachel sighed. She was getting nowhere. She picked up <i>The Mirror of the Graces</i> from the desk. “If you will not heed me, then listen to this esteemed author.” She read from the title page. “‘A book of useful advice on female dress, politeness, and manners.’”<br />
“Oh bother,” Fanny huffed.<br />
Rachel ignored the groan, turned to a marked passage, and read.<br />
“‘The present familiarity between the sexes is both shocking to delicacy and to the interest of women. Woman is now treated by men with a freedom that levels her with the commonest and most vulgar objects of their amusement. . . .’”<br />
The door creaked open, and Rachel turned toward it, expecting to see Mercy.<br />
Instead, Matilda Grove stood there, eyes alight. Behind her stood Mr. Nicholas Ashford, looking ill at ease.<br />
Rachel blinked in surprise. “Miss Matilda. The girls and I were just . . . trying . . . to have a lesson on deportment.”<br />
“So I gathered. That is why I asked Mr. Ashford to come up with me. What better way to instruct on proper behavior between the sexes than with a demonstration. So much more engaging than dry text.”<br />
“Hear, hear,” Fanny agreed.<br />
Nicholas Ashford cleared his throat. “I was given to understand that you wanted assistance, Miss Ashford. Otherwise I would never have presumed to interrupt.”<br />
“I . . . It is kind of you to offer, but I don’t think—”<br />
“‘Always accept gentlemanly offers of assistance graciously,’” Mabel parroted Rachel’s own words back to her.<br />
Apparently, she’d been listening after all.<br />
Rachel’s neck heated. “Very well. That is, if you are sure you don’t mind, Mr. Ashford?”<br />
“Not at all.”<br />
Miss Matilda opened the door wider and gestured for him to precede her. The lanky young man entered with his long-legged stride.<br />
The girls whispered and buzzed in anticipation while Rachel tried in vain to shush them.<br />
He bowed, a lock of light brown hair falling over his boyish, handsome face. “Good day, Miss Ashford. Ladies.”<br />
Rachel felt more self-conscious than ever with him there to witness her ineptness.<br />
“Why do you not act out the proper and improper behavior the book describes?” Matilda suggested. “First, I shall introduce you. For you know, girls, you are not to give your name to just any blade who happens along. One must wait to be introduced by a trusted friend or relation.”<br />
“Why?” Phoebe asked.<br />
“To protect yourself from unsavory connections. Or from being corrupted by low company. Let’s see now. I have always loved a little playacting, though as a thespian I am nothing to your dear departed father, Miss Rachel.” Matilda raised a finger. “I know—I shall pretend to be some great personage, like . . . Lady Catherine de Bourgh from <i>Pride and Prejudice</i>. Wonderful novel. Have you read it?”<br />
Rachel shook her head.<br />
“Oh, you should. So diverting and instructive.”<br />
“I’m afraid I don’t care much for books.”<br />
Matilda’s mouth stretched into a long O. She sent a significant look toward the students.<br />
“That is,” Rachel hurried to amend, “I am sure books are quite worthwhile. For learning especially. I read many in my own years in the schoolroom. And my father loved books.”<br />
Matilda nodded. “Very true. At all events. For now, we shall dispense with rank and introduce you as social equals.” She began in a royal accent, “Miss Ashford, may I present my friend Mr. Ashford. Mr. Ashford, Miss Rachel Ashford.”<br />
Sukey murmured, “That’s a lot of Ashfords.”<br />
“How do you do, sir.” Rachel curtsied.<br />
Nicholas bowed. “Miss Ashford. A pleasure to meet you.”<br />
“Excellent,” Matilda said. “Now let us progress to how to deal with impertinent males.” She picked up Rachel’s book, skimmed, then read aloud, “‘We no longer see the respectful bow, the look of polite attention, when a gentleman approaches a lady. He runs up to her, he seizes her by the hand, shakes it roughly, asks a few questions, and to show he has no interest in her answers, flies off again before she can make a reply.’” She looked up at Nicholas. “Can you demonstrate this—how <i>not</i> to approach a lady.”<br />
His mouth parted. “I would never—”<br />
“I think it will be all right this once, Mr. Ashford. It is for the sake of the girls’ education, after all.” Matilda said it innocently, but Rachel saw the mischievous glint in her eye.<br />
“Ah. Very well. In that case.”<br />
Nicholas retreated a few paces, then advanced on Rachel in two long strides, grabbing her hand and shaking it vigorously. “I say, Miss Ashford. What a beautiful day it is. You are in good health, I trust? Well, we must take a turn soon. Good-bye for now.” He turned and strode out the door.<br />
The girls giggled and applauded. Nicholas stepped back into the room, blushing furiously. He sent Rachel an uncertain look, and she smiled encouragement in return.<br />
Matilda shook her head in mock disapproval. “Such shocking familiarity! Icy politeness is a well-bred woman’s best weapon in putting vulgar mushrooms in their place.”<br />
“Mushrooms?” Mabel echoed. “Mr. Ashford, she called you a mushroom!”<br />
“I’ve been called worse.”<br />
“Now, let us repeat the scenario. But this time, Miss Rachel, if you will demonstrate the proper response?”<br />
Again Nicholas Ashford stepped forward and took her hand in both of his. She glanced up at him from beneath her lashes. He was tall—and looking down at her with warm admiration. His fair gaze traced her eyes, her nose, her cheeks. . . .<br />
When she made no move to rebuke Mr. Ashford, Miss Matty prompted from the book, “‘When any man, who is not privileged by the right of friendship or of kindred, attempts to take her hand, let her withdraw it immediately with an air so declarative of displeasure, that he shall not presume to repeat the offense.’”<br />
Matilda stopped reading and Rachel felt her expectant look, but she could not bring herself to jerk her hand from his. Not when he had offered to marry her. Not in front of an audience. It seemed so heartless.<br />
“Is it ever all right to let a man hold your hand?” seventeen-year-old Anna Kingsley whispered hopefully.<br />
Matilda turned from the uncooperative couple to answer. “Well, yes. But remember, Anna, a touch, a pressure of hands, are the only external signs a woman can give of entertaining a particular regard for someone. She must reserve them only for a man she holds in high esteem.”<br />
With another glance at the frozen pair, Matilda closed the book and cleared her throat. “Well, girls. What say we end a bit early and go outside for recess. You don’t mind if we cut our lesson short, Miss Rachel? No, she does not. All right, girls. Out we go.”<br />
Rachel pulled her gaze from Mr. Ashford’s in time to see the amusement glittering in Matilda’s eyes as she shepherded the pupils past her demonstration partner, who still held fast to her hand.<br />
When the door shut behind the girls, Rachel gave a lame little chuckle and gently tugged her hand from his. “The lesson is over, apparently.”<br />
He clasped his own hands together. “Do you think it helped?”<br />
<i>Helped . . . what?</i> she wondered, but replied casually, “Heavens, who knows? More than my poor attempts to teach them at any rate.” She stepped to the desk and tossed her notes into the rubbish bin. “I have no talent for teaching. I must find another way to contribute here. Or find another livelihood.”<br />
He followed her to the desk. “You need not be anxious about supporting yourself, Miss Ashford. You have not forgotten my offer, I trust?”<br />
“No. I have not. Thank you.” Rachel swallowed and changed the subject. “Shall we . . . um, walk together, Mr. Ashford? You did mention it was a beautiful day.”<br />
“Oh. Of course. If you’d like.”<br />
Did she want to be seen strolling side by side with Nicholas Ashford? She did not want to encourage the inevitable tittle-tattle, but nor was she ready to remain alone with him—and his offer—in private.<br />
She retrieved her bonnet, then led the way downstairs. There, he opened the front door for her and ushered her through it.<br />
<i>Which way?</i> Not toward the busybody’s bakery or Brockwell Court, she decided. She gestured in the opposite direction. “Shall we walk this way?”<br />
He nodded, and at the corner they turned down Ebsbury Road and passed the almshouse.<br />
She took a deep breath to steel herself. They would soon reach Thornvale. Beautiful, beloved Thornvale. When they reached its gate, she looked at the fine, red-brick house with its dark green door. Oh, the happy years she had spent there with her parents and sister before their troubles started. It was also where her brief courtship with Timothy Brockwell had begun, and then ended all too soon. When her father died, the house went to Nicholas Ashford—his heir and distant cousin. He and his mother lived there now.<br />
If Rachel married him, she could leave life as an impoverished gentlewoman and return to her former home. Should she? She could not keep him waiting forever.<br />
His voice penetrated her reverie. “Shall we turn here?”<br />
“Hm? Oh, yes.”<br />
Diverting onto the wide High Street, they passed the bank, now closed. A few houses. Fothergill’s Apothecary, its window displaying colorful bottles of patent medicines. The butcher’s with his gruesome slabs of hanging meat and dead fowl, and the greengrocers with crates of produce.<br />
Nicholas gestured toward Prater’s Universal Stores and Post Office. “Do you mind if we stop here? I have something to post.” He pulled a letter from his pocket.<br />
Rachel acquiesced but said she would wait for him outside. She avoided smug Mrs. Prater whenever she could. The sour shopkeeper’s wife had once treated her with fawning respect, but that was before her father’s financial ruin.<br />
While she waited, Rachel glanced toward The Bell next door, wondering if she had time to stop in and greet Jane before Nicholas returned. But at that moment, two people on horseback rode out through the coaching inn archway—Jane Bell and Sir Timothy Brockwell. Rachel’s stomach twisted at the sight.<br />
They did not notice her, talking companionably as they directed their mounts down the Wishford Road. Both were well dressed— Jane in a striking riding habit of peacock blue. Together, they were the picture of a perfectly paired couple.<br />
Rachel found herself transported back to her youth. She, Jane, Timothy, and Mercy were all from the area’s leading families. The other three were close in age, but Rachel was a few years behind them. Judged too young to tag along, Rachel had frequently been left behind when the others went off together on some adventure. Especially Jane and Timothy, who had always been far more active and athletic than she or bookish Mercy Grove.<br />
Standing there on the High Street, Rachel felt twelve years old all over again. That plump awkward adolescent, watching the enviable adults ride away together.<br />
The shop door opened behind her, and Rachel turned toward it.<br />
Nicholas followed the direction of her gaze and nodded toward the riders. “Who is that with Sir Timothy?”<br />
“My friend Jane Bell.”<br />
As if sensing their scrutiny, Sir Timothy glanced over his shoulder at them but did not smile or wave.<br />
Nicholas studied her face. “He has never married?”<br />
She shook her head.<br />
“I wonder why.”<br />
<i>So do I</i>, Rachel thought, but she made do with a shrug.<br />
“Has he ever courted anyone?”<br />
“Not in years, as far as I know.”<br />
“But you two are . . . friends?”<br />
“Family friends, yes. But that doesn’t mean he would confide something of such a personal nature to me.”<br />
Nicholas turned to watch Sir Timothy again as he and Jane disappeared down the hill. “I gather he is considered quite the eligible bachelor. A desirable catch.”<br />
“Yes, he would be,” she answered truthfully. “For the right woman.”<br />
Rachel had once thought that she might be that woman. But that was eight years ago. She took a deep breath. It was long past time to forgive, forget, and move forward.<br />
She gestured across the street toward Potters Lane. “Shall we continue on together?”<br />
For a moment Nicholas held her gaze, his eye contact uncomfortably direct. “Yes, I very much hope we shall.”<br />
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~*~</div>
Jane Bell inhaled a deep breath of fragrant autumn air—apples and blackberries, hay and oats drying in the sunshine. The green leaves of chestnut trees and underbrush were beginning to mellow and yellow, which made the colors of the remaining flowers and ripening fruit seem more vibrant. Riding past, she noticed a goldfinch feeding on burst pods of thistle seed, and in the distance, workers harvested a field of oats.<br />
She and Timothy talked sparingly as they cantered along Wishford Road. Dressed in the new riding habit she’d given in and purchased, Jane felt prettier than she had in a long while. Sir Timothy was well turned out as always in a cutaway coat, leather breeches, and Hessian boots.<br />
When they slowed their mounts to a walk, he looked over at her. “Is that a new habit?”<br />
“Yes, it is.”<br />
“I like it. You looked like a bedraggled sparrow in that old brown one.”<br />
She mock gasped. “Thank you very little, sir! You are most ungallant.”<br />
Inwardly she was pleased that he felt free to tease her. It made her feel closer to him—to the Timothy of old, her childhood friend.<br />
He smiled. “I am glad we can ride together now and then. I missed it.”<br />
“Me too. Who did you ride with all those years we . . . didn’t?”<br />
“On my own mostly. Occasionally with the farm manager to look over the fields, or sometimes with Richard, though he comes home less and less.”<br />
Jane had not seen his brother in years. “But no friends?”<br />
He shook his head. “If you think about it, there is a dearth of men my age around Ivy Hill.”<br />
“I never really considered it. I had Mercy and Rachel, but you had few friends close by.”<br />
“I didn’t need more friends.” He sent her a sidelong glance. “I had you.”<br />
Their gazes met and held, and Jane felt a poignant ache beneath her breastbone.<br />
He lightened the moment with a wry grin. “Oh, don’t feel sorry for me. Horace Bingley wasn’t too far away, but I saw more than enough of him at school.”<br />
“Feel sorry for the lord of the manor?” Jane teased. “Hardly.” Although she did, a little. His life, his family, his responsibilities were not always easy.<br />
He looked down, then asked, “Did you and Mr. Bell ride together? I never saw you, if you did.”<br />
She looked at him in surprise. He almost never asked about John.<br />
“No. My father sold Hermione while I was away on our wedding trip, and John was always too busy with the inn.”<br />
“Then I am glad you have Athena now. She suits you.”<br />
Jane stroked the mare’s sleek neck. “Yes. I am grateful to have her.”<br />
She thought of Gabriel Locke, who had given her Athena. His ruggedly handsome face shimmered in her memory, along with the feel of his strong, callused hands holding hers.<br />
Timothy’s gaze swept over her again. “It is good to see you out of mourning, Jane. Are you . . . over the worst of your grief?”<br />
She considered that. “I am, yes.” <i>At least where John is concerned.</i><br />
“Will you ever marry again, do you think?”<br />
Jane coughed at the question.<br />
“Dust,” she mouthed, but knew he wasn’t fooled. She swallowed and said, “I don’t know. Maybe. In time.”<br />
He winced. “Tell me truthfully, Jane. Did you marry Mr. Bell because you wanted to or because I disappointed you?”<br />
Jane drew in a sharp breath and stopped her horse. Timothy had never broached the subject so directly before.<br />
He reined in close by. “Had I not hesitated. Had I not—”<br />
“Fallen in love with someone else?” she supplied.<br />
Again he winced, but he neither confirmed nor denied it.<br />
He didn’t need to. At Rachel Ashford’s coming-out ball, Timothy had looked at her with a powerful admiration beyond anything Jane had ever noticed directed at herself. He’d begun treating Rachel with formal deference, almost like a stranger—an intriguing, beautiful stranger. It had stung at the time. Jane knew Timothy had felt himself honor bound to <i>her</i>, so he had hesitated to act on that attraction. But Jane had not wanted him to marry her for duty’s sake. For simple loyalty or the expectations of others. What woman would? Perhaps if John Bell had not pursued her with such singular determination, she might not have noticed the warm devotion missing from Timothy’s eyes.<br />
“I cannot deny that turn of events influenced my willingness to be courted by John.” Jane looked at him. “Timothy, why did you never marry? I had wed someone else. You were free to marry as you liked.”<br />
“Free? Ha. You know why I did not marry.”<br />
She saw the anguish in his eyes, and her heart went out to him. He referred to more than his obligation to her, she guessed. His family had high expectations.<br />
She said gently, “You know how much you mean to me, Timothy, don’t you? And how grateful I am that our friendship is on better footing again?”<br />
“I value our friendship as well, Jane. That is why I need to ask. You are not waiting for . . . anything more from me, are you? I know how presumptuous that sounds, but God help me, I don’t want to disappoint you again.”<br />
Jane took a deep breath. “You did disappoint me—I can’t deny it. But that was a long time ago. You have every right to marry someone else.” She reached over and squeezed his hand. “Truly. I want you to be happy.”<br />
“Thank you. I am glad we agree. I wanted to be certain before I . . . do anything else.”<br />
They rode on. Jane hoped Timothy had not waited too long to act now that Nicholas Ashford was on the scene. Or was he thinking of someone besides Rachel?<br />
With that in mind, she added, “However, I hope you will marry for love, not family duty.”<br />
He frowned. “I don’t know that I can separate the two. It has been ingrained into me since I was a child: Marry the right person for the family’s sake, and love and happiness will come in time.”<br />
“Like our own parents did?”<br />
“Yes. Mine barely knew each other.”<br />
“Were they happy, do you think?”<br />
“Daily evidence to the contrary, Mother claims they were. She was devastated when he died.”<br />
Jane nodded. “I am sure she was. And you were too, no doubt. I’m sorry I was not there for you. Again, I am glad our friendship is on better terms now.”<br />
“Me too.” He smiled at her, but it was a sad smile. A smile of farewell.<br />
Would she have been happier if she had pretended not to notice his feelings for Rachel, rebuffed John Bell, and married Timothy anyway?<br />
Jane shook off such futile second-guessing. Timothy was master of Brockwell Court and must have an heir to leave it to, which was beyond Jane’s abilities.<br />
They stopped to let the horses drink from a clear stream. Jane inhaled deeply, then exhaled the final lingering remnants of what might have been. With a determined smile, she said, “Now, let’s not spoil our ride with any more gloomy talk. I have to return to The Bell shortly to greet the one o’clock stage.”<br />
He nodded. “I agree. Shall we . . . race back?”<br />
Her smile became genuine. “With pleasure.”<br />
As they galloped home, once again that question went through her mind: Would she have been happier if she had married Timothy? If she had forgone marriage to an innkeeper, the death of that innkeeper, and taking his place at The Bell?<br />
<i>No</i> . . . she realized, oddly startled at the revelation, and at the peace that flowed over her as she pondered it. She would not give up where she was today, and who she was today, to go back in time and marry Sir Timothy Brockwell.<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Julie Klassen, <i>The Ladies of Ivy Cottage Bethany House</i>, a division of Baker Publishing Group, © 2017. Used by permission. </span></div>
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***Thank you to Bethany House Publishers for sending this copy of Book Two in this series. This review was written in my own words. No other compensation was received.***<br />
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<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i>The Ladies of Ivy Cottage</i> is available in paperback, hardcover, e-book, and audio from your local bookstore or from online retailers.</div>
<br />
<a href="http://inkeepersivyhill.businesscatalyst.com/images/klassen_julie1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://inkeepersivyhill.businesscatalyst.com/images/klassen_julie1.jpg" /></a>Julie Klassen loves all things Jane—Jane Eyre and Jane Austen. A graduate of the University of Illinois, Julie worked in publishing for sixteen years and now writes full-time. Three of her books, <i>The Silent Governess</i>, <i>The Girl in the Gatehouse</i>, and <i>The Maid of Fairbourne Hall</i>, have won the Christy Award for Historical Romance. <i>The Secret of Pembrooke Park</i> was honored with the Minnesota Book Award for genre fiction. Julie has also won the Midwest Book Award and Christian Retailing’s BEST Award, and has been a finalist in the Romance Writers of America’s RITA Awards and ACFW’s Carol Awards. Julie and her husband have two sons and live in a suburb of St. Paul, Minnesota.<br />
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For more information and a full list of her books, visit <a href="http://julieklassen.com/">julieklassen.com</a> or her author page on <a href="http://bethanyhouse.com/">bethanyhouse.com</a>.<br />
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Tales From Ivy Hill, Book One: <i>The Innkeeper of Ivy Hill</i><br />
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<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<a href="http://inkeepersivyhill.businesscatalyst.com/images/inkeeperivyfaceout3d.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://inkeepersivyhill.businesscatalyst.com/images/inkeeperivyfaceout3d.jpg" height="196" width="320" /></a>The lifeblood of Ivy Hill is its coaching inn, The Bell. When the innkeeper dies suddenly, his genteel wife, Jane Bell, becomes the reluctant owner—and learns that a large loan is due in three months’ time. Despite their strained relationship, Jane turns to her mother-in-law, Thora, for help. Thora has been struggling to find where she belongs. But as she and Jane work together, Thora’s wounded heart begins to heal. When she encounters two men from her past, she sees them—and her future—with different eyes. Can Jane save The Bell? And will Thora embrace the possibility of a second chance at love?<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img alt="Image may contain: one or more people, people standing, wedding, child and outdoor" height="320" src="https://scontent-dft4-2.xx.fbcdn.net/v/t1.0-9/20621841_1820406087977124_572632401014817403_n.jpg?oh=5505df215eae01de83d066f67234ef42&oe=5A69EE84" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="227" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mr. and Mrs. Klassen</td></tr>
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<img alt="Image result for ivy cottage england" src="https://encrypted-tbn0.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcRZ2SpsqfwrR0OnvW5VJqEOV3zcwl7dil-pHRAjX8YuRe9E8oaN" /> Book Three, <i>The Bride of Ivy Green</i>, releases December 2018.</div>
Lane Hill Househttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12952459499802207852noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3948253853648439599.post-57379418976316111302017-12-30T21:12:00.000-06:002017-12-30T21:12:11.999-06:00Across the Blue by Carrie Turansky, © 2018<img src="http://images.randomhouse.com/cover/9781601429421?width=500&alt=no_cover_b4b.gif" /><br />
<b><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">WaterBrook Multnomah releases <i>Across the Blue</i>, a novel by Carrie Turansky ~ February 20, 2018! Available for pre-order at your favorite bookseller.</span></b><br />
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“Do not lay up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moth and rust destroy and where thieves break in and steal, but lay up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where neither moth nor rust destroys and where thieves do not break in and steal. For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.<br />
Matthew 6:19-21</blockquote>
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<a href="https://i.pinimg.com/564x/5c/9c/1d/5c9c1d9bb4c2f0de0f76e210352e3187.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; display: inline !important; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Brodsworth Hall and Gardens (Doncaster, England): Top Tips Before You Go - TripAdvisor" border="0" height="265" src="https://i.pinimg.com/564x/5c/9c/1d/5c9c1d9bb4c2f0de0f76e210352e3187.jpg" width="400" /></a></blockquote>
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He wanted to bridge the gap between old money and new, and close the distance between himself and those who had inherited rank, titles, and respected family names.<br />
--<i>Across the Blue</i>, 2.</blockquote>
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<img alt="Isabella Grayson" height="109" src="https://i.pinimg.com/564x/85/88/e2/8588e21f6439e63d1c5fc2a3a4597f7d.jpg" width="200" /><br />
<img alt="Image result for typewriter 1909" height="114" src="https://img-aws.ehowcdn.com/877x500p/photos.demandstudios.com/getty/article/34/78/86520046.jpg" width="200" /></blockquote>
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Isabella's father, Charles Grayson, has goals that might not include his daughter's ambitions. James Drake's unceremonious landing in the fields of the Broadlands estate provides an advance meeting. His goals include her father's aim to achieve recognition. </blockquote>
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<a href="https://i.pinimg.com/564x/ed/62/7e/ed627eb987b71839636a2c61524bbf93.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="James Drake, the hero of Across the Blue" border="0" height="200" src="https://i.pinimg.com/564x/ed/62/7e/ed627eb987b71839636a2c61524bbf93.jpg" width="149" /></a><img alt="Image result for xi aviation" height="224" src="https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/8/8c/Bleriot_XI_Thulin_A_1910_a.jpg" width="320" /><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Where would aviation be today without these first pioneers of air travel?</span></div>
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A story of hope and struggle, Bella and James find they are companionable in a remarkable way: he to tour his beloved dreams while her path is formed in documenting his feats for posterity. An imperiled adventure of trust comes forth in a mechanical skill; testing the thrust exerted by a propeller against wind and atmospheric conditions. I found it interesting they observed birds to make adjustments to their design.<br />
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Professor Thaddeus Pierpont Steed is a close defender, friend, and mentor to James. So important to care and give guidance to allow another to advance in character and learning. Relying strongly on God's goodness and provision, James releases a barrier of adversity and uncertainty. Doing what is right far out merits any tangible reward.<br />
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While exploring technical limits at which a flying machine may be safely operated, will love become aware to conquer fear and expectations to enfold what the past cannot contain? Bringing in a brand new era for generations to come, <i>Across the Blue</i> holds promise for hearts to embrace.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img alt="allthingseurope: “White Cliffs of Dover, UK (by G B) ” The REAL white cliffs of Dover!! Not the photos of Beachy Head, which is in an ENTIRELY DIFFERENT COUNTY, I keep seeing labelled as ‘the cliffs of Dover’ Sorry for the shouting. It isn’t YOUR..." height="240" src="https://i.pinimg.com/564x/cc/17/6b/cc176bddd5b05dee3b3e8bc52965097b.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="320" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The White Cliffs of Dover</td></tr>
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<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><i>Set in Edwardian England and ideal for readers who enjoy Julie Klassen novels, this romance about an English aviation pioneer and the girl who falls in love with him is filled with adventure and faith.</i></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Isabella Grayson, the eldest daughter of a wealthy, English newspaper magnate, longs to become a journalist, but her parents don't approve. They want her to marry well and help them gain a higher standing in society. After she writes an anonymous letter to the editor that impresses her father, her parents reluctantly agree she can write a series of articles about aviation and the race to fly across the English Channel, but only if she promises to accept a marriage proposal within the year. When James Drake, an aspiring aviator, crashes his flying machine at the Grayson's new estate, Bella is intrigued. James is determined to be the first to fly across the Channel and win the prize Mr. Grayson's newspaper is offering. He hopes it will help him secure a government contract to build airplanes and redeem a terrible family secret. James wants to win Bella's heart, but his background and lack of social standing make it unlikely her parents would approve. If he fails to achieve his dream, how will he win the love and respect he is seeking? Will Bella's faith and support help him find the strength and courage he needs when unexpected events turn their world upside down?</div>
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***Thank you to WaterBrook Multnomah's Blogging for Books for sending an uncorrected proof copy of <i>Across the Blue</i>. This review was written in my own words. No other compensation was received.***<br />
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<img alt="Across the Blue" src="https://i.pinimg.com/564x/53/f3/91/53f391bb6e146d2ad0911ae6fc5325af.jpg" /><br />
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<br />Lane Hill Househttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12952459499802207852noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3948253853648439599.post-65592570860067571312017-12-29T01:47:00.000-06:002017-12-29T02:07:22.727-06:00Daily Wisdom for Women 2018 Devotional Collection compiled by Barbour Staff, © 2017<img src="http://www.barbourbooks.com/Custom/ProductImageHandler.ashx?ProductID=14789&endHeight=399&endWidth=262&fillBackground=false&VerticalCenter=false" /><br />
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I was very blessed when an author brought this book to my attention and then at a later time I was to receive a copy! Two years ago I bought a similar devotional for a gift for a friend and later bought a copy for myself. I so enjoyed that devotional, that I am looking forward to this 2018 collection.<br />
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In the back is a list of Contributors, a Scripture Index, and a Bible Reading Plan ~ Read Thru the Bible in a Year. Here is an overview of the content for the coming year:<br />
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Jesus first tells you, His follower, to "Come to Me" (Matthew 11:28 <span style="font-size: x-small;">NKJV</span>). Later He says, "Abide in Me" (John 15:4 <span style="font-size: x-small;">NKJV</span>). Yet you may think you must have your <i>behavior</i> fixed (read your Bible, go to church every Sunday, pray, have the perfect attitude, family, and relationships--spiritually and otherwise) before you can come to and deeply abide in Jesus. But the truth is, when you yield yourself up totally to Him, when you stop trying to live right by your own efforts, His power will come through you, allowing you to become a picture––an extension––of who He is, which will affect not only <i>your</i> life but the lives of those around you.<br />
To aid you in coming to, abiding in, and going deeper into God's Word, the <i>Daily Wisdom for Women 2018 Devotional Collection</i> contains readings about living a life abiding in Christ (see John 15:1-12), being rooted as a branch in the Vine, having your identity seated in the eternal instead of the temporal, and doing so with the help of the Holy Spirit––the life-giving sap between the Vine (Christ) and the branch (you).<br />
Every devotion corresponds to a particular day's reading based on Barbour's "Read Thru the Bible in a Year" plan found at the back of this book. As you read each day's devotion and focus verse, allow them to pull you into Christ's presence. Then pray around them, and walk on making God's Word a part of your daily abiding life.<br />
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I will include the first day ~<br />
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New Year's Day <b>Monday, January 1</b><br />
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Delight in His Word</div>
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Blessed is the man that walketh not in the counsel of the</div>
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ungodly, nor standeth in the way of sinners, nor sitteth in the</div>
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seat of the scornful. But his delight is in the law of the Lord;</div>
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and in his law doth he meditate day and night.</div>
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Psalm 1:1-2 <span style="font-size: x-small;">KJV</span></div>
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"That week between Christmas and New Year's Day is always so exciting for me," Meredith said to her friend, Jan, as she poured herself a second cup of coffee. "I wake up on New Year's Day with so much anticipation for the coming year."<br />
"Really?" Jan asked, "Do you feel that way every year?"<br />
"Yes." Meredith smiled. "And I especially love how, as I start fresh with my Bible reading plan each year, I discover how the Word of God speaks something new to me. I have notes in my Bible from years past, but lots of times, I see something new and different."<br />
"Wow, you read your Bible every day? I don't," Jan admitted, "though I know I should."<br />
"Well, there are days I miss. When it happens too often, I start to feel detached. I need that connection with God every day. That time really empowers me and gives me a sense of His presence. I know I've come to know Him––and myself––better through reading His Word."<br />
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Lord, I make a fresh commitment to truly abide in Your Word this year.</div>
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Help me read, discover, delight, and live in Your truth.</div>
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~*~</div>
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I hope you will join me in the study of God's Word in 2018. I wanted to share this devotional with you. May we both develop a desire to put His Word in our heart to grow closer to Him and each other.Lane Hill Househttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12952459499802207852noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3948253853648439599.post-84352216456272011282017-12-28T23:58:00.000-06:002017-12-28T23:58:13.599-06:00The Promise of a Letter by Kathleen Fuller, © 2017<span style="font-size: large;">Amish Letters series, Book 2</span><br />
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<img src="https://prodimage.images-bn.com/pimages/9780718082543_p0_v3_s600x595.jpg" /><br />
<br />
~* in the heart of Ohio Amish country *~<br />
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<a href="https://i.pinimg.com/564x/a9/2d/55/a92d557b42c5005710dcdd022a33d11c.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Gorgeous Maine Coon" border="0" height="200" src="https://i.pinimg.com/564x/a9/2d/55/a92d557b42c5005710dcdd022a33d11c.jpg" width="130" /></a> Birch Creek ~<br />
I like how mail for Leanna Chupp is left in the mailbox for her to discover for herself. The hidden art of self-expression! Leanna lives in the smaller <i>dawdi haus</i> behind the main house she and her brother, Jalon, had grown up in on the now expanded farm. She shares her Maine Coon cat, Blue, with her nephew's affection. The opening has her on her way home from work ~ upon her roller blades!<br />
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Leanna is content with her life the way it is. Her job, her home life, and her friend, Ivy Yoder, fill her days with expectation. Things are about to change to ruffle her space in Birch Creek. Roman Raber is returning home.<br />
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Roman never thought he would return, but on the bidding of a letter left for him at the passing of his dear grandmother, Roman must respond to her last wishes for him. How long can it take to complete her request?<br />
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Daniel Raber isn't the easiest person to be around; others might concur. Has hurt crept in so deep to foul his ways? The intent of a miserable heart misleads a promise of surrender. Could it really be possible to forgive and relinquish pain?<br />
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New hopes arise as families come together to polish each other by allowing a trust to enter.<br />
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I especially liked this story! Relinquished hearts turn from hiding. Excellent writing of heart desires exposed to self as well.<br />
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<a href="http://kathleenfuller.com/wordpress/wp-content/uploads/2013/05/kathy-pci-2105.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="kathy pci 2105" border="0" src="http://kathleenfuller.com/wordpress/wp-content/uploads/2013/05/kathy-pci-2105.jpg" height="320" width="275" /></a></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Kathleen Fuller is the author of several bestselling novels, including the Hearts of Middlefield novels, the Middlefield Family novels, the Amish of Birch Creek series, and the Amish Letters series as well as a middle-grade Amish series, the Mysteries of Middlefield. Visit her <a href="http://kathleenfuller.com/">online</a>, Twitter: @TheKatJam, Facebook: Kathleen Fuller.</div>
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<img alt="Thomas Nelson" height="53" src="https://www.harpercollinschristian.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/01/TNI_Color_Horz_Hi2.jpg" width="200" /><br />
<br />
<a href="https://images-na.ssl-images-amazon.com/images/I/51GuHgwBV-L._SX326_BO1,204,203,200_.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://images-na.ssl-images-amazon.com/images/I/51GuHgwBV-L._SX326_BO1,204,203,200_.jpg" width="131" /></a>***Thank you to author Kathleen Fuller and to Fiction Guild for a copy of <i>The Promise of a Letter</i>. This review was written in my own words. No other compensation was received.***<br />
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<i>Words from the Heart</i> ~ Book 3 in the Amish Letters series,<br />
Ivy's story, releases February 13, 2018.<br />
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<br />Lane Hill Househttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12952459499802207852noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3948253853648439599.post-53641916946997415072017-12-19T01:40:00.000-06:002017-12-19T01:40:51.604-06:00Devotions for the Hungry Heart: Chasing Jesus Six Days from Sunday by Shellie Rushing Tomlinson, © 2018<img alt="Devotions for the Hungry Heart" src="http://content.mail3.spopessentials3.com/ra/2017/26205/12/32291519/9781683224327png2.png" height="400" width="301" /><br />
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Look what's arrived at the Lane Hill House mailbox!! All ready for your 2018 devotional too! Shellie Rushing Tomlinson's "Devotions for the Hungry Heart."<br />
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Don't miss out on day one! Ready for delivery now at your favorite bookseller!<br />
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Shellie has even added in a dozen recipes; a snippet in case you missed her cookbook, "Hungry Is a Mighty Fine Sauce." This is available for purchase too! So, run right down and pick up both of them ~ or from your easy chair, order <a href="http://www.barbourbooks.com/product/Devotions-for-the-Hungry-Heart,14858.aspx?Tab=Books">online</a>, if you don't have a local bookstore. Either way, you will have shared readings and enJ*O*Yment before you.<br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">He satisfies the thirsty</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">and fills the hungry</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">with good things</span>.</div>
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Psalm 107:9
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Begin your new year with Shellie's new storytelling devotional. You can read straight through for each new day (there is a ribbon bookmark to keep your place), or jump around and hope you don't miss one! In the back are Scripture references and page to go to read a corresponding sharing. This little hardcover book will be handy to have nearby.<br />
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Here are a couple posts so you get an idea of what's inside!<br />
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WEEK ONE</div>
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THURSDAY</div>
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A Hungry Heart Is Celebrating</div>
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I see hearts all around me. I've seen them in big puffy, white clouds, and I've seen them in the knots of old oak trees. I've seen them drawn into the scales of a fish and outlined on the back of an insect. I can trace this fascination to the earliest days of writing a book called <i>Heart Wide Open</i>, and I've never gotten over it, and I'm okay with that. I hope I never do.<br />
I once mentioned this heart thing to my oldest grandson. He was six at the time. We were walking across a parking lot holding hands when I pulled him to a stop and showed him a heart formed from the mortar of the pavement at our feet. "God shows me those," I told Grant. "He knows I like to see them, so He shows them to me. It's like a little note from heaven right in the middle of the day. When I see it, I think about how much God loves us, and I have a little party in my own heart."<br />
My next trip to Houston to see the "Grand Boys of Texas" featured a sweet surprise. I learned that Grant Thomas had become a heart seeker in his own right. And he was good at it! Grant showed me all kinds of hearts around his house, and his mommy said he'd been showing her hearts all around Humble. Of course, the hearts have been there all the time. Grant is just now seeing them because he's just now looking for them and expecting to find them.<br />
While I am unapologetically guilty when it comes to over-sharing grandchildren stories, I offer this tale to share a deeper truth I've discovered about pursuing God. If we walk in this world demanding special visions or revelations from God that He might prove His existence to us, we seldom find the evidence of God we're after. However, if we abandon such egocentric demands and focus instead on looking for God and celebrating Him in our unspectacular everyday lives, we find that He is all around us and He has been here all the time.<br />
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"[God] made from one man every nation</div>
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of mankind ... that they would seek God, if perhaps</div>
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they might grope for Him and find Him, though He is</div>
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not far from each one of us; for in Him we live and</div>
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move and exist, as even some of your own poets</div>
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have said, 'For we also are His children.'"</div>
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ACTS 17:26–28</div>
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~*~</div>
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WEEK TWO</div>
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MONDAY</div>
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A Hungry Heart Is Surrendered</div>
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We have a lovely lakeside walking trail here in my hometown. I particularly enjoy walking it in the late evenings, as the natural light of day is closing and the ornamental streetlamps begin to glow. Not long ago, I was walking along this path when the message of a small sign posted beside the trail arrested my thoughts, WALK AT YOUR OWN RISK.<br />
I knew the purpose behind the sign was to ward off potential personal injury claims, but as the caution began looping in my mind, my thoughts turned to their application for our Christian walk.<br />
I took a picture of the sign that day to remind myself, and anyone else who chooses to listen, that to follow Christ is not merely to risk our lives; it is to lose them. So I've been thinking: perhaps we should add a similar caution to our church signs. Something like, "FOLLOW JESUS AT YOUR OWN RISK. DETAILS INSIDE." You might say, "But Shellie, that kind of message isn't exactly a big draw." I would agree, at least not to those interested in adding Jesus to their lives instead of surrendering all they are to all He is.<br />
On the other hand, those who truly laid down their lives at the foot of the cross would actually find them! And that means our churches wouldn't be full of people saddle sore from riding the fence and road weary from wondering why their Christian experience falls so short of what the church has advertised, when walking through life with Jesus Christ is anything but boring.<br />
When we die daily to walk with the God-man, we soon discover that His presence is worth every single step. How's that for a sign worth posting?<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<div style="text-align: center;">
"Whoever wishes to save his life will lose it;</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
but whoever loses his life for My sake will find it."</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
MATTHEW 16:25</div>
</blockquote>
<div style="text-align: center;">
~*~</div>
</div>
<br />
As you can tell, I enJ*O*Y anything Shellie. I listen to her hour Monday radio program, where she sometimes has a studio guest, and during the second segment she invites an author to share their book over an on-air phone call. I was introduced to Shellie through her book and study, <i>Heart Wide Open</i>, that our Thursday morning Bible study did together.<br />
<br />
Shellie shares real and loves the Lord. Join in this 20-week <i>Devotions for the Hungry Heart</i>. You will be glad you did! Fill up the longing He has placed there for more of Him. Jesus fills the longing heart. Let's get started!<br />
<br />
<i>I'm excited about coming alongside you and sharing six traits that I've discovered over the years that stir my appetite for a God-sized feast.</i> ~ Shellie<br />
<br />
<img src="http://www.barbourbooks.com/Custom/ProductImageHandler.ashx?ProductID=14518&endHeight=399&endWidth=258&fillBackground=false&VerticalCenter=true&isAuthor=true" /><br />
<br />
***Thank you, Shellie, for your sharings! This review was written in my own words. No other compensation was received.***Lane Hill Househttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12952459499802207852noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3948253853648439599.post-3998094294897336072017-12-17T16:34:00.000-06:002017-12-17T16:34:45.133-06:00Written in Love by Kathleen Fuller, © 2017<span style="font-size: large;">Amish Letters series, Book 1</span><br />
<br />
<img src="https://prodimage.images-bn.com/pimages/9780718082529_p0_v3_s600x595.jpg" /><br />
<br />
~* in the heart of Ohio Amish country *~<br />
<br />
A mistaken address begins correspondence between Jalon Chupp and Phoebe Bontrager, so far unknown to each other ~ that is, until Phoebe returns his letter, explaining it came to the wrong address. Or did it? Phoebe continues to answer Jalon's letters until they are unsure who actually began their pen pal journey. Their letters become frequent, though short, and they learn fun things about each other's lives and an exercise in sharing self they would not likely do in person ~ such as their fears and hopes. I am wondering how Phoebe's mail is not intercepted as she lives with an older family member. When an envelope comes addressed to you stops time in your daily life, to have a bright exchange for a moment of refreshment.<br />
<br />
Jalon, too, comes to expect Phoebe's letters. Wanting to know her face-to-face, he takes a challenge to go to meet her. A knock at the door brings revealed life to the forefront.<br />
<br />
I like how these characters learn to look to God for their completeness. Against all odds, they are determined to respect the path opened before them.<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
For I know the plans
I have for you, declares the LORD, plans for welfare and not for
evil, to give you a future and a hope. ~ Jeremiah 29:11</blockquote>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
His ways are best. I am glad that Truth is discovered, examined, and found by them!</div>
<br />
<br />
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<a href="http://kathleenfuller.com/wordpress/wp-content/uploads/2013/05/kathy-pci-2105.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="kathy pci 2105" border="0" src="http://kathleenfuller.com/wordpress/wp-content/uploads/2013/05/kathy-pci-2105.jpg" height="320" width="275" /></a>Kathleen Fuller is
the author of several bestselling novels, including the Hearts of
Middlefield novels, the Middlefield Family novels, the Amish of Birch
Creek series, and the Amish Letters series as well as a middle-grade
Amish series, the Mysteries of Middlefield. Visit her <a href="http://kathleenfuller.com/">online</a>, Twitter: @TheKatJam, Facebook: Kathleen Fuller.</div>
<br />
***Thank you to author Kathleen Fuller and to Fiction Guild for a copy of <i>Written in Love</i>. This review was written in my own words. No other compensation was received.***<br />
<br />
<img alt="Thomas Nelson" height="53" src="https://www.harpercollinschristian.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/01/TNI_Color_Horz_Hi2.jpg" width="200" />Lane Hill Househttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12952459499802207852noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3948253853648439599.post-38473475461175380982017-12-11T23:56:00.000-06:002017-12-11T23:56:15.455-06:00The Sound of Rain by Sarah Loudin Thomas, © 2017<img alt="Cover Art" src="http://cdn.bakerpublishinggroup.com/processed/books/covers/listing/9780764219610.jpg?1504025124" /><br />
<br />
My Review:<br />
<br />
Judd Markley had a different day than planned; never hoped for by any man. But, at least he was safe for now. The bowels of the earth had released him again for another day. Miners expected to be confronted with the unexpected, not knowing what a day would bring. Underground was just that way ~ uncertain and unaffected by disturbance ~ it just kept to itself unless attacked by a pickax and chose to revolt. Cutting away the earth for treasures ~ needed for warmth and care of families in the Appalachia mountain pathways. Maybe there would be a new way now, away from West Virginia and the pain of loss.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img alt="Myrtle Beach 1954 Photo cred - Jack Thompson" src="https://i.pinimg.com/564x/1a/6d/3b/1a6d3bf1d99fa633c14fa1b780fda6ce.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Myrtle Beach 1954 Photo credit - Jack Thompson</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Myrtle Beach, South Carolina ~ 1954<br />
<a href="https://cdn.barrett-jackson.com/staging/carlist/items/Fullsize/Cars/125799/125799_Side_Profile_Web.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="Image result for 1948 buick roadmaster" border="0" height="150" src="https://cdn.barrett-jackson.com/staging/carlist/items/Fullsize/Cars/125799/125799_Side_Profile_Web.jpg" width="200" /></a><br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
Judd Markley</div>
I've gotten a job loading pine logs for a lumber plantation and find it alright work. Hot and sticky, but above ground, anyway. Sand is different from the rocky soil I have known back home. I met the boss's daughter, Larkin, the day I got the job. She's young, carefree, and loves her convertible. Oh, to have no sad memories to hold me back. How did I ever get here ~ to an expected place of warmth and restoration? Again, nothing calm and certain to shelter me...<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img alt="Myrtle Beach, SC, Ocean Front Pavilion 1954 Postcard" src="https://i.pinimg.com/564x/e1/23/b1/e123b10db9dcb93319a98eaf1a90cf99.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Myrtle Beach, SC, Ocean Front Pavilion 1954 Postcard</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<a href="https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/originals/03/e5/bc/03e5bcc11481c647bd0ba196ddd22669.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Image result for the Pavilion 1954 Myrtle Beach, South Carolina" border="0" src="https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/originals/03/e5/bc/03e5bcc11481c647bd0ba196ddd22669.jpg" /></a><br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
Larkin Heyward</div>
This is all I have ever known. I want to go to help those who need to have my help ~ like those in need of learning in the Appalachian mountains I have read about in a magazine recently. I volunteer at our local hospital. Maybe Daddy will let me go off to school to be a nurse. I love going to the Pavilion to dance in the evenings. My girlfriends go with me and we enjoy burgers and fries and the lively music. A new man has hired on. Maybe I can learn from him about the people he is from. He talks differently than me.<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq" style="text-align: left;">
~* Judd managed because of his skills and keeping confidences. Because of who he was, he would fit anywhere it seems.</blockquote>
~* Larkin didn't fare as well, except for Granny Jane's grace in teaching her to use a cookstove. I have hopes for her.<br />
<br />
I enjoyed reading how these families adjusted to changes. Both the acceptance and wariness when someone new comes to an area they aren't born to or know.<br />
<img alt="Image result for hurricane 1954 myrtle beach south carolina" src="https://www.gannett-cdn.com/-mm-/207745acbda99dd7af5a078a37d75e617ad5ca7b/c=0-5-786-596&r=x408&c=540x405/local/-/media/2016/10/06/CarolinaGroup/Greenville/636113504905800188-Hazel.jpg" /><br />
<br />
<b>In the Dark of the Mine, In the Face of Rising Water,</b><br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b>In the Shadows of the Hills, Faith Will See Them Through</b></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Judd Markley knows he can never set foot underground again. The mine collapse that nearly killed him and claimed his brother's life means leaving West Virginia forever. Although that hard Appalachian world is all he knows, he puts it behind him and heads for the open sky of the thriving town of 1954 Myrtle Beach, South Carolina.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Larkin Heyward's life in the beach town is uncomplicated, mostly volunteer work and dancing at the Pavilion. But she dreams of one day doing more and being more––maybe moving to the hills and hollers of Kentucky to help the poor children of Appalachia. But she's never even met someone who's lived there––until she encounters Judd, the newest employee at her father's timber company.<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<a href="https://userscontent2.emaze.com/images/46db1ac3-c5ef-46dd-8176-8c42f2d867f0/ea8967ee41733b7091a6c663b8c490d9.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; display: inline !important; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Image result for hurricane 1954 myrtle beach south carolina" border="0" height="179" src="https://userscontent2.emaze.com/images/46db1ac3-c5ef-46dd-8176-8c42f2d867f0/ea8967ee41733b7091a6c663b8c490d9.jpg" width="320" /></a> Drawn together in the wake of a hurricane that changes Myrtle Beach forever, Judd's and Larkin's dreams pull them in divergent directions. It will take a significant sacrifice to keep them together––or maybe, it will take a miracle.<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
</div>
<br />
EnJ*O*Y this excerpt from <i>The Sound of Rain</i> by Sarah Loudin Thomas ~ Chapter 1<br />
<br />
<div style="height: 307px; overflow: auto;">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>To the roots of the mountains I sank down;</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>the earth beneath barred me in forever.</i></div>
Jonah 2:6 <span style="font-size: x-small;">NIV</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">C H A P T E R</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> 1</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Bethel, West Virginia</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">April 1954</span><br />
<br />
Judd wanted to take a deep breath more than anything. But the weight on his chest, combined with the dust-laden air, made it impossible. He closed his eyes and opened them again, finding it made no difference. Either he was blind or the cave-in had erased any hint of light. He coughed and spit.<br />
Darkness pressed against him almost as hard as the silence. There should have been the hum of machinery, the clink of pickaxes against coal, men’s voices. He moved his hands and felt relief at the sensation of ten fingers brushing against rough stone. He couldn’t move much, but at least he knew he was alive.<br />
Continuing to take stock, he found he couldn’t move anything below his waist. That must be the weight of the rock and maybe some timbers. Surely his legs and feet were still there. And nothing hurt too terrible—that was good. He shifted his head and realized there was a boot pressed against his cheek. It scared him so bad he cussed. Then he felt awful—that might be Harry’s foot. Not Joe’s, though—he’d been working that other, narrower seam. He hoped Harry and Joe had time to start out toward the entrance.<br />
Judd found he could breathe a little easier—the dust must have settled. He wished he could reach up and wipe the grit from his lips. He spit again and tried to settle his mind to wait. He’d never been afraid of tight spaces, and maybe it was good he couldn’t see to know how bad his situation was. And yet . . . the darkness had become a tangible thing. He could almost feel it brushing across his skin. Fear welled in him, and he gritted his teeth against it. There was nothing he could do, no one he could call out to. He guessed Ma would tell him to pray, but he was a man of action and it wasn’t like God would reach down into the bowels of the earth and pluck him out. He exhaled through pursed lips just to hear the sound of air moving and maybe, just maybe, there were words buried in that breath.<br />
After what seemed like an eternity, Judd heard a sound. Or thought he did. It might just be his ears wanting to hear something. A few minutes later, he heard a voice for sure and certain and saw a chink of light. His very being quivered, the sudden burst of hope almost more than he could bear. It took at least another hour before the men got to him, their lanterns flashing against the debris and hurting his light-starved eyes.<br />
“Don’t move, Judd, we’ve gotta get this beam off before we can dig you out.”<br />
“Ain’t goin’ nowhere,” he said.<br />
Martin Burr grunted as he shifted some more rock. “Reckon you ain’t.”<br />
Finally, Judd felt the weight on his chest ease. He took a good breath and thought maybe he did hurt some. He saw Martin’s grim face. The older man flinched and told Judd to brace himself. Pain seared his very soul, and Judd didn’t know anything more.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
~*~</div>
When he woke, Judd’s first thought was that he was still trapped in the mine. But the astringent smell and the squeak of a nurse’s shoes in the hall let him know he was in a hospital. He glanced to his right and saw a curtain drawn across a window. The room was barely lit—must be nighttime. To his left, he could see the shape of another man in another bed. He hoped it was Joe.<br />
Judd took that deep breath he’d been wanting back in the mine and moaned. He’d broken some ribs, sure as shootin’. Once the pain eased, he began to inventory his condition. Both hands worked fine. He reached up to rub the sleep from his eyes and found his right shoulder to be stiff but workable. He felt along his torso until he came to the bandages around his rib cage. Next he wiggled his toes—the left foot seemed fine, but his right leg appeared to be suspended some way—immobile. He was afraid to move around much, tender as his ribs were, but at least all his limbs were attached. That was something.<br />
Footsteps approached, and a nurse stepped inside the room.<br />
“Mr. Markley. You’re awake.”<br />
“Yes, ma’am. And I’m powerful thirsty.”<br />
“I’m not surprised—you’ve been here most of three days now.” She slipped over to the side of the bed and held a cup with a straw to his lips. The water slipped over his tongue like the first drink after a day spent in the hayfield. He guessed maybe he hadn’t died after all.<br />
“How are you feeling?”<br />
“With my hands.” Judd grinned and felt his dry lips crack. He licked them. “Guess I feel pretty good for a dead man.”<br />
The nurse smiled. “You’re actually quite lucky, Mr. Markley. The doctors thought they’d have to take off that leg, but it looks like you’ll get to keep it a little longer.”<br />
Judd tried to feel lucky, but found it beyond him at the moment. A sound came from the other bed, and he looked over to see Harry leaning over the bed rail.<br />
“Well if you ain’t a sight for sore eyes. I was afeared we lost you.”<br />
“Not this time around,” Judd said. “You must not be hurt too bad, sitting up there all lively like that.”<br />
Harry gave the nurse an appreciative look. “These gals would just about make a dead man sit up and take notice.”<br />
The nurse made a harrumphing sound but didn’t seem displeased. “I’m going to leave you boys to catch up. Breakfast will be around shortly.”<br />
Harry swung his legs over the side of his bed and squinted at Judd. “You’re lucky to be alive, son. I was farther out than you and just got knocked around a little, but I thought you was a goner for sure.”<br />
“What about Joe?”<br />
Harry blinked once. “Aww, they patched him up and sent him home. He’ll be back at it afore the week’s out.”<br />
“Say, whose foot was pressed up against my face then? If it wasn’t you, then who the heck was it?”<br />
Harry ducked his head. “Judd. That was your foot. That’s how come your leg’s all wrapped up like that. You’ve got enough steel in there to shoe a couple of horses.”<br />
Judd reached down and realized the heavy cast came clear up to his waist. “Am I gonna walk again?”<br />
“Don’t see why not. Seems like they wouldn’t have gone to all that trouble to give you a dead weight to drag around.”<br />
Judd rolled his head against the pillow, remembering the rough scrape of the boot against his cheek. His boot. He was beginning to feel pain all over—in his rib cage, his hips, his back. Seemed like everything but the hair on his head was starting to hurt.<br />
“Son, you don’t look so good. I’m gonna get that nurse back in here.”<br />
Judd thought to accuse his friend of calling the nurse back so he could get another look at her, but he didn’t have the grit to make a joke. He nodded and closed his eyes, grateful that even then, light filtered through his eyelids.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
~*~</div>
The nurse must’ve given him something to make him sleep. When Judd woke the second time, the first thing he realized was that he felt about half-starved. ’Course, he also felt like he’d been in a tussle with a freight train and lost, but he decided to focus on hungry. You couldn’t eat if you were dead, and in the dark of the mine he’d thought he might be dead for longer than he liked to remember.<br />
He pried his eyes open and found Harry sitting beside his bed, staring at him. There was also a tray on a table with a bowl of something that might’ve been hot once.<br />
“That stuff fit to eat?” he asked.<br />
Harry swallowed convulsively and pushed the bowl toward him. “I et mine and it didn’t do me no harm. You need help spooning it up?”<br />
Judd braced himself and pushed up a notch, grimacing as pain shot through him in so many places he couldn’t narrow it down to say what hurt. “If I do, I’ll ask that good-looking nurse.”<br />
He reached for the spoon and tasted some kind of bean soup. It was barely warm, but he swallowed it down and wished for a piece of corn bread and maybe a glass of cool buttermilk. His throat still felt raw and parched from the coal dust. Harry sat and watched like a hound dog hoping for a crumb.<br />
“Harry, I appreciate your concern, but you’re crowding me a mite. You want some soup?”<br />
Harry ducked his head and shifted in his chair. “I’ve got something to tell ya. I been waiting for you to wake up and eat—wanted you to get what rest you could.”<br />
Judd swallowed and left his spoon, which was getting downright heavy, in the half-empty bowl. “Spit her out, then.”<br />
“It’s Joe. I lied about him being alright.” Harry fisted his hands on his knees. “Them nurses said you needed time to heal afore I told you, but I don’t hold with lying and it’s been weighing on me.” He lifted his head to meet Judd’s eyes. “Joe didn’t make it. Looks like he died straight out—got hit in the head and probably didn’t know nothing about it.” Harry’s Adam’s apple bobbed and he lowered his eyes again. “I know you was real close to your brother, I couldn’t see keeping it from you.”<br />
Judd felt like the weight of the mountain was centered on his chest once again. He fought for air as surely as he had in the dark of the mine. Not Joe. Not his baby brother who’d always had dreams enough for both of them. He should have died; he should have found Joe and taken his place. He closed his eyes and focused on the pain in his ribs, his leg, his head—anything but the pain in his heart.<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Sarah Loudin Thomas, <i>The Sound of Rain</i> Bethany House, a division of Baker Publishing Group, © 2017.</span></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img alt="Sarah Loudin Thomas" height="200" src="https://pbs.twimg.com/profile_images/378800000340483566/0726e9cec07bd2bd0c90747e854b792b_400x400.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="200" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo Credit: © Kristen Delliveniri</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Sarah Loudin Thomas is a fundraiser for a children's ministry and has written for <i>Mountain Homes Southern Style</i> and <i>Now & Then</i> magazines, as well as <i>The Asheville Citizen-Times</i>. She is the author of <i>Miracle in a Dry Season</i>, <i>Until the Harvest</i>, and <i>A Tapestry of Secrets</i>. She holds a BA in English from Coastal Carolina University. She and her husband reside in Asheville, North Carolina. She can be found online at her <a href="http://www.sarahloudinthomas.com/">website</a>.<br />
<br />
***Thank you to Bethany House Publishers for sending this copy of <i>The Sound of Rain</i> by Sarah Loudin Thomas. This review was written in my own words. No other compensation was received.***</div>
Lane Hill Househttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12952459499802207852noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3948253853648439599.post-77038883539006651332017-12-09T10:46:00.000-06:002017-12-09T13:14:09.469-06:00A Dangerous Legacy by Elizabeth Camden, © 2017<img alt="Cover Art" src="http://cdn.bakerpublishinggroup.com/processed/books/covers/listing/9780764218811.jpg?1500915815" /><br />
<br />
My Review:<br />
<br />
New York City 1903<br />
Complications from generations back become forefront in the lives of Lucy Drake and her brother Nick. Competing with her Uncle Thomas and her cousin Tom Jr. becomes a full-time job, besides her actual decoding employment with the Associated Press. Will she and Nick be able to stay afloat, securing their rightful inheritance with Drake water valves? Seasoned and applicable knowledge handed down enables Nick to continue building the valves, but to what advantage when they are continually sucked into court to dispute their rights?<br />
<br />
<a href="https://i.pinimg.com/564x/34/7d/88/347d88c821ca242a43721f68e8527537.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="The Western Union Building, where Colin and Lucy work." border="0" src="https://i.pinimg.com/564x/34/7d/88/347d88c821ca242a43721f68e8527537.jpg" /></a>As if that isn't enough, Lucy becomes enwrapped with the London correspondent at Reuters, the British equivalent of AP. Both news agencies are housed in the Manhattan Western Union Telegraph Building a few floors apart. One advantage ~ or possibly disadvantage ~ is that they both are fluent in the signals of the short and long 'dots' and 'dashes' of Morris code. A homing pigeon becomes an ally between them delivering top-secret messages beyond the wire services. Sir Colin Beckwith, whom she honors with the title "Mr." Beckwith, will be at an advantage to form a friendship with her. Both uncertain which news agency will come out on top, they are dedicated to their positions and arrive early ~ early enough that they join together in investigating slow ups and snags beyond their usual messages. The international news agencies may discover their top sources.<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img alt="Lucy Drake" height="200" src="https://i.pinimg.com/564x/5e/5c/29/5e5c298d0f306bb69658868aebe6943f.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="133" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lucy Drake</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img alt="Sir Colin Beckwith" height="200" src="https://i.pinimg.com/564x/a7/71/ac/a771acb4ac4a6ea7b357ce936172fea7.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="95" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sir Colin Beckwith</td></tr>
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This story will wrap you in as you are eager to discover the wiretaps and outcomes of good versus evil.<br />
<br />
EnJ*O*Y this excerpt from Elizabeth Camden's <i>A Dangerous Legacy</i> ~ Chapter 1<br />
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Chapter</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">ONE</span></div>
<br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">New York City</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">1903</span><br />
<br />
The amount of female attention her brother garnered
never failed to amaze Lucy. Even when he was wearing
grubby coveralls and carrying a sack of plumber’s tools, girls
flocked around Nick as though he were Casanova. Lucy watched
from a few yards away as they waited for the streetcar after a
long day at work.<br />
Nick was fiercely intelligent, handsome, and had an easy
laugh, but what would those girls do if they knew that anyone
who befriended him would be targeted for complete and total
ruin? Few people lingered for long once they drew her uncle’s
attention. She and Nick had been raised since birth to be on
guard against underhanded attacks from Uncle Thomas, but it
would take someone with a backbone of steel to stand alongside
them once her uncle got wind of it.<br />
To the outside world, Lucy and her brother looked like normal,
hardworking people. Nick was employed by the Municipal
Water Authority, and she worked as a telegraph operator for the Associated Press. They didn’t have much of a life outside
of their jobs. The lawsuit consumed everything they had, for
she and Nick were the only two people left standing to carry
on the forty-year battle that had eroded their spirit, finances,
and even their safety.<br />
Lucy cut through the trio of girls flirting with her brother.
“Nick, I need to speak with you.”<br />
His smile broadened when he saw her, and it didn’t go unnoticed
by his admirers.<br />
One of the women sent Lucy a surly glare. “Who’s she?”<br />
“That’s the girl I’ve adored from the moment I first clapped
eyes on her,” Nick said. “Of course, at the time she was a
squalling infant and I was only three years old, but sisters can
grow on you.”<br />
The girls pealed with laughter and swatted Nick on the shoulder.
He didn’t seem to mind, grinning down at them with a
reckless smile that worked like a magnet on women. One of
the girls even reached up to tug on a lock of the wild, dark hair
he wore far too long.<br />
“Nick?” Lucy pressed, a little less patient this time. “Can I
speak with you? We’ve got a problem.”<br />
He must have noticed the tension in her voice, because he
picked up his tools and followed her a few yards away. “What’s
going on?”<br />
“I got word from Mr. Garzelli that a stranger was spotted
poking around his building. I’m worried Uncle Thomas might
have sent someone to sabotage the new valves. Mr. Garzelli has
cut off water to the building until you can check it out.”<br />
Nick’s mouth narrowed to a hard line. He’d spent the past
two weekends installing pumps and an ingenious set of valves
in a Lower East Side tenement building. It meant that two hundred
people living on the upper floors could have water pumped
up to their apartments for the first time. The valve had been invented by their grandfather. Such an ordinary-looking piece
of hardware, but one that was worth millions and had sparked
decades of litigation. Not that the people living in the tenement
cared about her family’s bitter lawsuit. All they wanted was to
stop lugging buckets of water up five flights of stairs every day.<br />
The stranger sniffing around the tenement building worried
Lucy. Their installation of those valves wasn’t technically illegal,
but if Uncle Thomas found out about it, he would make them
pay. She wouldn’t put it past him to have someone sabotage
their work. Mr. Garzelli was probably right to cut off the pumps
until Nick could verify it was safe.<br />
“You want us to go over tonight?” Nick asked. It had been a
long day for both of them, and the trip across town would take
an hour each way, but they didn’t have much choice.<br />
“It would be best.”<br />
He nodded, his expression grim. “I get it, but I’d rather go to
Uncle Thomas’s fancy mansion and cut the water to his house.
See how he likes it. See how he likes—”<br />
“Stop,” she said, laying a gentle hand on his sleeve. “Don’t
let him rattle you. We’ll handle this, just like we’ve handled
everything else over the years. We just need to keep our heads
on straight.”<br />
An hour later, they were in the basement of a tenement in
one of the worst sections of the city. Nick lay flat on his back,
pointing his fancy new flashlight beneath a complicated system
of valves and pumps, looking for signs of sabotage. Lucy sat on
an upended bucket, handing over tools as requested and trying
not to breathe too deeply. It smelled bad in this part of town,
with grimy streets, overcrowded apartments, and very little running
water flowing to the hundreds of residential buildings. Each
time she visited this section of town, the stench penetrated her
hair and clothes, making her wonder how anyone could bear to
live here. At least the people lucky enough to live in this building had running water thanks to Nick and her grandfather’s valve.
Everything about life for the people who lived here got better,
cleaner, and healthier as soon as they had enough pressure to
supply water to all eight floors.<br />
Footsteps sounded on the stairs as Mr. Garzelli joined them.
Nick slid out from beneath the valves and rolled into a sitting
position.<br />
“So someone has been sniffing around?” he asked.<br />
Mr. Garzelli nodded. “He was a skinny guy. Old. Shiftylooking.
One shoulder was twisted up almost like a hunchback.
It was that weird shoulder that made me remember him. I’ve
seen him around a couple of times before. My oldest boy caught
him trying to get in through the basement window, and he ran
off. And I saw him last weekend when you installed the valves.”<br />
Nick began putting his tools away. “It was a good idea to call
me, but it doesn’t look like there’s been any harm done. You
should probably get a better lock on that window, though.”<br />
“I know you’ve been in some kind of court business over
those valves,” Mr. Garzelli said. “You’re not going to get in
trouble for this, are you?”<br />
She and Nick risked awakening a sleeping giant every time
they installed her grandfather’s invention in another of Manhattan’s
endless tenement buildings, but Nick shrugged and
flashed an easygoing smile.<br />
“I’m more afraid of my baby sister than I am of that lawsuit,”
he said.<br />
“Miss Lucy?” Mr. Garzelli asked incredulously. “I don’t believe
it.”<br />
“You’ve never seen her when I burn dinner.” Nick hefted
his sack of tools over his shoulder. “Just don’t blab to anyone
about these valves. You can’t exactly hide the fact that you’ve
got hot and cold running water throughout the building, but
no need to mention my name, right?”<br />
“Okay, you got it, Nick,” Mr. Garzelli said with a hearty
handshake.<br />
The sun had already set by the time Lucy and Nick returned
to Greenwich Village. They lived on the fourth floor of a brownstone
walk-up that had once been a prestigious building but had
fallen on hard times in recent decades. Much like her own family.<br />
She twisted the key in the lock to the apartment, stepped
inside the darkened interior, and immediately knew something
was wrong. Her nose twitched. Cigarette smoke?<br />
That was odd. No one should have been in the apartment
today. Their mother had moved to Boston after their father’s
death almost a year ago, and they no longer had money for
servants.<br />
When her eyes adjusted to the dim interior, she scanned the
room, looking for anything out of place. Nick’s half-assembled
pumping valves lay scattered across the dining table, their
mother’s leggy orchids lined the windowsill, and books were
crammed into every vacant table space and cubby. Their once-fine
furnishings had witnessed several generations of use and
no longer had any pretensions of grandeur, but everything had
the comfort of a much-loved blanket. Their family had once
been happy here.<br />
“You weren’t home today, were you?” she asked.<br />
Nick strode inside and tossed his sack of tools onto the sofa
with a thud. “Nope. Why?”<br />
“Don’t you smell cigarette smoke?”<br />
He paused to sniff the air, then shrugged. “The lady who
lives upstairs smokes like a freight train. It’s probably coming
through the ventilation pipes.”<br />
“Are you sure about that?” Nick was a plumber, not an expert
on ventilation, but he seemed unconcerned.<br />
“I’m not <i>that</i> paranoid,” he said as he headed to the kitchen
sink to scrub his hands.<br />
He might not mind the faint acrid scent, but it was worrisome.
Everything looked precisely as she’d left it, but her skin
still prickled with the hunch that someone had been in their
apartment while they were gone.<br />
She took a deep breath and wished her father were here. He
had been the rock on which their family depended, but toward
the end of his life, she’d sensed he was losing hope. She’d often
caught him standing before the window, staring down at the
street below with bleak eyes, as if the demons were finally catching
up with him. The week before he died, she’d arrived home
from the office early one day and caught him staring at a paper
clenched in his hand, his face carrying a sickly pallor. She flew
to his side and asked what was wrong, and he startled. That was
the first time she saw pure, undiluted fear on her father’s face.<br />
He had stuffed the paper into a maroon satchel and denied
anything was wrong, but she knew he was lying. His hands
had been trembling as he locked the satchel in his desk drawer.<br />
After he died, she went in search of that satchel, but it was
nowhere to be found. She and Nick turned the apartment inside
out in search of it. They even pried up the floorboards in the
kitchen, where they hid the only treasure left to their family. The
treasure was still there, but no sign of the satchel. She never did
find it, and Lucy couldn’t help but think that it somehow contributed
to her father’s death the following week. He’d always
had a weak heart, and whatever was in that maroon satchel
had petrified him.<br />
Lucy heated a can of baked beans for their supper. She and
Nick alternated kitchen duties, and it was always a simple affair.
After ten hours of staffing a telegraph station, she didn’t
need anything fancy. All she cared about was easy.<br />
It didn’t take long to wolf down the meal, and she volunteered
to clean up afterward while Nick flopped on their worn sofa and
paged through the day’s mail. They both worked long hours, but she spent hers at a desk while Nick performed physically
demanding labor deep beneath the city streets as he helped
install the massive underground pumps that kept freshwater
moving in and out of the city.<br />
Water flowed from the tap as she rinsed the cooking pot. Even
though they lived on the fourth floor, their grandfather’s valves
in the building’s basement supplied the perfect amount of water
pressure to their apartment. They lived in a clean, respectable
building with an excellent supply of water, but only a few miles
away, the city teemed with over a million people crammed into
tenements without proper plumbing. At least there was one
more building in the city that now had running water.<br />
She flashed a smile of accomplishment Nick’s way and noticed
him staring at the floor, his shoulders slumped as he held
a letter in his hands.<br />
“What’s wrong?” she asked, turning off the tap.<br />
“This is from our lawyer. Uncle Thomas is after us again.”<br />
She stiffened. “What is he claiming this time?”<br />
“He’s accusing us of acting in bad faith. They want the judge
to throw our case out.”<br />
“Bad faith” could mean almost anything, but there was only
one truly underhanded thing she and Nick had been doing, and
it was the sole reason they’d been able to stay ahead of Thomas
Drake’s swarm of lawyers all these years.<br />
She set down the dish towel, holding her breath. “You don’t
think he knows, do you?”<br />
“If he does, we’re done for.”<br />
Lucy sighed and nodded, wandering to the worn dining
table, exhaustion setting in as she plopped into a chair. It was
getting hard to keep fighting Uncle Thomas and his family,
who lived like European royalty at their mansion in upstate
New York. The Saratoga Drakes had been using the fortune
from her grandfather’s invention to launch legal salvos at the Manhattan Drakes for decades. Lucy had no proof yet, but she
sensed the Saratoga Drakes might have somehow been behind
her father’s death. The doctor said it was a heart attack, but
Lucy couldn’t be certain.<br />
Was the lawsuit worth it? Her gaze tracked to the faucet.
How easily most people took clean water for granted, but she
never did. Neither did Mr. Garzelli or the rest of his two hundred
tenants.<br />
Yes. The lawsuit was worth it, even if it meant she became
a spinster and had to fear the scent of cigarette smoke leaking
through her apartment’s ventilation system. She had an obligation
to her father and grandfather to keep fighting the Saratoga
Drakes. Her uncle had a fortune, an army of lawyers, and three
rounds of lower court decisions on his side. Most importantly,
he had no soul, and that let him fight with the single-minded
zeal of a jackal.<br />
But she and Nick had a weapon the Saratoga Drakes knew
nothing about. For two years it had served to keep them one
step ahead of her uncle and all his scheming. It was a risky
weapon that could land her and Nick in jail, but with luck, it
would also finally turn the tide in the Manhattan Drakes’ favor.<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Elizabeth Camden, <i>A Dangerous Legacy</i>
Bethany House, a division of Baker Publishing Group, © 2017. Used by permission.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span>
***Thank you to Bethany House Publishers for sending a print copy. This review was written in my own words. No other compensation was received.***Lane Hill Househttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12952459499802207852noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3948253853648439599.post-35317864773111094962017-12-07T22:13:00.001-06:002017-12-07T22:47:55.157-06:00Mrs. Oswald Chambers: The Woman behind the World's Bestselling Devotional by Michelle Ule, © 2017<img alt="Cover Art" src="http://cdn.bakerpublishinggroup.com/processed/books/covers/listing/9780801075148.jpg?1499764799" /> <img alt="Who Wrote My Utmost for His Highest and How? Part II" src="https://i.pinimg.com/564x/c2/24/59/c22459558029f534806e1dc142ccd89c.jpg" /><br />
<br />
My Review:<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
~* Finding God's Fingerprints in Everyday Life *~</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
</blockquote>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://i.pinimg.com/564x/4e/54/2d/4e542d61ea5ccf02c4aeb75bdbe82fc0.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="Oswald And Biddy" border="0" src="https://i.pinimg.com/564x/4e/54/2d/4e542d61ea5ccf02c4aeb75bdbe82fc0.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://utmost.org/">(Credit)</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
God's grace in understanding His truth in our lives that our devotion to Him be enriched! This story of pursuing His highest purpose for each life is our relationship with Him. Pointed not to man, but to God be the glory!<br />
<br />
<a href="https://i.pinimg.com/564x/6c/bf/de/6cbfde833f2a2abc49cec143f66986d0.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="Training In Egypt. 1. Part of Zeitoun Camp. 2. A.M.R. on training trek. Halt on Ismalia Canal, on the way to Delta Barrage. 3. Regiment crossing Barrage Bridge over the Nile." border="0" height="400" src="https://i.pinimg.com/564x/6c/bf/de/6cbfde833f2a2abc49cec143f66986d0.jpg" width="240" /></a>
Responsibilities assigned as new YMCA secretary near Cairo, Egypt ~ an expedition to the Zuitoun camp brought soldiers under Oswald's spiritual care. Joined by his wife and daughter, and others, they were missionaries amid those far from home delivering what was needed truth and a respite to receive a touch of home ~ and gathered hope.<br />
<br />
The YMCA camp became a haven from war as a welcome was given whether or not they listened to Oswald's lectures. An oasis of God's love in the desert.<br />
<br />
This biography tells of their beginnings and continuance upon Oswald's death and burial in Eygpt.<br />
<br />
As I read this account I think of Elisabeth Elliot and her daughter, Valerie, as they continued in the work the Lord presented before them. Both widows, with a daughter; Biddy's account:<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Biddy believed God had reasons for giving her Kathleen to raise without a father. God also had provided a task: to put Oswald's teachings into writing for the spiritual benefit of others. She believed God would care for her and her child as she performed her ministry.<br />
--<i>Mrs. Oswald Chambers: The Woman behind the World's Bestselling Devotional</i>, 154.</blockquote>
Seaming together Oswald Chambers' lectures along with adjoining memories, his wife, Biddy, compiled her handwritten and shorthand notes combining his varied talks to compose the widely-read devotional, <i>My Utmost for His Highest</i>. God's journey individually for readers has been experienced through reflection of these readings. This devotional has not gone out of printing since its inception.<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
She pieced together a crazy quilt of concepts into a beautiful work of practical spiritual warmth.<br />
--<i>Ibid.</i>, 230.</blockquote>
<div style="text-align: center;">
~*~</div>
EnJ*O*Y this excerpt from <i>Mrs. Oswald Chambers: The Woman behind the World's Bestselling Devotional</i> ~ Prologue and Chapter 1<br />
<br />
<div style="height: 307px; overflow: auto;">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Prologue</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Faith and Experience (November 13, 1908)</i></div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">How can anyone who is identified with Jesus Christ suffer
from doubt or fear?1</span></span></blockquote>
The cathedral loomed as they exited the tube station into a
crisp November morning in 1908. Gertrude Hobbs’s blue
eyes twinkled at Oswald Chambers from beneath her black straw
hat as she took his arm. “You want to show me St. Paul’s?”<br />
The morning light shadowed his high cheekbones. “Have you
been here before, Beloved Disciple Biddy?”<br />
She loved to hear him use his new nickname for her. “Of course
I have.”<br />
He patted her hand. “There’s something new inside I want to
show you.”<br />
They strolled past the booksellers’ warehouses to the western
face of England’s “mother church.” The cathedral sat on the highest
spot in London and showcased the city’s tallest spire, pointing to
God. Twenty-four broad stone steps brought them to the entrance.<br />
The morning was a gift; they had so little opportunity to spend
time with each other. Their affection had developed during a ten-day voyage to America, a few quick visits in New York City,
and many exchanged letters. Biddy had quit her job in New York
and returned to England because of his words.<br />
Finally reunited, they only had the weekend in London. Oswald
would leave within days to speak at League of Prayer meetings in
Ireland, northern England, and Scotland. They didn’t know when
they’d meet again.<br />
Written words sustained and nourished their hearts, always, but
that Friday morning Oswald directed Biddy to an oil painting not
far from the glorious dome. She’d read about it in the newspaper.
“The sermon in a frame?”<br />
Holman Hunt’s painting “The Light of the World” depicted
Jesus dressed in kingly robes in a dark garden, a lighted lantern
in one hand, the other stretched to knock on a humble wooden
door without a knob.<br />
Revelation 3:20 had inspired the painting: “Behold, I stand at
the door, and knock: if any man hear my voice, and open the door,
I will come in to him, and will sup with him, and he with me.”<br />
Evangelists recognized the painting as a clarion call to show how
Jesus awaits invitation into each person’s heart. Oswald indicated
the crown of thorns Jesus wore, and they discussed the painting
before he explained why he wanted her to see it.<br />
Oswald needed Biddy to understand that if she married him,
their home would be meager, with their lives “going heart and
soul into literary and itinerating work for Him. It will be hard
and glorious and arduous.”2<br />
Biddy knew marriage to Oswald would not be a relationship
focused on each other. God’s call commanded Oswald’s time and
attention. She viewed her role in partnership with him and God
as a helpmeet—a woman specifically designed for Oswald’s needs
and God’s purposes.
Her beloved painted no romantic pictures. Indeed, Oswald cautioned,
“I have nothing to offer you but my love and steady lavish
service for Him.”3<br />
Captivated by her faith in God and the man before her, Biddy
agreed. Before the Hunt painting, Oswald and Biddy promised to
follow God’s lead together and to give their utmost energies to
accomplish God’s highest plans.<br />
But what kind of woman would accept such a challenging
proposal?<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">1</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Discovering Divine Designs</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
1883–1907</div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Never allow that the haphazard is anything less than God’s
appointed order.1</span></div>
<br />
The fog would gather quietly in the moist winter night above
London’s Thames River. Born of cold air, the murky cloudiness
would deepen and thicken as it moved over the water toward
land. It would then crawl up the riverbanks north and south and
cloak feeble gas streetlamps struggling to push back the dark.<br />
As dawn broke and the sun rose, the fog and coal smoke mixture—
first called “smog” in 1905—would turn yellowish brown with a
smoky, acidic smell. For young and old people suffering from inflamed
lungs or fragile hearts, the sooty particulates swelled air
passages and gripped chests.<br />
One such winter’s day in 1895, the smog wisped through the
massive Royal Arsenal walls ten miles east of Big Ben on the
Thames. It drifted by the Royal Army barracks and slipped along Woolwich’s narrow streets to a townhouse set behind a flower
garden: #4 Bowater Crescent.<br />
The smog’s microscopic particles slid under the door and found
twelve-year-old Gertrude Annie Hobbs. Her lungs seized into airsucking
spasms.<br />
She struggled to climb the stairs to the bedroom she shared
with her sixteen-year-old sister, Dais. Her congested chest weighed
heavy, and she could not catch her breath even when she lay down.
Weariness plagued her, and schoolwork, even the literature she
loved, blurred into bewilderment. Gert closed her aching eyes to
rest, yet her mind raced.<br />
At first her mother thought Gert must have caught the type of
cold virus most people endured in a Victorian England of sodden
handkerchiefs and close rooms. In an era before antibiotics and
asthma inhalers, effective treatments were limited. Emily Hobbs
plumped up her daughter’s pillows, steamed the room with a boiling
kettle, and prayed.<br />
Henry Hobbs returned from the gas works that evening and
stared at his youngest child, her wan features a mirror of his exhaustion.
Her rattled breathing and dark-circled eyes troubled him.
The son of a master baker, Henry had seen many men laboring
to breathe flour-choked air in the bakery kitchen. His own father
gasped for breath a mile away in his home on Powis Street.2<br />
They called the doctor. Tapping on Gert’s chest and listening,
he diagnosed bronchitis, a viral inflammation of the lungs now
known to be exacerbated by air pollution.<br />
Physicians in the 1890s prescribed opium or morphine for bronchitis,
along with an expectorant to clear the lungs. Emily fed her
child wintergreen drops to soothe the searing coughs. She pushed
her lips into a reassuring smile as she listened to Gert’s wheezing
and watched the girl’s red-cheeked attempts to take a deep breath.<br />
Eleven thousand people in greater London died of bronchitis
in 1895.3<br />
But not Gertrude Annie Hobbs.<br />
The smog eased in the spring when household chimneys belched
less smoke. Migrating birds returned, flowers pushed through the
warm soil, and Gert’s lungs cleared. She returned to school behind
in her studies. Nineteenth-century teachers emphasized rote
memory work, which made it harder to keep up outside of class,
but in her quest to be perfect, Gert tried.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
~*~</div>
The blue-eyed girl with wavy dark hair who had languished
during the winter months blossomed in the summer as she played
tennis with Dais and their mother. She resumed piano lessons,
cavorted with the family dog, and rode her bicycle in nearby Woolwich
Commons. The family sang hymns around the piano in the
evenings. They read aloud and laughed together. The tension eased
from Henry’s shoulders and Emily set aside her fears.<br />
A cheerful woman, Emily Hobbs combined her fondness for
entertaining and playing tennis by hosting frequent tennis parties.
Emily handled the cooking and baking while employing a
live-in teenage servant to help with the rough work. Like her
daughters, she cherished books and, thankfully for all, Woolwich
boasted several lending libraries. While deeply in love with her
hardworking husband, Emily delighted in her three clever children:
Edith Mary (called Dais—short for Daisy), born in 1879,
Herbert (called Bert), born in 1881, and Gertrude (called Gert),
born in 1883.<br />
The Hobbs children grew up during the final two decades of
Queen Victoria’s reign. Bowater Crescent rang with cadences from
the nearby barracks and the hoofbeats of military and civilian
mounts headed south to Woolwich Common. Soldiers attached
to the Royal Regiment of Artillery frequented the neighborhood
as they marched to the Royal Arsenal.<br />
The 150-acre Royal Arsenal stretched for a mile along the Thames
waterfront. Tons of coal smoke poured from its lofty smokestacks as
thousands of employees manufactured armaments and performed weapons research. Not long after Gert’s birth, an explosion at the
arsenal sent rockets flying up to two miles away.<br />
Woolwich residents ignored such dangers. The town’s fortunes
rose and fell with the Royal Arsenal, which provided the necessary
income—whether at the arsenal or in related industries—for the
seventy-five thousand people living in the area.<br />
And yet the arsenal’s industrial smoke mingled with the deep
fog each fall and winter. When this smog enveloped the town in
1896, Gert’s lungs clamped down again. Feeling as if iron boots
weighted her chest, she returned to bed. Fever took hold, her airways
narrowed, and Emily ran for the kettle.<br />
Gert spent her time reading—Robert Louis Stevenson’s stories
were favorites—and trying to keep up with her studies. She
recovered in the 1897 spring, but her bronchitis roared back again
in the fall.<br />
Concerns for Gert’s health intensified in October 1897 when
Henry’s father died from asthenia—exhaustion compounded by respiratory
issues.4
Emily and Henry watched their daughter carefully.
She might outgrow the bronchitis, but it often led to pneumonia.
With Gert’s weakened lungs, tuberculosis could set in—always
a concern in the nineteenth century. In 1900, 407 people died of
either bronchitis or tuberculosis in Woolwich.<br />
Despite her efforts, Gert fell too far behind in school. Her parents
removed her for good in early 1898. She was fourteen.<br />
Girls of Gert’s social class generally finished school at sixteen,
often to prepare for marriage. Gert, however, preferred to follow
Dais’s example. The close-knit sisters wanted to marry someday,
but for the immediate future they aimed for success in the working
world.<br />
Dais took to heart her mother’s fears of financial ruin and pondered
her father’s faltering health and long working hours. When
she neared graduation, Dais applied herself to the skills necessary
for office work—the most acceptable alternative to teaching for
women on the cusp of the twentieth century.<br />
At five feet, five inches, a tall woman for the time, Dais stood ramrod
straight with narrow, sloping shoulders and a tightly corseted
waist. With straight dark brows above blue eyes, she wore her curly
brown hair knotted on top of her head. Precise and efficient, loving
and generous, Dais doted on her mother and encouraged her
sister’s dreams.5<br />
With the same height and bright blue eyes as Dais, Gert had
a rounder face and dark hair that often escaped its hairpins into
tendrils. She never showed her teeth in photos and her trim figure
resembled her sister’s, though she was not as tightly corseted.6<br />
As the miserable 1897–98 winter slipped into spring and Gert’s
breathing eased, her restless mind, denied school, sought another
outlet. Gert wanted to help the family, a desire made imperative
by her fifty-year-old father’s failing health. Her family history—
particularly on the maternal side—underscored the reason for
concern.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
~*~</div>
Raised by Woolwich master baker Samuel Hobbs and his wife,
Mary Whiteman Hobbs, Henry was the oldest of three sons. The
whole family worked in the bakery (Mary behind the counter),
but Henry did not want to be a baker.<br />
Emily Amelia Gardner, meanwhile, grew up in Gravesend, the
youngest of six children of master baker George Gardner and his
wife, Ann Whiteman Gardner. Ann Gardner was Mary Hobbs’s
sister, making Henry and Emily first cousins.<br />
The Gardner household once employed servants but, by Emily’s
birth, an embezzling business partner had destroyed the family’s standard
of living. George Gardner’s 1866 death scattered his family into
poverty and forced Emily to move in with a widowed cousin’s family
in London. At age sixteen, she became little more than a servant.7<br />
By the 1871 census, twenty-one-year-old Henry worked as a
clerk in a Greenwich church. It’s not clear when Henry and Emily
first fell in love, but their parents did not approve of their proposed marriage, possibly because they were cousins. Kathleen Chambers
later surmised the families disliked the disparity in their social
situations, which, combined with Emily’s longing for financial
security, may have been the catalyst for Henry’s ambition and
hard work.<br />
By the time of his 1875 elopement with Emily, Henry worked
as an auctioneer. Shortly thereafter, he took a position as a commercial
clerk—a midlevel accountant—to provide Emily with
the lifestyle she craved.8
As Henry advanced in the Woolwich gas
works, they moved from rented rooms to a leased townhouse on
Bowater Crescent, cementing their advancement into the middle
class of Queen Victoria’s day. Emily settled into her happy life.<br />
But Henry Hobbs died suddenly on June 18, 1898, three weeks
before Gert’s fifteenth birthday. His death certificate listed the
cause as “cerebral atrophy and exhaustion,” the equivalent of a
stroke in modern medicine.<br />
Her husband’s death devastated Emily Hobbs. She lost her
emotional, financial, and personal support in one cruel blow, far
too reminiscent of her father’s catastrophic death.<br />
Henry had rescued her from “poor relation” status with their
marriage, and Emily cherished their life. While he left a comfortable
estate, the 2015 equivalent of $220,000, the inheritance would
require careful management to sustain the family—particularly
Emily—for the rest of her life. And Emily did not have the training
for such a task.9<br />
Dais stepped into the financial gap and went to work as a clerk
in a money-order office of the British postal service. Bert found a
clerking position at the Woolwich gas works. The family released
their servant and took in a boarder. The women shared cooking,
cleaning, and laundry chores.<br />
Gert finally outgrew her bronchitis, though she sustained permanent
hearing loss in her left ear. Determined to contribute to
the family finances as well, she signed up for a Pittman Shorthand
correspondence course. Times were changing. The Royal Arsenal had hired its first four female typists in 1895 (out of some fourteen
thousand workers), and accomplished female stenographers could
find employment in the business community.10<br />
Gert quickly mastered the basic components of shorthand:
hooked dashes and curved marks differentiated by their width
and placement on a line. Similar to learning a foreign language, the
more she practiced, the less she needed to “interpret” the sounds
into symbols on the page. Her fingers soon automatically responded
and penciled shorthand into a notebook.<br />
Dais and Emily helped her practice. Using a yellow Dixon pencil,
Gert placed the sharpened lead on the left-hand side of the paper
and, listening carefully, wrote in a fluid motion whatever Dais or
Emily read aloud. Once Gert “took down” the passage, she read
it back to check for accuracy. Her ability to decipher her notes
without error demonstrated her mastery of the skill. Gert always
strived for perfection in everything she did; she sensed a path to
future success with stenography.<br />
An 1895 article in the <i>Manchester City News</i> noted salaries
would double if a woman possessed two skills, as “the rates of pay
testify to the desirability of making typewriting and shorthand
go hand in hand . . . it is essential that girls who desire to become
typists should be well up in English composition—spelling and
correct punctuation being indispensable. They must be businesslike,
neat, attentive, accurate, and loyal to their employers.”11<br />
And so, as soon as she mastered shorthand, Gert turned her nimble,
piano-playing fingers to a boxy black typewriter and learned
how to touch type. Her goal? She wanted to be the first female
secretary to the prime minister of England.<br />
Once confident in her abilities, Gert applied for a job at the
Woolwich Royal Arsenal. Hired as a typist, the diligent Gert got
along well with her employer and colleagues, especially another
typist her age named Marian Leman.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
~*~</div>
With her children gainfully employed, Emily managed the household
and dealt with her grief. Their boarder, Reverend Charles
Hutchinson, may have encouraged her faith and membership in a
local Baptist church.<br />
Emily spent her free time reading and studying the Bible, praying,
and having friends in for tea. Her faith grew even as the family’s
financial circumstances changed. At some point after 1901,
Reverend Hutchinson left Woolwich, Bert moved out, and the
women had to seek a smaller home.<br />
They relocated to #38 Shooter’s Hill Gardens on Westmount
Road, a few miles south in Eltham. Built of brick on the flanks
of Shooter’s Hill (the highest elevation in Kent, with views to
London), the new two-story row house boasted a small garden
facing the wide street. They could walk to the shops on nearby
High Street and to local parks.12<br />
Dressed in fashionable white shirtwaists and dark skirts with
straw hats perched on their heads, Dais and Gert would catch
public transportation to their Woolwich jobs each morning. Despite
being in their early twenties, neither woman had marriage
prospects on the horizon.<br />
Emily Hobbs transferred her Woolwich church membership to
the newly formed Eltham Park Baptist Church down the street.
Her daughters joined her, and the three women participated in
the ministries and services held at the simple hall.13<br />
Eltham Park Baptist Church’s first pastor preached his first sermon
on Easter Sunday, 1904. The Reverend Arthur C. Chambers
had come to the fledgling congregation from a nearby Baptist
church. Under his pastoral leadership, membership quickly grew
to 140 worshiping in the service and 150 attending Sunday school.<br />
Emily’s warmth and hospitable nature overflowed to church
members. Sunday afternoon tea provided opportunities for further
fellowship and their cozy home soon filled with new friends.
Gert’s spiritual life remained private; she never spoke of giving
her heart to Christ or professed any sort of testimony. Yet, throughout her life, anything that caught her interest received
full exploration. She studied the Bible and memorized the psalms.
After her many disappointments, the loss of her father and the
dissolution of their home, the psalms brought comfort.<br />
Dais remained equally silent about her faith. The two sisters
applied for church membership at Eltham Park Baptist Church
within the year. They were baptized together by immersion at
the October 29, 1905, evening service. Gert was twenty-two, Dais
twenty-six.14 Their overjoyed mother wrote her “darling girls” a
letter commemorating the event:<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">My heart is too full for me to say all I should like to you both, it is
full of joy at the step you are taking today, a step that will brighten
and influence all your life. May that dear Savior. . . . Be very near to
you and may you realize the strength of the promises. . . . It makes
me so happy to see you both working for the Master.</span></blockquote>
In the letter, Emily also referenced her disappointment that Bert
showed no interest in God. She urged her daughters to pray for
him. Her final words were those of a doting mother:<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">God bless you darlings for all your loving thoughtful care for me,
bless you in all your undertakings, ever guide, guard, comfort and
strengthen you, and give you much joy in His service. So prays your
very loving Mother.15</span></blockquote>
Emily couldn’t have suspected her prescience the day she penned
her letter. Gert’s first step into service to God became a lifelong
walk in obedience and sacrifice.<br />
Shortly after the happy baptism, Reverend Arthur Chambers’s
youngest brother came to Eltham to lead a weeklong mission during
the Christmas holidays. With a budding reputation as a galvanizing
and learned lecturer for the interdenominational League
of Prayer, Oswald Chambers spoke nightly on how to be yielded
to the Holy Spirit.<br />
The six-foot-tall man who addressed the congregation that December
was in his early thirties. Angular and lanky with deep-set
blue eyes and brown hair swept from a receding hairline, Oswald
Chambers relished opportunities to talk about Jesus Christ, the
Holy Spirit, and God himself.<br />
Genial, with a playful sense of humor, and gifted with words,
he talked quickly and with an intensity that captured his listeners’
attention. Oswald lectured extemporaneously, without notes.
His only goal: “To have honorable mention in somebody’s life in
introducing them to God.”16<br />
All three well-read Hobbs women appreciated the depth of his
teaching. For Gert, his sermons provided opportunities to practice
her stenography skills; she listened and learned better when her
hands were engaged.<br />
Emily naturally invited the visiting preacher to the house for
tea, no doubt thinking such a godly man must be in want of a
good wife.<br />
And with such invitations to tea continuing from Emily, Oswald
Chambers visited the family whenever he filled in for Arthur. An
articulate guest full of stories and a lover of literature and God,
not to mention music, hymns, and dogs, Oswald felt at ease in
the Hobbs home.<br />
He was not, however, seeking a wife.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
~*~</div>
The seventh of eight children born to devout parents in 1874,
Oswald spent his early childhood in Scotland and northern England.
The family moved to London in 1890. As a teenager, he
accompanied his father, Reverend Clarence Chambers, to hear
Reverend Charles Spurgeon preach at London’s Metropolitan
Tabernacle. Oswald gave his life to God that night.<br />
Notably talented in music and art, Oswald played the organ,
trained at London’s Royal College of Art, and returned to Scotland
in 1895 to study art at the University of Edinburgh.<br />
He also pondered theology and visited local churches to hear the accomplished
preachers then occupying Edinburgh’s pulpits.
He saw himself as a bridge between intellectuals and God. Oswald
anticipated his love for literature, music, and art, along with
his devotion to the gospel, would surely touch a chord in the lives
of sensitive artists.<br />
Jobs and income, however, did not materialize. Eventually Oswald
came to the reluctant conclusion God might be calling him to
the ministry. Despite feeling far from God at the time, he enrolled
at Dunoon Bible College near Glasgow in 1897, where Reverend
Duncan MacGregor, founder of the small college, mentored him.<br />
God finally breached Oswald’s dark spiritual period during a
1901 meeting of the local League of Prayer, where he claimed the
gift of the Holy Spirit as a result of Luke 11:13: “If ye then, being
evil, know how to give good gifts unto your children: how much
more shall your heavenly Father give the Holy Spirit to them that
ask him?”<br />
As part of the Holiness Movement then sweeping the British
Isles and America, the League of Prayer focused on an individual’s
personal salvation and how to apply God’s moral law to behavior.
Oswald appreciated the League’s focus on prayer, church revival,
and the spread of biblical knowledge—which corresponded to
God’s emphasis in his own life.<br />
The League, which operated one hundred centers around the
British Isles (including thirty in London alone),17 sponsored more
than thirteen thousand services in 1897. It also published a monthly
magazine, <i>Tongues of Fire</i> (later retitled <i>Spiritual Life</i>), for which
Oswald occasionally wrote. League of Prayer founder Reader Harris
recognized and encouraged Oswald as a promising speaker
and teacher. Shortly after meeting the Hobbs family in late 1905,
Oswald became a volunteer circuit lecturer with the League.<br />
He received no salary and lodged with League of Prayer members
in the towns where he spoke. Offerings and personal gifts covered his
train fares. The lack of a salary didn’t bother Oswald—he believed God would provide for all his needs and had ample experience of
him doing so.<br />
Oswald soon became friends with Japanese evangelist Juji Nakada.
He traveled to America with Nakada in November 1906 to
teach a course at God’s Bible School, which was affiliated with
the Holiness Movement, in Cincinnati, Ohio.<br />
Afterward, the two journeyed to Japan, where Oswald examined
international evangelism and missionary work. He resumed
speaking for the League of Prayer when he returned to England in
late 1907. (Upon his return, Oswald pulled a coin from his pocket
to show his brother and pointed out he had traveled around the
world on a mere shilling!)<br />
As the years went by, Oswald concentrated his thoughts on God
rather than on seeking a wife. A teenage romance had brought
joy and anguish, leaving him reluctant to invite a woman into his
nomadic ministry life. Oswald served God better unencumbered.
He didn’t have the income to support a wife, much less a home.<br />
Loved by dogs, children, old ladies, and members of the League
of Prayer, Oswald was welcomed everywhere by Christians who
wanted to advance the kingdom of God. His relationships remained
cordial with no suggestion of anything beyond good fellowship.<br />
And so his friendship with the Hobbs women proceeded amiably
for two and a half years—until one day, when Emily Hobbs
wrote him a letter.<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Michelle Ule, <i>Mrs. Oswald Chambers</i>
Baker Books, a division of Baker Publishing Group, © 2017. Used by permission.</span></div>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img alt="Oswald Chambers" src="https://i.pinimg.com/564x/21/ee/fd/21eefd07edd51c860af188cae7503834.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">author Michelle Ule</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Oswald Chambers 1874-1917</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Biddy Chambers 1884-1966</div>
<br />
***Thank you to author Michelle Ule for this biographical account forming this book, and to Baker Books Bloggers for supplying a copy. This review was written in my own words. No other compensation was received.***<br />
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<br />
<br />Lane Hill Househttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12952459499802207852noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3948253853648439599.post-60279254863664848512017-12-06T00:58:00.000-06:002017-12-06T00:58:15.984-06:00Colors of Christmas by Olivia Newport, © 2017<span style="font-size: large;">Two Contemporary Stories</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Celebrate the Hope of Christmas</span><br />
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<img src="http://www.barbourbooks.com/Custom/ProductImageHandler.ashx?ProductID=14800&endHeight=399&endWidth=262&fillBackground=false&VerticalCenter=false" /><br />
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<div style="text-align: left;">
My Review:</div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq" style="text-align: left;">
She had learned long ago that the oddest things provoked deeply buried memories.<br />
--<i>Colors of Christmas</i>, 11</blockquote>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<a href="https://encrypted-tbn0.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcQlqwdscn04wVDmuP3i1tlDueYCjqDCI5J3rujsji9WZaSE9dGF" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="Image result for gold ornaments christmas tree" border="0" height="123" src="https://encrypted-tbn0.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcQlqwdscn04wVDmuP3i1tlDueYCjqDCI5J3rujsji9WZaSE9dGF" width="200" /></a>Sounds, smells, sights ~ an occurrence that jolts a long-hidden part so tangible you could reach out and touch it. Changes. But... an exciting place to be ~ for such a time as this. How our lives mesh with another when we barely realize the true impact we have made to encourage and bring a change to their life. Astrid has moved from her home to assisted living and discovers a sweetness she might have missed if her life had gone on "as usual."<br />
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<a href="about:invalid#zClosurez" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Image result for gold ornaments christmas tree" border="0" 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" /></a>This is a story of how a shared life can make a difference. Sharing from a lifetime of love chosen in place of despair and uncertainty to courage and fortitude. Astrid brings joy to this Christmas from the depth of her many days.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
The value of keepsakes is the memory in them.</blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
The hope of the world.<br />
The hope of the despairing.<br />
The hope of all who seek God's abundant life.<br />
--<i>Ibid</i>., 164</blockquote>
You won't want to miss this story of God's great Love brought to earth in His Own Son.<br />
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Christmas in Gold</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">This book has two Christmas novellas, “Christmas in Gold” and “Christmas in Blue.” The first one is rooted in the story of a real person, Astrid, an older woman I met at the gym. I first heard her story at a Culvers restaurant and scribbled notes on a pile of brown napkins. Despite tragedies and setbacks, she is one of the most faith-filled and hope-filled people you could ever meet. It brought me joy to bring her story to life in “Christmas in Gold,” with fictional framing. A few days ago I took copies to people at the gym who know the real Astrid and are eager to learn more of her story through my book. ~ author Olivia Newport (<a href="http://www.olivianewport.com/2017/10/colors-of-christmas-release-day/">Credit</a>)</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
~*~</div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
No one with a musical bent ever regretted learning the piano, especially someone who did not yet know he would grow up to be a composer.<br />
--<i>Ibid</i>., 170</blockquote>
The J*O*Y we find in the future from the small things that become important later on...<br />
<br />
Angela Carter finds that her repetition may just be the very thing that encourages another when they find they need it most. A memory interwoven that sparks and jolts today when it is least expected.<br />
<br />
Teaching young students, she hopes to instill in them the melody of her heart ~ music floating on a breeze when it becomes so much a part of you that you are unaware when you come to the end of the composition.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
A Christmas to Remember</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Blitzen</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/originals/fb/60/3b/fb603b4065adedbe170d75cdffa6f5fd.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Image result for blonde goldendoodle" border="0" height="200" src="https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/originals/fb/60/3b/fb603b4065adedbe170d75cdffa6f5fd.jpg" width="133" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
~* the thrill was in the escape *~</div>
<br />
Angela inherited Blitzen a half year past; her friend Carole's trusty companion ~ when he chose to stay in his supposed boundaries. Now Carole was gone. How would they survive a Christmas without her? A dear friend, exuberantly heading Spruce Valley's traditional Christmas celebration. How could Angela know that a tardy arrival at a committee meeting for this year's celebration would invade her envisioned silent Christmas? The least thing we expect could be just what was needed.<br />
<br />
A surprise visitor becomes an essential part of Spruce Valley's Christmas preparation. I liked how suspicion is turned to J*O*Y. A Christmas not soon forgotten.<br />
<img alt="Image result for blue garland" height="137" src="https://images-na.ssl-images-amazon.com/images/I/61sGM6whiNL._SX355_.jpg" width="200" /><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Christmas in Blue</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">“Christmas in Blue” was inspired by “blue Christmas,” an observance on the longest day of the year that recognizes that Christmas is not easy for every one, especially for people who have known loss in the preceding year. A man at the gym, who took one of my books because of Astrid’s story, said he just wants to get through Christmas and get it over with. I was able to tell him that “Christmas in Blue” was written for people who feel that way. I hope when he reads it, he’ll find new hope in the season. ~ author Olivia Newport (<a href="http://www.olivianewport.com/2017/10/colors-of-christmas-release-day/">Credit</a>)</span></div>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img alt="Author Olivia Newport on www.amishwisdom.com" src="http://amishwisdom.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/08/OliviaNewport-207x300.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">author Olivia Newport</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
*** I received a complimentary copy of this book from Barbour Publishing and was under no obligation to post a review.***Lane Hill Househttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12952459499802207852noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3948253853648439599.post-79133433945185752402017-12-04T00:30:00.000-06:002017-12-04T00:30:22.592-06:00The Sea Beneath Us by Cathy Slusser, © 2017<img alt="The Sea Beneath Us" src="http://cathyslusser.com/wp-content/uploads/2017/09/cover-sea-beneath-us-360x570.jpg" /><br />
<br />
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Behold, I have
engraved you on the palms of my hands;</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
your walls are
continually before me.</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Isaiah 49:16</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i>The Sea Beneath Us</i> ~ Based upon the lives
of her grandmother and great-grandmother, author Cathy Slusser weaves
a tale of immigration, women’s rights, and foreign policy—real
and relevant to today’s world, and as compelling as it is
enchanting.</div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
~*<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">novels that portray
real people enduring hardship, facing fear, and seeking joy</span>*~</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
author Cathy Slusser</div>
<br />
Henrietta (Etta) and her sister, Eugenia Louise (Lou), begin their travels as young children with their family from Canada to America, the first of their many moves.<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">What do I want to do with my life? I really like working in the bookstore, but I always thought I would marry and have a family. Isn't that what young women are supposed to do? I know one thing. I will not marry a dreamer.</span></i><br />
--<i>The Sea Beneath Us</i>, 15</blockquote>
I am astounded at the change in Etta as she changes direction and pursues life head-on. She has not been the overly ambitious woman one would think to become business-minded. But... we are not in her shoes, nor do we know the true intent of her heart. Truly mourning? Has her head been turned by being a dreamer, herself? How many "fresh starts" will <i>she</i> begin?<br />
<img alt="Image result for the isle of pines cuba" src="http://www.oocities.org/eureka/Gold/9440/liguus/cumpgif.gif" /><br />
This is a very vivid accounting from life itself! I am drawn forward ~ so surprised by Etta's actions finally taken. Her sister Lou is the heroine of this story in my eyes, as she appears to be in the background but very much so the keeper of them all. It is true, the turn of our lives and how we choose to respond or react shape us ~ and reflect on those near. Florence will stand out too, with her siblings and their outcomes experienced differently. I loved her story. So beautiful.<br />
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Cathy Slusser is a thorough author with the reader arriving right beside her in her reflections. How interesting it would be to talk with her and discover current generational similarities. The love of reading and family highlighted, knit tightly together.<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="box-sizing: inherit; font-size: large;"><u><b>About the Book</b></u></span> </div>
<br />
Name of book: <i>The Sea Beneath Us</i><br />
Author: Cathy Slusser<br />
Genre: Christian Historical Fiction<br />
Release Date: June 20, 2017<br />
<br />
Etta just wants a
home, a safe haven for her family; her daughter Florence wants to
make a positive difference in the world. After suffering tragic loss,
Etta walls off her heart. Florence opens hers to love again. Though
they do not understand each other, both understand the struggle with
cultural expectations of the day for women. They also grapple with
personal insecurity and faith. Set in the early twentieth century,
the stories of Etta and Florence intertwine as each seeks
fulfillment. Follow them from Midwest America to the state of New
York; from the Isle of Pines, a tropical spot off the coast of Cuba,
to the heart of American power, Washington, DC.<br />
<br />
Click <a href="http://amzn.to/2gAj3mT" style="box-shadow: currentcolor 0px 1px 0px 0px; box-sizing: inherit; color: #007acc;">here</a> to purchase your copy!<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="box-sizing: inherit; font-size: large;"><u><b>About the Author</b></u></span> </div>
<br />
Cathy Slusser is a
second generation Floridian who grew up in St. Petersburg, but spent
holidays and vacations with her grandparents who lived in Manatee
County. She moved to Terra Ceia Island in northwest Manatee County in
1979. Cathy fell in love with history upon reading Eugenia Price
novels in Middle School. When she traveled to St. Simons Island,
Georgia and saw the places those characters lived, she knew that the
subject of history could be alive and exciting. Ever since that time,
she has made it her goal to share that message with others.<br />
She has a
Bachelor’s Degree in History from Furman University and a Master’s
Degree in History from the University of South Florida. She has
worked for the Manatee County Clerk of Circuit Court’s Office since
1984 and is Chief Historian. In this role, she supervises five
historical sites, the Manatee Village Historical Park, the Manatee
County Historical Records Library, and the Florida Maritime Museum,
the Palmetto Historical Park, and the Manatee County Agricultural
Museum. Cathy has two grown sons, Rob and Tim, a fabulous
daughter-in-law, Miranda, and a daughter of the heart, Christina. She
has been married to her husband, Glen, a third generation Floridian
since 1981. She enjoys dog training, sewing and writing. Cathy is passionate
about preserving Manatee County’s past and telling its stories to
residents and visitors of all ages.
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<a href="http://0.gravatar.com/avatar/6962f10726080722e5815fa04298d830?s=107&d=mm&r=g" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://0.gravatar.com/avatar/6962f10726080722e5815fa04298d830?s=107&d=mm&r=g" /></a><br />
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<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Professional historian, Cathy Slusser, brings history to life in her three novels about three early pioneer
women in Manatee County, Florida; the history of Terra
Ceia Island’s first settler family, the Atzeroths, published as a trilogy called
<i>From A Heavenly Land</i>. <a href="http://www.observernews.net/2016/11/17/manatee-county-historian-publishes-final-novel-in-trilogy/">Link</a></div>
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<img alt="From a Heavenly Land: Eliza’s Story" src="http://cathyslusser.com/wp-content/uploads/2016/09/cover-1-360x570.jpg" height="200" width="126" /> <img alt="From a Heavenly Land: Julia’s Story" src="http://cathyslusser.com/wp-content/uploads/2016/09/cover-julia-1-360x570.jpg" height="200" width="126" /> <img alt="From a Heavenly Land: Caroline’s Story" src="http://cathyslusser.com/wp-content/uploads/2016/09/From-a-Heavenly-Land-Carolines-Story-Final-Front-Cover-preview-2-360x570.jpg" height="200" width="126" /></div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="box-sizing: inherit; font-size: large;"><u><b>Guest Post from Cathy Slusser</b></u></span> </div>
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<a href="http://www.celebratelit.com/wp-content/uploads/2017/10/florence-200x300.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="florence" border="0" src="http://www.celebratelit.com/wp-content/uploads/2017/10/florence-200x300.jpg" style="cursor: move;" /></a></div>
Writing a book about my grandmother, Florence Louise Tichenor Pace was not on my “to do” list. I am one of those people who loves “to do” lists. I enjoy the satisfaction of crossing completed items off my list so much that I add things that I have already done to the list just so I can cross them off! But, I never thought to write a book about my own ancestors.<br />
When I finished the <i>From A Heavenly Land</i> trilogy, a lot of people asked me what was next. I had some ideas, but before I could put fingers to keyboard, I felt compelled to write this story. Maybe it was because every time I look into a mirror, I see my grandmother’s eyes looking back at me. I look very much like her, as does my mother, Emily Pace Bayless. I imagined Grandma saying, “You write about extraordinary women. What about me? When are you going to put my story on paper?”<br />
I could have argued that she had already done an excellent job of that, having left us her handwritten autobiography in a spiral notebook. Once at a historical meeting, participants were asked to bring a memento that we treasured. I brought that notebook. In it, I learned about my grandmother’s tenacity, her creativity and her love of God.<br />
Those characteristics were nothing new to me, having known my grandmother until her death at age 97 in 1992. Grandma was an intimate part of my life. During my childhood, she and Granddaddy travelled once a week to our house where they greeted my sister and me upon our return from school. She made many of the clothes my sister and I wore, including Nehru jackets and pants which were all the rage at the time. She did not like the “loud” colors, but made them anyway because she loved us. I still have a wrap around skirt that she made me in high school.<br />
We spent many holidays and weekend trips with her and Granddaddy at their retirement home on Ware’s Creek in Bradenton and shared a love of books. I knew that I could read all weekend without being told to get up and do something productive. Reading was productive in her eyes. She often gave us books as gifts, but most of the time, we found potato chip crumbs inside, evidence that she read them before passing them along.<br />
One of the stories that most characterizes my grandmother is her involvement with our local health department. She sewed baby layettes that included clothing, blankets and diapers and donated them to the health department for distribution to the poor. She embellished the pastel colored flannel outfits with embroidery saying, “Every baby, no matter what their circumstances should have a pretty, new outfit to come home from the hospital.”<br />
A second story involves me. When I was in girl scouts, I started an embroidered sampler in order to earn my sewing badge. My grandmother taught me the stitches, but it was clear that I was not interested in the work, nor that I would finish it in time to earn my badge. While she finished it for me, she left one flower incomplete as a message that I had not done my part. It is signed FP and CB with both our initials.<br />
My grandmother was a remarkable woman who made a strong impact on me and everyone who knew her. Just recently, I talked to someone who remembered Grandma and told me a story about her even though she has been dead 25 years.<br />
The story she never told us and left out of her autobiography are the details about her relationship with her mother, Henrietta Emily. I sensed some conflict between the two women and wanted to know why. I don’t know for sure that my version of the story is accurate, but it is a good theory.
</div>
<br />
***Thank you to Celebrate Lit for inviting me to be part of the book tour for Cathy Slusser's <i>The Sea Beneath Us</i>. This review was written in my own words. No other compensation was received.***<br />
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<span style="box-sizing: inherit; font-size: large;"><u><b>Giveaway</b></u></span> </div>
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To celebrate her
tour, Cathy is giving away a grand prize</div>
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of a special quilt
handmade by Cathy!!</div>
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Click below to enter. Be sure to comment on this post</div>
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<br />Lane Hill Househttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12952459499802207852noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3948253853648439599.post-15160540970332817142017-11-28T17:33:00.000-06:002017-11-28T17:33:58.402-06:00Out of the Ordinary by Jen Turano, © 2017<span style="font-size: large;">Apart From the Crowd series, Book 2</span><br />
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<img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEih6NyeWZ5JcKFVXkUI5dijl9Z1QE6ccwn7NxzE_96IKkzsaqy0wM_xsi53C6bF0MB1WNxH8QMEKb4U7aEC0Poc5hcChQ1MPZGQp7m6zCoGacllBAYltgF7yzoUxyQhyphenhyphenKas1CdQeoTOVPG3/s320/Out+of+the+Ordinary.jpg" /><br />
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Jen Turano's fun characters meet each other and explore from there ~ uncomplicated?<br />
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Miss Gertrude Cadwalader is the caregiver companion attendant for a well-regarded society matron, Mrs. Davenport, traveling for aging fun-and-adventure. Mrs. D's travels take her down quirky paths that Gertrude is quick to try to remedy. Taking much on herself and her reputation, she has had some narrow escapes of detection. Who said this was going to be easy? Not withstanding being aboard the <i>Cornelia</i>, a yacht of her friend, shipping magnate Mr. Harrison Sinclair. Introductions: Harrison is a close friend of Mr. Asher Rutherford, fiancé of Gertrude's dear friend, Miss Permilia Griswold. Harrison regards Gertrude quite fondly:<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
The mere thought of Gertrude had his lips curving into a smile.<br />
She was a lady he found to be undeniably delightful. Unlike many ladies he'd recently become acquainted with, Gertrude was a very sensible sort, possessed of a wonderful sense of humor and ability to accept peculiarities life sent her way with a smile on her lovely face.<br />
--<i>Out of the Ordinary</i>, 38</blockquote>
His observations certainly fit her in her companion juncture with Mrs. Davenport. As Gertrude attempts to cover the tracks left behind by said Mrs. D, she gets into a tumble herself with accusations of mistrust.<br />
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Jen Turano's characters are self-sufficient, unassuming, and innocent in what they determine to be not unusual in themselves. What will be interesting to discover is Mrs. Davenport's foibles and what stands behind their awakening ~ "a minor weakness
or failing of character; slight flaw or defect: <i>an all-too-human
foible</i>." That is, that most people are able to keep under wraps.<br />
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Permilia discovers the answer to Harrison's wardrobe query and is sure to enlighten Asher as to his friend's reason. The interaction between characters is laughable and touching. Great insight to forming endearing relationships that last. As an industrialist, Harrison's own social skills are lacking in the demure phrasing to ladies he deemed in need of his assistance. He hasn't had a problem (well, an occasional annoyance, one would say) with his three sisters in conversing. A quandary to him, indeed.<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Quite truthfully, he was contemplating the idea of remaining mute for the rest of the night because every time he did open his mouth, one lady or another took exception to all the words he allowed to escape.<br />
--<i>Ibid</i>., 77</blockquote>
I like him because of his unpretentiousness.<br />
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I enjoyed the gathering of characters from the first novel, especially the Huxley sisters. They have a way about them that is endearing, even when they try to be explicit about their ability to take care of themselves. This second book may be read as a stand-alone novel, but... you won't want to miss out on the first ones in the series ~ the prequel, <a href="https://www.amazon.com/At-Your-Request-Apart-Crowd-ebook/dp/B01HC1252A/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1511908359&sr=8-1&keywords=at+your+request+jen+turano">At Your Request</a>, and book 1, <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Behind-Scenes-Apart-Crowd-Turano/dp/0764217941/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1511908359&sr=8-2">Behind the Scenes</a>.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/proxy/AVvXsEj5ppzlkFUwP12fm_YdjIpFD0FgjTjeQeP0y9xNDfsKLU-DdR5NslgT42fm05dqBiTiEyGMEUucBw7JfxXFmMnPHnUFyAsJZWhA-hdhFSSLPuovmSz19dbDrq0y3iaC1cpAj668W5FgUA=" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Image result for 1883 gilded age yacht" border="0" src="http://memory.loc.gov/musdi/109/0001.gif" height="320" width="206" /></a>In his contentment, Asher, now engaged, offers to share Lord Byron's poetic works with Harrison and his assistance in finding a true companion to keep him well put together. Harrison is insistent he is already content. What will he do now that his friends are closely watching out for him? I laugh at Asher's steady supply as a merchant ~ "Harrison, I'm the owner of a department store. I'm expected to have random items at my disposal."<br />
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Jen Turano's stories are always fun and adventurous! Their conversations are captivating and you, too, will "be where you are" at the entrance into their days.<br />
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EnJ*O*Y this excerpt from Jen Turano's <i>Out of the Ordinary</i> ~ Chapter 1<br />
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Chapter</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">One</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">~*~</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">June 4, 1883</span><br />
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Slipping through the crowd gathered on the upper deck of a most extravagant yacht, Miss Gertrude Cadwalader drew in a breath and adopted an air of what she hoped would be taken for nonchalance. Her greatest desire was that no one would realize she was anything but completely composed, even though something was horribly, horribly amiss.<br />
Mrs. Davenport, the lady Gertrude was paid to be a companion to, had, regrettably, gone missing.<br />
It wasn’t that Gertrude was concerned her employer had fallen overboard, or that she’d suffered some manner of terrible accident. Circumstances such as those would have been much easier to handle than the reality Gertrude was facing—that reality being the unfortunate business of Mrs. Davenport having the propensity to go missing on a far too frequent basis.<br />
On this evening, Mrs. Davenport had not been seen for over an hour. During that hour, Gertrude was all but convinced her employer had been pursuing activities that would be considered suspicious in nature by everyone except members of the criminal set.<br />
Unable to help but shudder over that idea, Gertrude quickened her pace and reached a flight of narrow steps that led below-deck. Glancing over her shoulder, relief trickled through her when she realized all the guests who’d been invited to celebrate the recent engagement of Miss Permilia Griswold to Mr. Asher Rutherford were sufficiently occupied and not paying her the least little mind.<br />
Keeping a firm grip on the railing because the unusually large bustle attached to her behind made traveling down stairs tricky, Gertrude reached the lower deck and took a second to peruse her surroundings.<br />
To her left, she discovered a great many closed doors, a rather daunting sight, and when she looked to the right, she was less than reassured when she discovered just as many closed doors in that direction.<br />
Knowing there was nothing left to do except get on with the disturbing matter at hand, especially since the longer she lingered, the more mischief Mrs. Davenport could get into, Gertrude headed down the companionway to her right, stopping at the first door she encountered.<br />
After she edged the door open, she found a delightful stateroom on the other side, paneled in gleaming wood. Set in the very middle of the room was a four-poster bed, complete with a canopy draped in blue silk. The bed was sitting high enough from the floor to where a person could very well slip underneath it if that person were trying to avoid detection.<br />
Marching her way across the room, Gertrude stopped directly beside the bed and leaned over, stopping mid-lean when one of the wires used to create the monstrosity on her behind took that moment to jab through the delicate material of her petticoats and drawers. Wincing, Gertrude straightened even as she longed to rub a bottom that was now sore but impossible to reach past a bustle that seemed to be coming undone.<br />
Deciding it would not benefit her to bend over again since she really had no liking for wires jabbing her, she cleared her throat and lowered her voice to the merest whisper.<br />
“Mrs. Davenport, are you under there?”<br />
When only silence met her ears, Gertrude debated bending over again, but when the thought sprang to mind that there was a very good chance her bustle would only disintegrate further, jabbing her numerous times in the process, she abandoned that particular debate.<br />
“Since I seem to be suffering some ill effects from a bustle you assured me had been crafted in a most expert manner, which, sadly, I’m learning was not exactly the case, I fear I’m beginning to lose all sense of a pleasant attitude,” she began in a voice slightly louder than a whisper this time. “Because of that, and because I’m certain you, Mrs. Davenport, won’t want my enjoyment in this lovely evening to be ruined because of an ill humor, I’m going to suggest if you are under the bed, you show yourself immediately. You must know that no good can possibly come from skulking around Mr. Harrison Sinclair’s yacht.”<br />
When Mrs. Davenport did not come crawling out from underneath the bed, Gertrude made for the door, stopping a second later when she noticed a smaller door, one that might very well lead to a wardrobe. Knowing her employer had a great liking for wardrobes, and the space they provided a person when one wanted to go unobserved, Gertrude changed directions and strode across the room again, taking hold of the latch attached to the smaller door and giving it a pull.<br />
She did not discover Mrs. Davenport lurking on the other side. Instead, she found a room she’d been told was called a “head” instead of a retiring room, one that came complete with a marble sink with gilded taps.<br />
Unable to stop herself since her curiosity was now getting the better of her, she turned one of the taps, which immediately sent a stream of clear water spouting out of it.<br />
Not wanting the fresh water to go to waste, she splashed some on her face, which had become heated during her searching endeavors, washed her hands, then stilled when she thought she heard footsteps in the companionway.<br />
Turning off the tap, she reached for the fluffy towel that was hanging from a gilded hook, patted her face and hands dry, returned the towel to the hook, uncertain that was proper but not knowing what else to do with it, and then moved as stealthily as she could out of the head and through the stateroom. Opening the door ever so carefully, she stuck her head out and peered down the companionway.<br />
At first, she thought she must have been imagining the footsteps, until she glimpsed the merest hint of a shadow disappearing around a corner. Hoping the shadow belonged to none other than the errant Mrs. Davenport, Gertrude hurried after it, coming to an abrupt halt when she rounded the corner and found herself facing two doors, one of which had been left slightly ajar.<br />
“I’ve found you now.” Pushing open that door, she discovered herself in a room that was devoid of Mrs. Davenport, but filled to the brim with leather-bound books, the scent of the leather reminding Gertrude of the library her father used to own, back in the days before he’d lost the family fortune and . . .<br />
Shaking herself from thoughts she certainly hadn’t expected to spring to mind, especially since she couldn’t afford to become distracted, Gertrude headed farther into what turned out to be the yacht’s library. She made short shrift of looking behind two chairs with tufted cushions upholstered in a navy and white fabric, disappointment stealing through her when she didn’t uncover Mrs. Davenport crouched behind either chair.<br />
Tapping a finger against her chin, she considered a small fainting couch that was positioned directly underneath a painting that, if she wasn’t mistaken, might have been painted by Bouguereau. What such a painting was doing onboard a yacht, she couldn’t say, but since Mrs. Davenport was often drawn to objects of an expensive nature, the small space located between the wall and the back of the couch certainly deserved further investigation. Moving to stand before the couch, Gertrude placed a knee on top of the cushion, peered over the back of the couch, and found absolutely nothing there.<br />
Since there was little sense lingering in a room where her employer was obviously not, Gertrude began to straighten, but to her dismay, her bustle took that moment to shift, making her side-heavy. Before she could do more than let out a squeak, she wobbled to the left, the bustle shifted again, and before she knew it, the weight of it pulled her straight against the fainting couch. She was left reclining in an awkward and less than graceful pose between the high back of the couch and the cushioned seat.<br />
When what felt like every wire that had been used to fashion the bustle—a bustle that was actually a sawed-in-half birdcage—began jabbing her in far too many places, Gertrude tried to push herself into an upright position. That decision turned out to be a grave error in judgment when she heard the fabric of her gown rip right before she became completely immobile.<br />
Realizing that the wires of her bustle were keeping her firmly attached to the fainting couch, Gertrude knew she had no choice but to call for help. Before she could do so, though, footsteps sounded directly outside the library door.<br />
Turning her head, the only part of her body she seemed capable of turning, she blinked and then blinked again when a lovely young lady dressed in a delightful gown of yellow tulle stepped into the room, paused, and then sent a frown Gertrude’s way.<br />
“I say, Miss Cadwalader, are you quite all right? I could have sworn I just heard a bit of a ruckus, but . . .” She waved a hand Gertrude’s way. “There you are, completely at your leisure, although now that I think about it, you being at your leisure is somewhat odd. When I took note of you leaving the upper deck, I thought for certain you must be searching out a retiring room to fix your hair, since it is, as I’m certain you’re aware, looking downright frightful at the moment.”<br />
For the briefest of seconds, Gertrude could only stare at the young lady known as Miss Clementine Flowerdew—a member of the fashionable set and a lady Gertrude rarely conversed with, and certainly wasn’t looking forward to conversing with at this inopportune time.<br />
That Miss Flowerdew was looking very well indeed, there could be no question. Strands of jewels were woven into the young lady’s perfectly styled flaxen hair, the style of that hair drawing attention to the graceful curve of her white neck. Encircled around that neck were additional jewels, set in numerous strands that ended in a glitter of diamonds nestled directly in the very center of Miss Flowerdew’s charms.<br />
A flicker of what felt exactly like envy took Gertrude by surprise, brought on, no doubt, by the thought that any charms <i>she</i> might possess were tucked away beneath a gown that was made of yards and yards of hideous green fabric.<br />
Even though she wasn’t a lady who held an overt interest in fashion, which made her the ideal companion for a woman who considered herself a designer but had no true talent for design, she did occasionally wish Mrs. Davenport would refrain from using her as a subject to try out her more outlandish creations. Refraining from that behavior would have allowed Gertrude to attend the engagement event that very evening without wearing a curiously designed bustle, one that was now responsible for keeping her a prisoner on the fainting couch.<br />
The idea for that bustle had come about when Mrs. Davenport had overheard a conversation between Gertrude and her very good friend Miss Permilia Griswold. Permilia was the guest of honor this evening and a woman with a keen eye for fashion. As such, she was always up to date on the trends fashions were expected to take. Those trends were now suggesting that bustles were to expand in size by numerous inches. Evidently wanting to embrace the idea that bustles were to become larger than ever, Mrs. Davenport had set about creating the largest bustle anyone had probably ever seen, resorting to using a real birdcage to obtain the size she’d decided she needed.<br />
That size was directly responsible for the yards and yards of fabric Gertrude was wearing, since Mrs. Davenport had longed to create what she called a waterfall effect that would cascade gracefully from Gertrude’s backside. While Mrs. Davenport claimed the green color was her inspiration for creating that waterfall, something to do with rushing water, Gertrude had the sneaking suspicion her employer had used the green because it was the only color available that came with so many yards of fabric to the bolt, the availability of that bolt a direct result of no one with any sense of style wanting to be garbed in such an awful color.<br />
Sadly, there was no disputing the idea that the gown Gertrude was wearing did not show to advantage next to Miss Flowerdew’s frothy creation of yellow tulle, which left . . .<br />
“Oh dear, I do hope I haven’t hurt your feelings with the frightful hair remark, Miss Cadwalader. I did so want to get off on the right foot with you. Clearly, though, since you’ve yet to respond to my statement, you weren’t aware that there’s something gravely amiss with whatever that is you currently have fashioned on your head.”<br />
Raising a hand, Gertrude patted the right side of her head and then patted the left. “Everything seems to be in order” was all she could think to say.<br />
Miss Flowerdew walked closer, shaking her perfectly coiffed head in a rather sad sort of way. “You look as if you’ve attached two golden baker buns to either side of your head—a look that is neither fashionable nor appealing.”<br />
“Mrs. Davenport told me <i>she</i> was told by a society matron who just returned from Europe that <i>this</i> particular style was all the rage this season.”<br />
Miss Flowerdew bit her lip. “Perhaps that style may be wellregarded in some obscure European country, one that’s far, far away, but I didn’t witness a single lady wearing that look when I was over in Paris a few weeks back.”<br />
Taking a second to rub at a kink in her neck that was becoming more knotted by the minute, Gertrude released a sigh. “And that right there, Miss Flowerdew, is why one should never trust a lady of a certain age who is looking far too innocently back at you, while she’s styling your hair in what you believe is a questionable manner, but she insists is not.”<br />
“I beg your pardon?”<br />
Gertrude stopped rubbing her neck and waved Miss Flowerdew’s comment aside. “It’s of little consequence, simply a touch of pondering about finding myself in somewhat peculiar circumstances at times. However, now is hardly the time for me to descend into a state of self-reflection. May I assume you’re searching for a retiring room and that is why you were following me? As you can see, there’s not a retiring room here in the library. I do know that you can find a well-appointed one on the aft deck, right behind the sitting salon, where people are currently taking their leisure to get out of the stiff ocean breeze.”<br />
To Gertrude’s surprise, Miss Flowerdew gave a delicate shrug of her shoulders before she smiled, walked across the room, then made quite the production of lowering herself into a chair, smoothing out the folds of her skirt before she lifted her head. “I didn’t follow you because I was searching out a retiring room, Miss Cadwalader. I followed you because I’d like to speak with you privately.” She nodded to the chair adjacent to her. “It would be easier to enjoy our conversation, though, if you’d join me over here.”<br />
Gertrude took the briefest of seconds to contemplate her current dilemma.<br />
Miss Flowerdew, being of the fashionable set, was a woman who would probably not understand how it had come to be that Gertrude was currently wearing a birdcage on her bottom. But if she didn’t explain her unusual situation to Miss Flowerdew, she’d continue being stuck. That could lead to someone stumbling upon Mrs. Davenport and whatever it was Mrs. Davenport was up to, which could very well turn disastrous for her employer.<br />
The sense of loyalty she held for Mrs. Davenport, a woman who was undoubtedly odd, yet provided Gertrude with a more than generous wage, had her lifting her chin.<br />
“As curious as this is going to sound, Miss Flowerdew,” she began, “I’m afraid that it’s impossible for me to join you since I’ve gotten myself into a tricky situation, one that I can’t seem to correct by myself.”<br />
Miss Flowerdew leaned forward, pursed her lips, then, curiously enough, smiled. “You need a favor from me?”<br />
“I don’t know if I’d go so far as to call it a favor, more on the lines of a smidgen of assistance.”<br />
If anything, Miss Flowerdew’s smile brightened. “Assistance that would leave you in my debt?”<br />
A trace of unease began tickling the back of Gertrude’s neck, mixing with the knot that was still there. Summoning up a smile of her own, she nodded toward the door. “Upon further reflection, I truly don’t want to put you out, nor do I want you to miss any of the festivities currently taking place topside. If you’d simply be so kind as to tell Miss Permilia Griswold that I could use <i>her</i> assistance when you return to the top deck, I’d greatly appreciate it.”<br />
“Appreciate it enough to where you’d be willing to agree to do <i>me</i> a little favor?”<br />
“You’re very tenacious with this idea about me owing you a favor, aren’t you?”<br />
Instead of replying, Miss Flowerdew rose to her feet and moved closer, her gaze traveling over Gertrude with eyes that were far too sharp for Gertrude’s liking.<br />
“You’ve landed yourself in a pickle, haven’t you?”<br />
“I don’t know if I’d go so far as to claim I’m in a pickle.”<br />
“You’re obviously stuck to the couch, which certainly constitutes being in a pickle.”<br />
“I suppose it does,” Gertrude admitted.<br />
“How fortuitous,” Miss Flowerdew chirped before she began pacing back and forth in front of Gertrude, seemingly sizing up the situation. Stopping, she arched a delicate brow Gertrude’s way. “How did it happen?”<br />
“I lost my balance trying to get a . . . ah . . . closer look at the painting hanging above this very couch. Then, to add insult to injury, my bustle broke, evidently from the force of my fall, and pieces of it pierced the couch. I don’t want to move because I’m afraid I’ll ruin the upholstery if I do.”<br />
Tapping a toe against the floor, Miss Flowerdew looked from Gertrude to the painting hanging behind the couch, then back to Gertrude again right as her eyes widened. “Forgive me, Miss Cadwalader, but I must tell you that your current situation seems to be more ominous than curious. Why, the only reasonable explanation that springs to my mind to explain why you would have needed to peruse that painting so closely is that you’re a thief but got foiled in your attempt to steal that painting by gravity.”<br />
“Good heavens, Miss Flowerdew, get ahold of yourself. That’s a completely ridiculous conclusion, especially since it would be next to impossible for anyone to make off undetected with a painting of that size.”<br />
“So you <i>were</i> considering the matter.”<br />
Gertrude’s brows drew together. “No, I wasn’t, I was . . . oh, never mind. Allow me to simply say that I’m not a thief, nor was I attempting a heist on Mr. Sinclair’s yacht.”<br />
Ignoring everything she’d just said, Miss Flowerdew began pacing again, stopping a few seconds later to look Gertrude’s prone form up and down. “Do you have so much fabric making up your skirt because that’s where you stash your ill-gotten gains?”<br />
“Of course not, especially since, again, I don’t spend my time as a thief but only as a companion to Mrs. Davenport. If you must know, she’s responsible for the gown I’m wearing, and she used extra yards of fabric because of the questionable bustle she designed for me.”<br />
Miss Flowerdew released a sniff. “A ridiculous explanation if I ever heard one.”<br />
“It may be ridiculous, but it’s true. And, it’s also an explanation I’ll be able to prove once I get unstuck from this couch. I’ll then be able to show you the bustle in question, and then you’ll be extending me an apology, one I richly deserve since you’ve now taken to questioning my integrity.”<br />
Turning her back on Gertrude, Miss Flowerdew walked across the room and retook her seat. Considering Gertrude with narrowed eyes, she finally gave a short jerk of her head. “Very well, let me see this so-called questionable bustle.” “I can’t very well show it to you since, if you’ve forgotten, I’m stuck. You’ll have to assist me with getting unstuck first, and then I can prove my innocence.”<br />
Miss Flowerdew suddenly smiled. “Which brings us directly back to the beginning of our conversation, one that, if <i>you’ve</i> forgotten, dealt with you being in my debt. I’m perfectly willing to assist you, however, it <i>will</i> come with a cost—that cost being your agreement to assist <i>me</i> in the foreseeable future with a little matter that’s very dear to me.” Her smile turned smug. “Since the question has arisen regarding your reason for being on the couch in the first place, a question that I’m sure you’re going to want to keep hush-hush, I suggest you agree to my terms.”<br />
“That sounds a little like blackmail.”<br />
Miss Flowerdew tapped a gloved finger against her chin. “It does at that, doesn’t it?”<br />
“I’m not one to give in to demands, Miss Flowerdew, especially since I’ve done absolutely nothing to warrant a blackmail demand in the first place.”<br />
Wrinkling her nose, Miss Flowerdew settled back into the chair. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re far too cheeky to fit the expectations of a wallflower?”<br />
“Has anyone ever told you that there’s not actually a society known as the wallflowers—it’s simply a derogatory name for a group of lovely young ladies who aren’t considered as fashionable as society wants them to be?”<br />
Miss Flowerdew completely neglected to respond to that, choosing to beam another bright smile Gertrude’s way instead. “My goodness but we do seem to have gotten distracted from the business at hand. And since we are missing out on the festivities that are occurring above board, allow me to redirect our conversation to the important matter I need to broach with you.”<br />
Sitting forward in the chair, Miss Flowerdew suddenly looked far too earnest. “I’d like you to personally introduce me to the oh-so-delicious Mr. Harrison Sinclair, and then I want your promise that you’ll do whatever is in your power to convince him to offer me a proposal of the matrimonial type.”<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Jen Turano, <i>Out of the Ordinary</i> Bethany House, a division of Baker Publishing Group, © 2017.</span></div>
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Jen Turano is the author of nine books and two novellas. She is a graduate of the University of Akron with a degree in clothing and textiles. Jen is a member of ACFW and lives in a suburb of Denver, Colorado. Enjoy visiting her <a href="http://www.jenturano.com/">website</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #1a1a1a; font-family: "merriweather" , "georgia" , serif; font-size: 16px;">.</span><br />
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***Thank you to Celebrate Lit and Bethany House for providing a copy of Jen Turano's <i>Out of the Ordinary</i>. This review was written in my own words. No other compensation was received.***
<!-- Blogger automated replacement: "https://images-blogger-opensocial.googleusercontent.com/gadgets/proxy?url=http%3A%2F%2Fmemory.loc.gov%2Fmusdi%2F109%2F0001.gif&container=blogger&gadget=a&rewriteMime=image%2F*" with "https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/proxy/AVvXsEj5ppzlkFUwP12fm_YdjIpFD0FgjTjeQeP0y9xNDfsKLU-DdR5NslgT42fm05dqBiTiEyGMEUucBw7JfxXFmMnPHnUFyAsJZWhA-hdhFSSLPuovmSz19dbDrq0y3iaC1cpAj668W5FgUA=" -->Lane Hill Househttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12952459499802207852noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3948253853648439599.post-12174722629104805212017-11-26T00:30:00.000-06:002017-11-26T00:30:00.164-06:0021 Days of Christmas: Stories that Celebrate God's Greatest Gift compiled by Kathy Ide, © 2015<span style="font-size: large;">A Fiction Lover's Devotional series, Book 2</span><br />
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<img alt="21 Days of Christmas" src="http://643e57de2266bd087eb5-188d4c08bb6c52a9e253cd1ad184dca2.r58.cf2.rackcdn.com/broadstreet_648H/9781424550517.jpg" /><br />
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My Review:<br />
Twenty-one authors contribute a Devotion and Life Application within this hardcover book with a ribbon bookmark! Just the right size to slip into your purse and take along with you ~ to share with a friend over a mocha coffee or chai tea latte!<br />
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Join Joanne Bischof's Becca Fletcher on her Balsam Walk.<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
As each has received
a gift, use it to serve one another, as good stewards of God’s
varied grace: whoever speaks, as one who speaks oracles of God;
whoever serves, as one who serves by the strength that God
supplies—in order that in everything God may be glorified through
Jesus Christ. To him belong glory and dominion forever and ever.
Amen.<br />
1 Peter 4:10, 11 ESV</blockquote>
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Watch what path you may be on this Christmastime ~ it may be in your own family right close at home. Or to cross the path of someone from long ago...</div>
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<a href="https://i.pinimg.com/736x/03/47/d0/0347d0ab628b02639260c5af7f9fc77a--christmas-pillow-winter-christmas.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="Image result for Christmas 1864" border="0" height="200" src="https://i.pinimg.com/736x/03/47/d0/0347d0ab628b02639260c5af7f9fc77a--christmas-pillow-winter-christmas.jpg" width="200" /></a>Lena Nelson Dooley's story, "The Christmas Child of 1864," is a war torn story of the gift of grace given. He turns our mourning into J*O*Y as only He can. A gift to last beyond pain to mend a heart.<br />
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Kindness is an antidote to sadness or feeling alone ~ to share a word of encouragement and a different way of looking at where you are.<br />
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<a href="http://californiacuriosities.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/06/BunBoy-e1444527323769.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Image result for bun boy restaurant" border="0" src="http://californiacuriosities.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/06/BunBoy-e1444527323769.png" height="125" width="200" /></a>"Christmas Then and Now" is shared by David B. Carl. In his Life Application he shares how Jesus was born in a stable; Herod would not look for Him there. The "Now" family found their gift ~ His J*O*Y received on Christmas Eve.<br />
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<img alt="21 days of christmas FB banner copy.jpg" height="147" src="https://photos-3.dropbox.com/t/2/AADSx4K4uTJL3B4qSbpqJSPWFj8rSGDX-XCAkGIdO-e78A/12/535882387/jpeg/32x32/3/1511344800/0/2/21%20days%20of%20christmas%20FB%20banner%20copy.jpg/EJuR2aQEGJQFIAcoBw/RCnEUeTfBeOwqLP2smPvZ4icG0zzpk8Sy038lBZICTg?dl=0&size=800x600&size_mode=3" width="400" /><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #1a1a1a; font-family: "merriweather" , "georgia" , serif; font-size: 2.0625rem;"><u>About the Book</u></span><br />
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Name of book: <i>21
Days of Christmas: A Fiction Lover’s Devotional</i></div>
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Author: Kathy Ide</div>
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Genre: Christian
Fiction Devotional</div>
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Release Date:
September 1, 2015</div>
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Christmas is more
than just a holiday. It is a time to recapture the joy and wonder of
God’s greatest gift: His Son, Jesus.</div>
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<i>21 Days of Christmas</i>
will warm your heart with stories about giving, loving, and family.
These engaging tales celebrate the hope and joy that make this
blessed season unique. At the end of each story you’ll find an
insightful message that will help you discover anew the true meaning
of this special time of year. So grab a cup of hot apple cider with a
cinnamon stick, curl up in your favorite chair beside a picture
window overlooking a serene spot, and savor the true meaning of
Christmas through these inspirational and encouraging stories.</div>
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Click <a href="https://www.amazon.com/21-Days-Christmas-Celebrate-Devotional-ebook/dp/B011EZLQIO/ref=as_li_ss_tl?ie=UTF8&qid=1507779738&sr=8-1&keywords=21+days+of+christmas&linkCode=sl1&tag=celelit-20&linkId=85c85b50d7e3274d84ce358764cdb5a3">here</a> to
purchase your copy.</div>
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<span style="font-size: 2.0625rem; text-decoration-line: underline;"><u>More About Kathy Ide</u></span></div>
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<img alt="Kathy Ide-square_300x300" class="alignright size-medium wp-image-2924" src="http://www.celebratelit.com/wp-content/uploads/2017/10/Kathy-Ide-square_300x300-297x300.jpg" height="300" style="border: 0px; box-sizing: inherit; float: right; height: auto; margin: 0.375em 0px 1.75em 1.75em; max-width: 100%; vertical-align: middle;" width="297" /></div>
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Kathy is the
editor/compiler of the Fiction Lover’s Devotional series
(<a href="http://www.fictiondevo.com/">www.FictionDevo.com</a>) and author of “Proofreading Secrets of
Best-Selling Authors” (<a href="http://secretsofbestsellingauthors.com/">http://secretsofbestsellingauthors.com</a>). She
has also written numerous articles, short stories, devotionals, play
scripts, and Sunday school curriculum. She has ghostwritten ten
nonfiction books and a five-book novel series.</div>
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She is also a
full-time freelance editor, working with aspiring, new, and
experienced authors as well as publishers.</div>
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Kathy speaks at
writers’ conferences across the country.</div>
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She is the founder
and coordinator of The Christian PEN: Proofreaders and Editors
Network (<a href="http://www.thechristianpen.com/">www.TheChristianPEN.com</a>) and the Christian Editor Connection
(<a href="http://www.christianeditor.com/">www.ChristianEditor.com</a>).</div>
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For more about
Kathy, visit <a href="http://www.kathyide.com/">www.KathyIde.com</a>.</div>
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<span style="font-size: 2.0625rem; text-decoration-line: underline;"><u>Guest Post from Kathy Ide</u></span></div>
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Looking for a great
Christmas gift for friends and family who love fiction … or
devotionals? You can give them both in one book!</div>
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<i>21 Days of
Christmas: Stories that Celebrate God’s Greatest Gift</i> is book two
in the Fiction Lover’s Devotional series. It’s a collection of 21
fiction stories, each written by a different author—including
well-known novelists such as Lena Nelson Dooley, Joanne Bischof, Jan
Cline, and Lynn Kinnaman. Some stories are about the first Christmas,
when Mary and Joseph brought God’s Son into the world. Others are
about how we celebrate that history-changing event today. Each story
is followed by a brief Life Application written by the author of that
story.</div>
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The first chapter
starts out with an amusing tale of a modern-day couple in the front
seat of a car, on Christmas Eve, traveling to see relatives for the
holiday. They’re griping about the hassles of the season, and
hollering at the the kids, who are playing with the foil on Mom’s
Jell-O salad in the backseat. Then we break from that to a scene of
Mary and Joseph entering Bethlehem, about to bring God’s Son into
the world. It contrasts the modern-day wife, not wanting to go into a
sleazy diner because it’s the only place open on Christmas Eve,
with Mary hesitating to go into a smelly barnyard to give birth. When
the modern-day couple decide to tell their children the Christmas
story—complete with snow and a little drummer boy—the contrasts
become both highly funny and very poignant.</div>
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I wrote one of the
chapters in the book. It’s about the first Christmas, from the
perspective of Joseph. What he must have thought and felt when Mary
was giving birth to Jesus, knowing that he had been personally given
the divine responsibility to teach God’s Son about God. Based on
the Old Testament teachings he’d been raised with, what did Joseph
think Jesus would be like when He was born, and how did reality clash
with those expectations?</div>
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This book makes a
great gift for family and friends, with its beautiful debossed
hardback cover, full-color interior, and a ribbon page marker. With
stories about the Nativity as well as tales of modern-day people
celebrating that event, almost anyone would enjoy receiving a copy
and reading it—even those who don’t believe in Christ as their
Savior. It’s small enough to be a stocking stuffer (or tucked into
the pocket of a Christmas-themed pot holder!) and inexpensive enough
to be a practical gift for those people you’re not sure will
reciprocate, or who may feel uncomfortable if they didn’t get you
anything.</div>
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This devotional
would also be ideal to incorporate into an individual’s or a
family’s advent celebration, reading one chapter a day during the
three weeks leading up to Christmas.</div>
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Each chapter takes
only about ten minutes to read, which makes it ideal for the hectic
holiday season. And since each chapter stands alone, it doesn’t
matter whether you read one or two stories, half the book, or the
whole thing.</div>
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Other books in the
Fiction Lover’s Devotional series are:</div>
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<i><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Days-Grace-Celebrate-Unconditional-Devotional/dp/1424550238/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1511331536&sr=8-1&keywords=21+Days+of+Grace%3A+Stories+that+Celebrate+God%E2%80%99s+Unconditional+Love">21 Days of Grace:Stories that Celebrate God’s Unconditional Love</a></i></div>
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<i><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Days-Love-Celebrate-Relationships-Devotional/dp/1424551544/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1511331596&sr=8-1&keywords=21+Days+of+Love%3A+Stories+that+Celebrate+Treasured+Relationships">21 Days of Love:Stories that Celebrate Treasured Relationships</a></i></div>
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<i><a href="https://www.amazon.com/21-Days-Joy-Celebrate-Devotional/dp/1424552273/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1511331700&sr=1-1&keywords=21+Days+of+Joy%3A+Stories+that+Celebrate+Mom">21 Days of Joy:Stories that Celebrate Mom</a></i></div>
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***Thank you to Celebrate Lit and Broadstreet Publishers for this copy of <i>21 Days of Christmas</i>. This review was written in my own words. No other compensation was received.***<br />
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<span style="color: #1a1a1a; font-family: "merriweather" , "georgia" , serif; font-size: 2.0625rem;"><u>Giveaway</u></span></div>
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<img alt="21 days giveaway.jpg" 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" /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">To celebrate her
tour, Kathy is giving away a grand prize of a set of <i>21 Days</i>
devotional books!!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Click below to enter. Be sure to comment on this post before you enter to claim 9 extra entries!</span></div>
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<a href="https://promosimple.com/ps/c3c2" style="background-color: transparent; box-shadow: currentcolor 0px 1px 0px 0px; box-sizing: inherit; color: #007acc; text-decoration-line: none;">https://promosimple.com/ps/c3c2</a></div>
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Lane Hill Househttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12952459499802207852noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3948253853648439599.post-90950356796835885012017-11-25T14:37:00.000-06:002017-11-25T14:37:18.876-06:00Kutless ~ Alpha / Omega Music CD, © 2017Come and join in with worship songs by Kutless to take with you throughout the week!<br />
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<img alt="Christian Music News, New Christian Music News" src="http://www.newreleasetoday.com/images/news_images/news_img_s_1506647062.jpg" /><br />
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">"I am the ALPHA and the OMEGA, the Beginning and the End," says the Lord, "who is and who was and is to come, the Almighty."</span><br />
Revelation 22:13<br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/9uZCySrlNrI" width="560"></iframe>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img alt="BEC Announces New Kutless Album 'Alpha / Omega'" src="http://www.newreleasetoday.com/images/news_images/news_img_f_1506647062.jpg" height="213" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="400" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Kutless</span></td></tr>
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Kutless, from Portland, Oregon, brings their tenth studio
album, <i>Alpha/Omega</i>, which includes a reworked version of "Strong
Tower" as well as the single "King of My Heart."<br />
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<span style="background-color: #f8f8f8; box-sizing: border-box; color: #676767; font-family: "open sans"; font-size: 14px; font-weight: 600;"><i style="box-sizing: border-box;">ALPHA / OMEGA</i> Track Listing:</span><br />
<span style="background-color: #f8f8f8; color: #676767; font-family: "open sans"; font-size: 14px;">1.Your Great Name</span><br />
<span style="background-color: #f8f8f8; color: #676767; font-family: "open sans"; font-size: 14px;">2. Strong Tower</span><br />
<span style="background-color: #f8f8f8; color: #676767; font-family: "open sans"; font-size: 14px;">3. King Of My Heart</span><br />
<span style="background-color: #f8f8f8; color: #676767; font-family: "open sans"; font-size: 14px;">4. Cornerstone</span><br />
<span style="background-color: #f8f8f8; color: #676767; font-family: "open sans"; font-size: 14px;">5. You Are Love</span><br />
<span style="background-color: #f8f8f8; color: #676767; font-family: "open sans"; font-size: 14px;">6. Great Are You Lord</span><br />
<span style="background-color: #f8f8f8; color: #676767; font-family: "open sans"; font-size: 14px;">7. Your Love Awakens Me</span><br />
<span style="background-color: #f8f8f8; color: #676767; font-family: "open sans"; font-size: 14px;">8. Shepherd Of My Soul</span><br />
<span style="background-color: #f8f8f8; color: #676767; font-family: "open sans"; font-size: 14px;">9. Gave It All (I Surrender All)</span><br />
<span style="background-color: #f8f8f8; color: #676767; font-family: "open sans"; font-size: 14px;">10. No Wonder (Roar of the Rugged Cross)</span><br />
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"King of My Heart" produced by Seth Mosley & Michael "X" O'Connor for Full Circle Music<br />
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G I V E A W A Y ~ Alpha / Omega CD album by Kutless</div>
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One giveaway of this music CD will be given to one recipient commenting below here at Lane Hill House. Drawing will be in ten days just in time for Christmas giving or for you to share in your home. Winner from continental U.S. only because of shipping restraints. Leave your email for contact myname [at] location [dot] com.<br />
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<b class="" style="background-color: white;">“Disclosure (in accordance with the FTC’s 16 CFR, Part 255: “Guides Concerning the Use of Endorsements and Testimonials in Advertising”): </b><span style="background-color: white;">Many thanks to Propeller Consulting, LLC for providing this prize for the giveaway. Choice of winners and opinions are 100% my own and NOT influenced by monetary compensation. I did receive a sample of the product in exchange for this review and post.</span><span style="background-color: white;"> </span><span class="" style="background-color: white; text-align: justify;">Only one entrant per mailing address, per giveaway.</span><span class="" style="background-color: white; text-align: justify;"> </span><span class="" style="background-color: white; text-align: justify;"> </span><span class="" style="background-color: white; text-align: justify;">If you have won a prize from our sponsor Propeller /FlyBy Promotions in the last 30 days on the same blog, you are not eligible to win.</span><span class="" style="background-color: white; text-align: justify;"> </span><span class="" style="background-color: white; text-align: justify;"> </span><span class="" style="background-color: white; text-align: justify;">Or if you have won the same prize on another blog, you are not eligible to win it again.</span><span class="" style="background-color: white; text-align: justify;"> </span><span class="" style="background-color: white; text-align: justify;"> Winner is subject to eligibility verification.</span>Lane Hill Househttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12952459499802207852noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3948253853648439599.post-26329919363935270182017-11-24T00:30:00.000-06:002017-11-24T07:54:33.931-06:0095: The Ideas That Birthed the Reformation by Martin Luther, 1517Small substitutions have been made to aid in continuity, style, and readability, but for the most part, what you will find on these pages is the original text from the indicated translations.<br />
<i>95: The Ideas That Birthed the Reformation</i>, 6<br />
<br />
<a href="http://cdn.history.com/sites/2/2014/01/reformation-hero-A.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="The Reformation" border="0" src="http://cdn.history.com/sites/2/2014/01/reformation-hero-A.jpeg" /></a>Dr. Martin Luther delivered his "95 Theses" to the Catholic Church on October 31, 1517, containing essential that the Bible be the ultimate authority and salvation by faith alone and not by human works. The theses are referenced with Scripture. The Protestant Reformation has its beginning. The Bible to be translated and available to people to read in their own language.<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
44. Because, by a work of charity, charity increases, and the man becomes better; while, by means of pardons, he does not become better, but only freer from punishment.<br />
There are three sorts of people: the first, the common sort, who live secure without remorse of conscience, acknowledging not their corrupt manners and natures, insensible of God's wrath, against their sins, and careless thereof. The second, those who through the law are scared, feel God's anger, and strive and wrestle with despair. The third, those that acknowledge their sins and God's merited wrath, feel themselves conceived and born in sin, and therefore deserving of perdition, but, notwithstanding, attentively hearken to the gospel, and believe that God, out of grace, for the sake of Jesus Christ, forgives sins, and so are justified before God, and afterward show the fruits of their faith by all manner of good works.<br />
From <i>Table Talk</i>.<br />
<i>Ibid</i>., 94</blockquote>
Five hundred years ago. Well worth reading.<br />
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<img alt="95 copy" src="http://www.celebratelitteam.com/wp-content/uploads/2017/10/95-copy-1.jpg" height="147" width="400" /><br />
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***Thank you to Celebrate Lit for the invitation to join this book tour and to Whitaker House Publishing for sending a print copy. This review was written in my own words. No other compensation was received.***<br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Whitaker House, © 2017 ~ Includes bibliographical references.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">All Scripture quotations are taken from the King James Version of the Holy Bible.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Publisher's Note</i>: This new edition from Whitaker House has been slightly updated for the modern reader. Some words, expressions, and sentence structure have been revised for clarity and readability.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Source Material</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Excerpts taken from the following works by Martin Luther:</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Martin Luther, <i>First Principles of the Reformation or the Ninety-Five Theses and the Three Primary Works of Dr. Martin Luther</i> (London: John Murray, 1883.)</span>
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<h1>
<span underline="">About the Book</span></h1>
<img alt="95" src="http://www.celebratelitteam.com/wp-content/uploads/2017/10/95-200x300.jpg" /><br />
<b>Author: </b>Martin Luther
<b> </b><br />
<b>Genre: </b>Non-Fiction, Historical Theology<b> </b><br />
<b>Release Date: </b>August 8, 2017<b>
</b><br />
<br />
In 1517, an unknown Augustinian monk, informed by his growing belief that salvation is by faith alone, published and distributed a stark criticism of papal abuses in the Catholic Church. In doing so, Martin Luther lit the spark for what would become the Protestant Reformation.
What became known as the “95 Theses” was a series of statements expressing concern with corruption within the church, primarily the selling of “indulgences” to the people as a means of releasing them from acts of penitence.
For the five hundredth anniversary of Luther’s revolutionary writing, this volume combines each thesis with an excerpt from one of his later works to provide a convenient way to understand the ideas and concepts that became the seeds of the Protestant Reformation.<br />
<br />
<img alt="cahty" src="http://www.celebratelit.com/wp-content/uploads/2017/11/cahty-225x300.jpg" /><br />
<div center="">
<b> </b>Print out a fun Luther mask <a href="https://drive.google.com/file/d/0B4VL1rNcdCbGWmZObnJhbnM5YkE/view">here.</a></div>
<pre> </pre>
<pre>Click <a href="https://www.amazon.com/95-Ideas-That-Birthed-Reformation/dp/162911961X/ref=as_li_ss_tl?ie=UTF8&qid=1509594264&sr=8-1&keywords=95+ideas+that+birthed+the+reformation&linkCode=sl1&tag=celelit-20&linkId=2a985a7cb6ff23b129b36a085ea67232">here</a> to purchase your copy. </pre>
<h1>
<span underline="">About the Author</span></h1>
Martin Luther (1483–1546) was a German monk, priest, professor of theology, and iconic figure of the Protestant Reformation. He strongly disputed the sale of indulgences, the church’s practice of selling pieces of paper that guaranteed freedom from God’s punishment for sin. In 1517, Luther directly confronted this and other papal abuses by publishing his “95 Theses.” In 1534, Luther published a complete translation of the Bible into German.
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<h1>
<span underline="">Guest Post from Whitaker House Publishing</span></h1>
<div class="”m_5756958696013860827Pa8″">
In 1517, a thriving new industry was sweeping northern Germany. Begun a few centuries earlier, its reappearance in the 16th century was perhaps the cleverest abuse of church power to date. Church officials strapped for cash decided to offer remission from the punishment for sins, or “indulgence,” to German believers in return for a commensurate amount of money. The slick church salesmanship of indulgences incensed one young priest, who believed that faithful Christians were being manipulated and the Word of God misinterpreted. He wrote a pamphlet comprised of 95 claims that he hoped would inspire scholarly debate. Titled <i>Disputation of Dr. Martin Luther Concerning Penitence and Indulgences</i>, it went down in history as “The 95 Theses.”<u></u><u></u></div>
<div class="”m_5756958696013860827Pa8″">
<br />
<a href="https://i.pinimg.com/736x/b6/ec/89/b6ec89fd19dfcae10e26ab9372fb9543--lutheran-portal.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="Image result for castle church door in wittenberg germany" border="0" height="200" src="https://i.pinimg.com/736x/b6/ec/89/b6ec89fd19dfcae10e26ab9372fb9543--lutheran-portal.jpg" width="133" /></a>Most historians believe that Martin Luther did not intend to spark a public debate. It was written in Latin, the language of scholars, and pinned to the door of the Wittenberg Castle Church which served as a “bulletin board” of sorts, where Luther knew fellow theologians would see it and perhaps engage in a discussion on the topic.<u></u><u></u><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="”m_5756958696013860827Pa8″">
Luther’s pamphlet, however, was not another piece of paper flapping in the wind. Someone translated into German, and distributed it to the public with the help of a recent invention—the printing press. Luther tried to retrieve his work, but the damage was done. Within weeks, the debate that began in Wittenberg spread throughout Germany, and within months, all of Europe. <u></u><u></u></div>
<div class="”m_5756958696013860827Pa8″">
<br />
Five hundred years later, Whitaker House presents each of Luther’s 95 Theses paired with an excerpt from his many writings. Not every excerpt directly relates to the accompanying thesis, but we endeavored to select passages in which Luther was expounding on the same subject. Where further explanation was thought necessary to contextualize his words, a footnote is included. We hope you find <i>95: The Ideas That Changed the World </i>an accessible and fascinating look into the ideas of this groundbreaking priest who stood up for God’s Word, the grace of the gospel—and made history.</div>
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<span style="box-sizing: inherit; text-decoration-line: underline;">Giveaway:</span></h1>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="box-sizing: inherit; text-decoration-line: underline;"><img alt="a3e4a09e-f4a9-46ee-8ada-9b1d21ce91d4" src="http://www.celebratelitteam.com/wp-content/uploads/2017/10/a3e4a09e-f4a9-46ee-8ada-9b1d21ce91d4-300x225.jpg" /></span></div>
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To celebrate the tour, Whitaker House is giving away</div>
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Grand Prize: <i>95: The Ideas That Birthed the Reformation</i> by Martin Luther, KJVER Sword Study Bible/Personal Size Large Print-Burgundy Genuine Leather ($60 value), Whitaker House/Anchor Coloring Book.<br />
<br />
First Place: <i>95: The Ideas That Birthed the Reformation</i> by Martin Luther, “This is The Day” ceramic mug from Christian Arts Gifts, Whitaker House/Anchor Coloring Book<br />
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Second Place: <i>95: The Ideas That Birthed the Reformation</i> by Martin Luther, Whitaker House/Anchor Coloring Book!!</div>
<span style="font-size: x-small;"></span><br />
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Click below to enter. Be sure to comment on this post before you enter to claim 9 extra entries! <a href="https://promosimple.com/ps/c517" style="background-color: transparent; box-shadow: currentcolor 0px 1px 0px 0px; box-sizing: inherit; color: #007acc; text-decoration-line: none;">https://promosimple.com/ps/c517</a></div>
Lane Hill Househttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12952459499802207852noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3948253853648439599.post-14061907355171152632017-11-16T00:27:00.000-06:002017-11-16T01:07:19.845-06:00A Place at Our Table by Amy Clipston, © 2017<span style="font-size: large;">Amish Homestead, Book 1</span><br />
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<img alt="A Place at Our Table" src="http://amyclipston.com/wp-content/uploads/2017/03/PlaceAtOurTableFinal.jpg" /><br />
<br />
My Review:<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Blessed be the God
and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of mercies and God of
all comfort, who comforts us in all our affliction, so that we may be
able to comfort those who are in any affliction, with the comfort
with which we ourselves are comforted by God.<br />
2 Corinthians 1:3-4</blockquote>
<br />
Lancaster County, Pennsylvania<br />
This story focuses primarily on the Riehl and Dienner families as they meet each other and their lives become interwoven through loss and moving forward. It is a story of hope and continuance in the building of relationships with each other and growing trust in the Lord.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://i.pinimg.com/564x/57/40/9e/57409e8ad20e27edf109cf71e9d4f174.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="love going to Amish communities - been to Arthur and Arcola in IL and Nappanee and Shipshewana in IN" border="0" src="https://i.pinimg.com/564x/57/40/9e/57409e8ad20e27edf109cf71e9d4f174.jpg" /></a>James Riehl, affectionately called Jamie by his family and close friends, has a lot on his plate that has nothing to do with food. As the oldest son, he is determined to be responsible for the major upkeep of their Amish homestead to lessen the chores on their dairy farm for their <i>daed</i>, Vernon Riehl. Jamie has been a volunteer fireman since a teenager and is in his middle twenties. He has a twin brother and sister near his age, Mark and Laura, and a younger sister, Cindy, 17. Jamie has recently transferred to Station 5.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://i.pinimg.com/564x/3e/5b/80/3e5b8043cb5276d64178b2ebaf54c268.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="A must for Chicagoans! Blue Gate Amish restaurant in Shipshewana, IN. SUPER Delicious!!" border="0" height="173" src="https://i.pinimg.com/564x/3e/5b/80/3e5b8043cb5276d64178b2ebaf54c268.jpg" width="200" /></a>Kayla Dienner's family own a restaurant in Bird-in-Hand, near the fire station. Her brother, Simeon, was a firefighter and died during a rescue the previous year. Meeting Jamie when Station 5 is called to their barn fire, her younger teen brother, Nathan, discloses his desire to be trained too. Simeon's widow, Eva, and their baby live in an apartment within their family home. They all work together at their Dienner's Family Restaurant.<br />
<br />
The families initially come together to help during the rebuilding of the Dienner's barn. I liked the growing relationship between Kayla and Jamie's sisters, Laura and Cindy. Struggles surface with what Kayla perceives as interference when Jamie tells Nathan about previous assistance calls, she sees as encouraging him when she has already lost one brother.<br />
<br />
The support within the families is encouraging for them as difficulties are talked about together with a listening ear. Standing by each other, they develop an ability to see beyond today to a future that can be promising beyond their painful memories and cares. But it doesn't come quickly as burdens are shared and processed. A budding relationship is tenderly nurtured without becoming crowding or advising by those close to them, but knowing "I am here for you."<br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://prodimage.images-bn.com/cimages/0000010430249_p0_v1_s260x185.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://prodimage.images-bn.com/cimages/0000010430249_p0_v1_s260x185.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">author Amy Clipston</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<a href="http://amyclipston.com/project/a-place-at-our-table/">The Making of A Place at Our Table</a></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i>A Place at Our Table</i> is very special to me because it’s the first in my Amish Homestead series. I’m thrilled for my readers to meet the Riehl family members, and experience their joys and heartaches with them. Since Jamie Riehl, the hero in this book, is a volunteer firefighter, this book is dedicated to all the brave men and women who are serving or have served as firefighters and emergency medical technicians. ~ author Amy Clipston</div>
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***Thank you to BookLook Bloggers for sending a copy of this novel. This review was written in my own words. No other compensation was received.***<br />
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<br />Lane Hill Househttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12952459499802207852noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3948253853648439599.post-40440150656744543752017-11-07T23:20:00.000-06:002017-11-07T23:20:21.516-06:00The Austen Escape by Katherine Reay, © 2017<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://katherinereay.com/wp-content/uploads/2017/02/austen-escape_1_31_3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://katherinereay.com/wp-content/uploads/2017/02/austen-escape_1_31_3.jpg" height="400" width="261" /></a></div>
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Mary Davies, Nathan Hillam, and Isabel Dwyer may find Bath, England, more than a two-week getaway amid other Austen character wannabees. A fancy ball and social interaction may prove to be more than a contemporary replay for them. Join author Katherine Reay as she explores the excitement and period hideaways as these characters become enthralled beyond what they could have imagined. Somehow, it all points to their now and future by exploration of the past.<br />
<br />
I don't know how fair this is...<br />
<br />
Isabel's conversation with Mary:<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
"... I owe you. I don't want you to be angry, but I did something. I..." Her eyes darted over my shoulder and she swallowed whatever she was about to say. "Oh. Your friend Moira is headed this way."<br />
--<i>Austen Escape</i>, 25</blockquote>
and, when will she get back to it ~ or will she expound on it further? I have read all of Katherine Reay's novels, and they get deeper. So be sure and join in! You will enJ*O*Y the adventure.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Two best friends journey from Austin, TX to Bath, England. An unexpected twist in their vacation leaves them both imagining something new for their friendship and their lives.</span>
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<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> ~ author Katherine Reay</span></div>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://i.pinimg.com/564x/d6/71/b9/d671b98c0e167367156ba095311fcaea.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="What a beautiful drawing of some of Austen's novels." border="0" height="136" src="https://i.pinimg.com/564x/d6/71/b9/d671b98c0e167367156ba095311fcaea.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.pinterest.com/pin/325033298084800853/">Credit</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Regency England ~ the town of Bath<br />
Arriving early with minimal sleep due to anticipation and excitement Mary and Isabel drew near. Before them stood Braithwaite House, their home for two weeks.<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
The gallery was empty. I stood and absorbed the complete stillness. Here the silence felt right. I wondered if I'd ever truly heard it before. The realization of how much noise filled my world only became apparent in its absence.<br />
--<i>Ibid</i>., 109</blockquote>
The dawning of a new day; the absorption of a different world, a different time before us, if we would but breathe it into our beings.<br />
<br />
(Okay! Another character told what Isabel didn't. We'll see what develops...)<br />
<br />
<a href="https://i.pinimg.com/564x/15/b4/06/15b406708ca56db39d5a906675721f46.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="Pride & Prejudice. I have to say my favorite sappy, romantically…" border="0" height="200" src="https://i.pinimg.com/564x/15/b4/06/15b406708ca56db39d5a906675721f46.jpg" width="165" /></a>Real or imagined, role-play within their new surroundings encapsulated them, easily drawn to an earlier time period they had only envisioned. Would the choice of their character reveal who they are, or as an observation placed upon them by another?<br />
<br />
<a href="https://i.pinimg.com/564x/af/ea/53/afea5356fa34d3a66d728224c04f6956.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="While you are downtown or walking The Hike and Bike Trail make sure to stay till sunset. From March to September you can see the world's largest urban bat colony (close to 2 million) fly at night" border="0" height="200" src="https://i.pinimg.com/564x/af/ea/53/afea5356fa34d3a66d728224c04f6956.jpg" width="200" /></a>Clarity became focused in returning to the Austin left behind. With absorption of the time away, the lens became clearer.<br />
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I like the unexpected in Katherine Reay's writings. It all accumulates however, not in the way you might think is before them. My favorite character was Gertrude, an older lady who is able to see her own life through the new occupants of Braithwaite House.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img alt="Katherine Reay" height="200" src="https://pbs.twimg.com/profile_images/826522194637385728/b54Z-LR3_400x400.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="200" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">author Katherine Reay</td></tr>
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<img alt="Thomas Nelson" src="http://d3nlp9u44cp3xd.cloudfront.net/skin/frontend/enterprise/blanco/images/logo.1445508976.gif" /><br />
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***Thank you, author Katherine Reay, for inviting me to come along on the book launching of <i>The Austen Escape</i>, and to Thomas Nelson Publishing for sending me an Advanced Reader's Copy. This review was written in my own words. No other compensation was received.***<br />
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<img alt="Dear Mr. Knightley" src="http://d3nlp9u44cp3xd.cloudfront.net/media/catalog/product/cache/1/small_image/135x/9df78eab33525d08d6e5fb8d27136e95/9/7/9781401689681.jpg.1453404458.jpg" /><img alt="Lizzy & Jane" src="http://d3nlp9u44cp3xd.cloudfront.net/media/catalog/product/cache/1/small_image/135x/9df78eab33525d08d6e5fb8d27136e95/1/4/1401689736.jpg_3.1446724420.jpg" /><img alt="The Brontë Plot" src="http://d3nlp9u44cp3xd.cloudfront.net/media/catalog/product/cache/1/small_image/135x/9df78eab33525d08d6e5fb8d27136e95/9/7/9781401689759.jpg_2.1450126030.jpg" /><img alt="A Portrait of Emily Price" src="http://d3nlp9u44cp3xd.cloudfront.net/media/catalog/product/cache/1/small_image/135x/9df78eab33525d08d6e5fb8d27136e95/9/7/9780718077914.jpg.1457661501.jpg" /><br />
<br />Lane Hill Househttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12952459499802207852noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3948253853648439599.post-49699900395404965482017-11-04T22:59:00.000-05:002017-11-04T23:01:17.009-05:00The Christmas Blessing by Melody Carlson, © 2017<img alt="Cover Art" src="http://cdn.bakerpublishinggroup.com/processed/books/covers/listing/9781493410965.jpg?1498809251" /><br />
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I first read Melody Carlson's Whispering Pine series and continued to read her Tales of Grace Chapel Inn books, followed by single titles. <i>The Christmas Blessing</i> is 2017's release just in time to add to her previous Christmastime stories. Set in the early 1940's, this story is during the unsettled time of WWII. As today, families were separated and loved ones longing for news. Amelia Richards receives dreaded news and prepares to leave San Diego to go to her baby's grandparents ~ whom she has not met previously. Will love's journey conquer the unknown reception when she gets there?<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The station platform at San Diego</td></tr>
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Becoming ill, both she and her baby come under the care of Dr. George Bradley, a very vital person in the story. His wisdom in prayer outshines any uncertainty brought by the interweaving of their lives.<br />
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A courageous story of hope, bravery, and most of all trust, Amelia's love for her child is selflessly demonstrated. A very visual story, the author brought the characters to life and each one's perspective is shown.<br />
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I really liked this story.<br />
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<img alt="Revell" class="division_logo" src="http://cdn.bakerpublishinggroup.com/processed/divisions/logos/original/revell.png" style="background-color: white; border-radius: 0px; border: none; box-shadow: none; box-sizing: border-box; color: #212121; display: block; font-family: "Open Sans", "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; max-width: 100%;" /><br />
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***Thank you to Early Reviewers ~ LibraryThing for my win of Melody Carlson's <i>The Christmas Blessing</i>. This review was written in my own words. No other compensation was received.***<br />
<br />Lane Hill Househttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12952459499802207852noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3948253853648439599.post-53973365775332279002017-11-04T01:01:00.001-05:002017-11-04T01:01:59.251-05:00The Beloved Christmas Quilt by Wanda E. Brunstetter, Jean Brunstetter, and Richelle Brunstetter, © 2017<span style="font-size: large;">Three Stories of Family, Romance, and Amish Faith</span><br />
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<img src="http://www.barbourbooks.com/Custom/ProductImageHandler.ashx?ProductID=14779&endHeight=399&endWidth=262&fillBackground=false&VerticalCenter=false" /><br />
<strong style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;"><br /></strong> <strong style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;"> One Quilt Binds Three Generations of Amish Women</strong><br />
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Enjoy the gift of a brand new romance from <em>New York Times</em> bestselling author Wanda E. Brunstetter, along with stories by her daughter-in-law, Jean and granddaughter, Richelle.</div>
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<em>For thou art my rock and my fortress; therefore for thy name’s sake lead me, and guide me. Psalm 31:3</em></div>
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The scripture embroidered on the back of a beloved quilt brings hope to three generations of Pennsylvania Amish women at Christmastime.</div>
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<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/4g6bTjnBrf4" width="560"></iframe> My Review:<br />
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The beginnings of a treasured quilt passed down to the next generation. Not only that is passed down, but wonderful writings!! I must confess the last story is my favorite written by Mrs. Brunstetter's granddaughter, Richelle... but, let's start at the beginning.<br />
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<i>Luella's Promise</i><br />
by Wanda E. Brunstetter<br />
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Bird-in-Hand, Pennsylvania<br />
Day breaks like any other ~ sunshiney, barn chores, an awaited breakfast with family around the table. Luella Ebersol is then on her way to her beloved friend's home to care for her. Dena Zook is looking to the ways of her family, and it includes Luella.<br />
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<a href="https://i.pinimg.com/564x/0b/cb/18/0bcb188fcc5ce6339fa66a9829dfd7c9.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="It's always interesting to see how the Amish haul their building supplies." border="0" height="213" src="https://i.pinimg.com/564x/0b/cb/18/0bcb188fcc5ce6339fa66a9829dfd7c9.jpg" width="320" /></a> Atlee Zook becomes a strong figure in the story. I would like to have entered his woodworking shop with the scents of curly shavings about as he concentrates to complete his orders for his customers. His young son, Daryl, is well taken care of by Luella as she continues working in their home after the passing of his wife.<br />
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<i>Karen's Gift</i><br />
by Jean Brunstetter<br />
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Lykens, Pennsylvania<br />
This is a beautiful story of adjusting to a move away from parents and the decisions Karen Allgyer and her husband, Seth, each come to in regard to their home. As their family grows, the relationship is continued for the children with visits from their grandparents.<br />
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Seth's growth in character is developed and enriched as he deepens relationship within their immediate family and faces challenges on his work duties. Open communication becomes a strength for them as Seth and Karen learn by sharing their hearts together.<br />
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<i>Roseanna's Groom</i><br />
by Richelle Brunstetter<br />
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Lykens, Pennsylvania<br />
This story is about Seth and Karen Allgyer's children as they are older. I liked so much the closeness of this family covering three generations. The joy within the home is so apparent by the connection of their lives and shared fun and chores between them. With difficulties faced, they listen to each other and develop strong bonds that enable them to go forward and to trust the Lord with their lives.<br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>He that handleth a matter wisely shall find good: and whoso trusteth in the Lord, happy is he.<br />Proverbs 16:20</i></span></blockquote>
I especially liked the decision-making process that formed truth in their lives by depending on the Lord. A continuation of generations before them developed into a love that endures.<br />
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<img alt="Image result for amish pies" src="https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/236x/6b/6d/56/6b6d56ed9a0c4f700067e2a060a6ff4e--homemade-pies-shop-ideas.jpg" /><br />
A pie recipe follows each story!<br />
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EnJ*O*Y this excerpt from <i>The Beloved Christmas Quilt</i><br />
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<i><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Luella’s Promise</span></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">by Wanda E. Brunstetter</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Chapter 1</span></div>
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<i>Bird-in-Hand, Pennsylvania</i></div>
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Luella Ebersol had never been lazy, but this morning it was all she could do to push the covers aside and pull herself out of bed. She’d put in long hours yesterday, taking care of Atlee Zook’s wife, Dena, and their son, Daryl. When Dena’s health declined a few months ago, Luella had been hired as her caregiver while Atlee was at work in his shop or had to be away from home for other reasons. Atlee usually stayed home from their biweekly church services on Sundays, so Luella could go with her family, but sometimes she sat with Dena, allowing Atlee to attend the service.<br />
It was not easy leaving the warm confines of her blankets this morning, and Luella cringed when her bare feet touched the cold wooden floor. The late November weather had turned chilly, and snow was in the forecast. The dull light coming into her room was an indication of how dreary it was outdoors. The Indian-summer days of autumn were gone, and she already missed having the windows open at night. “I’ll never complain about hot summer days again,” Luella mumbled as she slipped into her robe and fuzzy slippers.<br />
Quickly making the bed, she shivered, guiding her hands over the sheets and covers to smooth them out. Mama was probably downstairs scurrying around the kitchen; which prompted Luella to close her eyes and inhale deeply. Tantalizing aromas drifting up from the kitchen made her stomach gurgle in protest.<br />
Walking over to the window, Luella ran her fingers down the moisture on the glass. Looking toward the barn, she saw the door was open. Dad had most likely been there awhile, getting his morning chores done.<br />
Forcing herself away from the view, Luella needed to hurry and dress so she could help get breakfast on the table. Surely, her full-of-energy, twelve-year-old sister, Sara, would already be there. Luella and Sara were ten years apart, so with the exception of their easygoing personalities, they had little in common. Sara liked to be outdoors with the animals, whereas Luella enjoyed indoor things like embroidery work, reading, and cooking. One of her favorite things to make this time of year was apple butter bars. She’d baked a batch of them last night to take over to the Zooks’ this morning.<br />
“And I’d better get dressed or I’ll never get there.” Luella washed her face and hands with water from the basin on her dresser then chose a plain, dark blue dress to wear. Once she’d gotten dressed and put on her shoes, she secured her hair in a bun and put her heart-shaped white head covering on.<br />
Downstairs in the kitchen, the first thing she did was slip her black apron on. “What’s for <i class="">friehschtick</i>, and what can I do to help you?” she asked her mother.<br />
Mom turned from where she stood at the stove. “Thought we’d have <i class="">pannekuche</i> for our breakfast this morning.”<br />
Luella grinned. “Pancakes sound good to me. Shall I mix up the batter?”<br />
“Already done.” Mom stepped aside and pointed to the griddle on the stove, where bubbles formed on the surface of four nice-sized pancakes. “Sara set the table, and now she’s outside helping your <i class="">daed</i> in the barn.”<br />
Luella’s brows furrowed. “How come Samuel’s not helping Dad feed the animals? Did my little <i class="">bruder</i> sleep in this morning?”<br />
“Your brother came down with the flu during the night. He’s resting in bed.”<br />
“I’m sorry to hear it. Sure hope he feels better soon and no one else gets it.” Luella especially didn’t want to get sick. It would mean not being able to take care of Dena, and Luella certainly didn’t want her dear friend to get the flu. It was bad enough Dena’s heart was failing. Atlee’s wife was pure sweetness, and although her heart had weakened, she never complained. According to what the doctor had told Atlee, Dena would not live to see their young son become a man.<br />
“Daughter, did you hear what I said?” Mom tapped Luella’s shoulder, halting her contemplations.<br />
Luella turned around. “<i>Ach</i>. Sorry, Mom. I was deep in thought.”<br />
Mom gave a nod. “It looked as if you were.”<br />
“What did you say to me?”<br />
“I asked what time you need to be at the Zooks’.”<br />
Luella glanced at the battery-operated clock. “I should leave within the hour.”<br />
“Then we’d best eat soon. Why don’t you run out to the barn and tell your daed and <i>schweschder</i> to stop what they’re doing and come in for breakfast? If they’re not done, they can finish up when the meal is over.”<br />
“Okay, Mom.” Luella pulled her woolen shawl from the wall peg and slipped out the back door.<br />
Pulling the shawl tighter around her shoulders as she approached the barn, Luella heard Dad whistling. He always made music when he fed the livestock. Luella felt blessed to have such a cheerful father. For that matter, both of her parents had positive attitudes, even when faced with trials. Luella hoped someday, when she was married and had children, that she could set a good example for them as well.<br />
Upon entering the barn, Luella spotted her sister down on her knees, petting one of the barn cats.<br />
Luella cleared her throat real loud and, with a jerk of her head, Sara looked up. “You shouldn’t sneak up on a person like that. Almost gave me a <i class="">hatzschlack</i>.”<br />
Hearing her sister say “heart attack” caused Luella to think about poor Dena again. Ever since she had begun working for Atlee, she thought about him and his wife’s situation. How sad it would be to marry someone and then a few years later learn they were gravely ill.<br />
In an effort to redirect her thoughts, Luella knelt beside Sara and reached out to stroke the cat. “I thought you were supposed to be helping Dad feed the animals.” She wagged her finger.<br />
Sara’s pale brows lowered, and she pushed a lock of silky blond hair back under the head scarf she wore to do chores. “For your information, I’ve already fed the <i class="">katze</i> and the <i>hund</i>, so now I’m just takin’ a little time to pet Cloud.”<br />
Luella snickered. Her sister loved animals and had named every one of their cats. This one she called Cloud because of its fluffy white fur. “Okay, Sara, I understand, but Mom sent me out here to fetch you and Dad so we could eat breakfast.”<br />
Sara rose to her feet. “Oh, good ’cause I’m <i class="">hungerich</i>.”<br />
Luella smiled. “You go ahead to the house, and I’ll get Dad.”<br />
“All right. See you up in the kitchen.” Her sister scampered out the door with Cloud following close behind.<br />
First, Luella paused to check on Buttercup, the Nubian goat her parents got for her sixteenth birthday. The floppy-eared goat came to the front of the stall and bleated, most likely hoping Luella would follow through with the normal ear scratching. “Don’t worry, I didn’t forget you, Buttercup.” Luella had to giggle when the goat leaned into her hand as she scratched behind its ears. “Why, I believe you are actually smiling.”<br />
After fussing with Buttercup, Luella followed Dad’s whistles to the back of the barn. She found him inside the stall of Mom’s buggy horse.<br />
Seemingly engrossed in his chore of spreading fresh straw, Dad didn’t notice her at first. It wasn’t easy running a farm, but somehow he put enjoyment behind the hardest of work. Even now, as her father followed his normal routine of freshening the stall, one would never know he’d been up before daybreak, putting in a few hours before breakfast.<br />
She stood watching him a few seconds longer, until he paused to wipe his forehead. “<i>Ach</i>, Luella! I didn’t hear you come in. How long have you been standing there?”<br />
“Not long at all. I’ve enjoyed the tune you’ve been whistling, while watching you work.”With tender emotions, she looked at her dad. “You know what I always say, Dad. ‘Keep your happiness in circulation.’”<br />
He grinned, giving his full dark beard a tug. “You know me. . . always singin’ or whistlin’ when I have chores to do.”<br />
She nodded. “The reason I came out is to tell you breakfast is about ready. Since I have to leave for the Zooks’ house soon, Mom said I should call you in to eat.”<br />
He gestured to the pile of straw yet to be spread. “I still have a little more work here.”<br />
“I know, but Mom thought you could finish up after breakfast.”<br />
He reached under his straw hat and scratched his head. “<i>Jah</i>, I suppose I could do that all right. Who knows, I might be able to work a lot harder once my belly is full.” Dad winked at Luella. “Agreed?”<br />
She grinned up at him. “Jah, Dad, I agree. But ya better not eat too much, or it’ll make you sleepy.”<br />
“I’ve never looked at it that way,” her father said with a chuckle, as he put his arm around Luella’s shoulder and they walked out of the barn together.<br />
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~*~</div>
“How is Dena doing today?” Luella asked when Atlee let her into his house.<br />
“Not well.” Atlee slowly shook his head, glancing toward their bedroom, which was on the first floor. “She didn’t sleep well last night, so I insisted she stay in bed this morning and rest.” He reached up to rub his neck. The poor man’s somber expression said it all; he was worried about his wife.<br />
Luella wanted to offer him comfort but wasn’t sure how. She certainly couldn’t give Atlee a hug, like she did whenever Dad was troubled about something. That would be inappropriate. “I’m sorry, Atlee. I’ll keep Daryl entertained today and make sure Dena’s needs are met.”<br />
His shoulders drooped, and he rubbed the heel of his palm against his chest. Luella saw only sadness in Atlee’s brown eyes. His thick, dark brows, matching the color of his hair and beard, pulled downward. He looked so defeated. “According to the doctor, short of a miracle, my <i>fraa</i> doesn’t have long to live.”<br />
Luella’s heart went out to him. Although Atlee tried to stay strong for his wife and son, she could see the stress was wearing on him. Dark circles under his eyes suggested he’d gotten very little sleep last night. She’d been praying and praying for Dena, but the dear woman seemed to be getting weaker every day. How would Atlee cope when she was gone? How would their son manage without a mother? At times such as now, Luella couldn’t help but question God. Why did He call some people home in the prime of their life, while others got to live to a ripe old age? It didn’t seem fair, but it wasn’t her place to question God. As their bishop had said in a sermon lately, “God’s ways are not our ways, and He has a plan for every one of His people, even if we can’t see or understand it.”<br />
Luella tilted her head toward the stairs but heard no noise coming from up there. The Zooks’ house was a large two-story, with one bedroom down, and the other four bedrooms on the second floor. “Is Daryl still in bed?” she asked, feeling the need to talk about something else—something that didn’t speak of death.<br />
“Jah.” Atlee ambled over to the woodstove and picked up the coffeepot. “Would you like a cup of <i class="">kaffi</i>, Luella?”<br />
“No, thank you. I’ll fix you some friehschtick, though.”<br />
He shook his head. “I’ve already had breakfast.”<br />
Luella glanced at the table, where only Atlee’s empty cup set. No sign of any plates having been out, nor was there a frying pan or kettle on the stove. “What did you have?”<br />
“I ate a piece of that tasty shoofly pie you made yesterday, to go with my coffee.”<br />
“I see.” She glanced at the kitchen sink, but it was empty.<br />
As if he could read her thoughts, Atlee quickly said, “I didn’t use a <i>deller</i>. I put the pie on a napkin and ate it with my fingers.” He held up his hand and wiggled his fingers. “It got kind of sticky, but that’s what soap and <i class="">wasser</i> are for.”<br />
She resisted the urge to laugh, certain that he didn’t mean it to be funny. Truthfully, the only time Luella saw Atlee laugh, or even smile, was when he took time out from his job to play with his son. Atlee had a woodworking shop in a separate building on his property, where he made doghouses, birdhouses, picnic tables, lawn chairs, and some small storage sheds. He did most of the work himself, but one of the young Amish men in the area came to help when Atlee had too many orders to fill. At noontime and at least once more during the day, Atlee came into the house to check on Dena and spend a little time with Daryl. If Luella had learned one thing about Atlee since she’d been working for him, it was that he was a devoted husband and father. She hoped to find a man someday who would be equally devoted to her. For now, though, her only goal in life was to be a good caregiver for Dena and see that Daryl had everything he needed. That’s what Atlee had hired her for, and she wouldn’t let him down.<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Chapter 2</span></div>
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Luella took a seat in the chair beside Dena’s bed, while Daryl played with his wooden horse on the floor nearby. Luella had brought the boy into the bedroom with her, partly so she could keep an eye on him and also to give Dena a chance to be with her son.<br />
“You don’t have to sit here with me.” Dena’s brown eyes closed then fluttered open. It was an obvious struggle for her to stay awake. “I’m sure you have other things to do.”<br />
Luella shook her head. “The lunch dishes are done, and the laundry is hanging on the line outside, so there isn’t much I need to do till it’s time to bring the clothes in and start supper.” She touched Dena’s pale hand. “Besides, I enjoy talking with you. But if you’re too tired to visit, I can come back later to check on you and see if there’s anything you need.”<br />
“What I need is to get up and do something meaningful. I don’t know why Atlee insisted I stay in bed all day.” Dena released a lingering sigh. “I feel so useless.”<br />
“Would you like me to bring your basket of yarn so you can sit up in bed and knit or crochet?”<br />
“I suppose I could do that, but it’s not the same as cooking for my family, cleaning house, or going for a walk with my precious little <i>bu</i>.” When Dena turned her head to look at Daryl, tears gathered in the corner of her eyes. “I’m missing so much not being able to care for him like I should, and. . .” Her voice lowered. “It breaks my heart to think that I won’t be around to see him start school.”<br />
Luella gently squeezed her friend’s fingers. “Please don’t talk like that, Dena. You must not give up hope.”<br />
Dena lifted a shaky hand to push a wisp of auburn hair away from her colorless cheek. “My hope lies in Jesus, but I have to face reality. My heart’s not getting any stronger, and it’s only a matter of time until. . .” Her voice trailed off as several tears seeped out from under her lashes. “There’s so much I want to tell you, Luella, but I can barely keep my eyes open. We can talk later. But for now, why don’t you take Daryl outside to play while I take a nap?”<br />
Luella nodded. “I can do that. Is there anything I can do or get for you before we head outdoors?”<br />
“No, I’m fine. I just need to sleep for a while.”<br />
Luella patted Dena’s arm then tucked the lovely quilt covering her bed up under her chin. “I’ll be in to check on you after we come back inside.”<br />
“<i>Danki</i>.” Dena closed her eyes.<br />
Luella continued to sit a few more minutes, until she was sure Dena had fallen asleep. Then she left her chair, took Daryl’s hand, and led him silently from the room.<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
~*~</div>
“Why can’t <i>Mammi</i> come outside with us?” Daryl’s innocence tugged at Luella’s heart.<br />
“Your mamma is a little tired still, and she needs her rest.”<br />
With no more questions, Daryl stretched out each arm while Luella slipped his jacket on, then put her heavy woolen shawl around her shoulders.<br />
As they stepped off the porch, Luella stopped. In certain spots, sunlight glistened on the grass, making dewdrops sparkle like tiny diamonds. But in other shaded areas, yet untouched by the warmth of the afternoon sun, frosty patterns coated the still-frozen blades of grass. Luella was glad they both wore heavier attire, as she blew air from her mouth and watched the vapor dissolve into the cold, nippy air.<br />
“<i>Schnee</i>! Schnee!” Daryl pointed to the thin layer of sparkling ice lingering on the trees in the Zooks’ backyard.<br />
“No, Daryl, it’s frost, not snow,” Luella said in Pennsylvania Dutch. At the age of four, he was still too young to understand most English words, but that would change when he turned six and went to school.<br />
The boy tipped his auburn head back, looked up at her curiously, and repeated the word <i class="">schnee</i>.<br />
She didn’t correct him this time. He’d learn the difference between snow and frost eventually. As chilly as it was, all too soon Daryl would be correct in yelling, “Schnee.”<br />
Luella watched as the young lad ran through the yard, making a matted-down trail in the frost as he went. While Daryl was content amusing himself, she turned and looked back at the large, five-bedroom house. How exciting it must have been when the Zooks were first married and moved into this place.<br />
She wiped the tears that had escaped her eyes. No doubt they’d planned for a big family with plenty of children to fill all those bedrooms—hopes and dreams that would never be fulfilled.<br />
Continuing to study the house, Luella couldn’t help noticing all the beautiful shrubbery planted here and there. In between the bushes, and along the fence line surrounding their property, were remnants of late summer and autumn flowers, now blackened or lifeless by the brutal cold frost. Dena must have felt such joy when planting those flowers and watching them bloom, adding color to the landscape. Tending the house, cooking, cleaning, and taking care of her husband and son—it would be hard to give it all up.<br />
As Luella looked around the rest of the property toward the barn, and then back to Daryl, the ache inside her grew deeper, knowing what all three of these good people would be losing. It was a horrible situation, no matter from whose perspective she looked at it. Dena was losing out on all the hopes and dreams she would have shared growing old with her husband.<br />
<i>I can’t even think what will happen to Atlee and Daryl once Dena is gone. Will Atlee stay here, or will it be too hard to be reminded daily of the precious memories he and Dena made inside and outside this home? Will this land and house be too big for just him and his son?</i><br />
Luella knew when the time came, only Atlee could decide what would work best for him and the boy. Oh, how her heart ached for them, though.<br />
Startling Luella out of her thoughts, Daryl ran up to her and pointed to the frosty designs in the grass. “Look what I did.” He giggled as the sun went behind a cloud.<br />
“Now that is quite pretty, isn’t it?” Luella had to chuckle at Daryl’s pleasure, even with the foreboding going through her mind. Taking a deep breath, she reached for the boy’s hand. “Why don’t we go for a walk?”<br />
“<i>Daadi!</i> Daadi!” Daryl pointed across the way to his father’s woodshop.<br />
Atlee would be busy, but to deny his son the right to say hello wouldn’t be right, either. “Okay, we’ll go see your daddy. But only for a little while, because he has work to do.”<br />
Luella thought about the shoofly pie Atlee had eaten for breakfast this morning, and wondered if he’d like another piece. Or maybe he would enjoy some of the apple butter bars she’d brought from home.<br />
“Let’s go inside for a minute and get a treat for your daed.” She guided Daryl toward the house. “Would you like some dessert, Daryl?”<br />
The boy’s round face broke into a wide smile as he bobbed his head. “<i class="">Kichlin</i>.”<br />
She smiled. They weren’t cookies, but it was all the same to Daryl. <i>Maybe along with the bars, I’ll take a Thermos of coffee out to Atlee</i>.<br />
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~*~</div>
Atlee’s stomach growled. It had only been a few hours since lunch, but for some reason he was hungry. <i>Guess I should have had a second sandwich when Luella offered it to me. That’s what I get for bein’ polite</i>. Atlee appreciated Luella’s willingness to help out. Of course, she was being paid for her work. But he had a hunch the young woman would have done it without any pay.<br />
It amazed him how quickly his wife and her caregiver had become friends. Even though they were more than ten years apart, Dena and Luella always seemed to have something to talk about. In addition to keeping Dena company and Daryl entertained, Luella was an excellent cook, and they were all well fed. She also did the laundry, cleaning, and other household chores, all without the slightest complaint. Luella was patient and kind, and most always had a smile on her face. Hiring Luella had been the best medicine he could have given his precious Dena.<br />
When the door to his shop opened, Atlee’s musings came to a halt. Seeing Luella and Daryl come in, he dropped what he was doing and went over to greet them.<br />
“Daryl wanted to visit his daadi,” Luella explained. She held out the plate, along with Atlee’s old Thermos. “And I thought you might enjoy these apple butter bars and some coffee.”<br />
Grinning, he ruffled his son’s wavy hair. “You bet I would.”<br />
Daryl stood close to Atlee. While the two of them ate their share, Luella remained off to one side, watching them.<br />
“Aren’t you gonna join us?” Atlee gestured to a chair near his workbench. “Why don’t you have a seat?”<br />
“I ate a bar before we came out of the house.”<br />
“Well, there’s no reason you can’t have another. After all, you’re the one who made them.”<br />
A light in Luella’s blue eyes shone when she smiled and nodded. “True. All right, I’ll eat another one, but then Daryl and I need to go back in the house so I can check on Dena.”<br />
“How’s she doing this afternoon?” He poured himself some coffee and waited for her reply.<br />
“Dena seems quite tired today. She was sleeping when I left her.”<br />
Atlee gave his full beard a tug. “She didn’t sleep well last night, so I told her to stay in bed today.”<br />
“Jah, that’s what Dena said.”<br />
He set his coffee down and crossed his arms. “My wife would like to be up and around, doing all the things she used to do, but she’s not up for that anymore.” He paused, reaching around to rub a sore spot on his lower back. “I don’t know how we’ll get along without Dena. This may be our last Christmas together.” He paused, and glanced down at Daryl, glad his son couldn’t understand much English yet.<br />
“You mustn’t think that.” Luella tipped her blond head to one side. “Your wife may be here for a good many months yet.”<br />
Atlee groaned. “I hope so, Luella. Jah, I truly do. If only God would give us a Christmas miracle.”<br />
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~*~</div>
Back in the house, Luella put Daryl down for a nap. He didn’t want to rest, of course, but after she read him a story, he fell asleep on the sofa. Now it was time to see how Daryl’s mother was doing.<br />
Luella peeked through the small opening in Dena’s door and was surprised to see her sitting up in bed. She poked her head into the room. “I see you’re awake now. Would you like some dessert and hot chocolate?”<br />
“Maybe after a while.” Dena glanced toward the door. “Where’s Daryl?”<br />
“He’s asleep on the living-room sofa.”<br />
“I’m glad. Some <i class="">kinner</i> his age don’t take naps anymore, but my son does better when he’s had one.” Dena offered Luella a weak smile. “He will be in a good mood during supper.”<br />
“Would you like to get up for a bit, and sit in your rocking chair?” Luella asked.<br />
“Maybe later. Right now, I need to talk to you about something.”<br />
Luella felt concern, seeing Dena’s serious expression. “What is it?” Biting her lip, she pulled the rocking chair next to the bed.<br />
Dena picked up one corner of the lovely quilt on her bed and held it close to her heart. “The pattern for this is called ‘Country Patch,’ but I call it my beloved Christmas quilt, because my mother, who made the covering, gave it to me and Atlee for Christmas the first year we were married.”<br />
“It is a lovely quilt. Your <i>mamm</i> was a talented quilter.”<br />
Dena got a faraway look in her eyes. “Jah, she certainly was. I miss my mamm and wish she was still alive to take care of Daryl when I’m gone.”<br />
Luella’s throat felt swollen, and it was difficult to swallow. She wished Dena would stop talking about her imminent death.<br />
“Would you do me a favor, Luella?”<br />
“Jah. What do you need?”<br />
“I’d like you to take this quilt home with you, as an early Christmas present.”<br />
“Ach, no, I could never accept such a gift.” Luella’s fingers touched her parted lips. “It should remain in your family; especially with it being a present from your mother. Besides, it’s not even Christmas yet.”<br />
Dena shook her head. “I may not be here to give it to you on Christmas Day. Please, Luella, I want you to have this beloved quilt. It would mean a lot to me, knowing you will someday pass the quilt on to your eldest daughter.”<br />
“But I’m not even married, and I may never find a husband, so really, you should reconsider.”<br />
Dena shook her head. “I have no sisters, and since my parents have both passed on, I have no family to give the quilt to. Please, Luella, I insist that you take it.”<br />
“Oh, okay. Danki, Dena. I will treasure it always.”<br />
Dena breathed in and out slowly. “I have another favor to ask.”<br />
Luella was hesitant to even ask what. She hoped her dear friend didn’t want to give her some other family heirloom. “What other favor?”<br />
“I want you to promise that after I’m gone, you will take care of Atlee and Daryl.”<br />
“Well, of course, I will come over and check on them regularly, but I really wish you wouldn’t talk of such things.”<br />
“It’s important that I say all this now.” Dena stroked the quilt lovingly. “My son will still need someone to care for him while Atlee’s working in his shop. And Atlee—well, he’s not good in the kitchen, and he won’t have time to clean house or do laundry. Won’t you please agree to keep working for him after I’m gone, as you are now? It would give me a sense of peace to know that my family will be taken care of after I die.”<br />
Luella had to force a smile as she nodded and said, “Jah, Dena, I will take care of the household and watch your son.”<br />
“Be a friend to Atlee, too.” Dena lowered her head. “Please. . . I know it won’t be easy for him, but he will need someone to talk to.” Luella squeezed her friend’s hand. “Jah, Dena, I will.”<br />
“My husband is trying to stay strong for me and our son, but I feel his sadness and the concern he has for me.” Tears welled up in Dena’s dark eyes as she released a sigh. “Danki, Luella. This means so much to me. I feel such a relief knowing you’ll be here for them.”<br />
Although she kept her thoughts to herself, Luella realized the decision of whether she would continue to work here or not would be up to Dena’s husband. She would only be able to keep her promise to Dena if Atlee agreed.<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Wanda E. Brunstetter, <i>The Beloved Christmas Quilt</i> Shiloh Run Press, an imprint of Barbour Publishing, Inc., © 2017. Used by permission.</span>
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**I received a complimentary copy of this book from Barbour Publishing and was under no obligation to post a review.**<br />
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~*~ <span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Three Generations of Brunstetter Women</span> ~*~<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">author Richelle Brunstetter</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">author Jean Brunstetter</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">author Wanda E. Brunstetter</td></tr>
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Lane Hill Househttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12952459499802207852noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3948253853648439599.post-2540195700135435372017-10-30T20:37:00.000-05:002017-10-30T20:37:41.919-05:0012 Days at Bleakly Manor by Michelle Griep, © 2017<span style="font-size: large;">Once Upon a Dickens Christmas series, Book One</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/proxy/AVvXsEgVxnU5L7MtbjjTo8H5sE3hyLMggMhcEzJOtV1taMTGHPoPMNuiN0IwLjdhECGi97z6DNRxKsw88Un7Vp4vtItQnFvPLVAf34P1RJLPGsXVM36ncPJCp84rDY-nGShQ8jvl3Cektq5JB4BmU48V9HOMGyMImKEbLtiWlkiqF73VRikb214IPa1nil3TGraSEQao_RwgUW_8TtC8ye5NTj_cF885esoaXJNhXpz8HnCiUWYbozqQvtVYDISUsfsD5zTIdGuUZ8rutGSaI2FzLZ2_2bI=" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://www.barbourbooks.com/Custom/ProductImageHandler.ashx?ProductID=14773&endHeight=399&endWidth=262&fillBackground=false&VerticalCenter=false" height="400" width="272" /></a><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img alt="The Second Chance Coin." height="200" src="https://i.pinimg.com/564x/98/7c/0f/987c0f28f0a504cd2eacd6382e025c03.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="175" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">The Second Chance Coin</span></td></tr>
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My Review:<br />
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Time stands still as changes are on the horizon, unexpectedly; a suddenly.<br />
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I was so surprised by this story ~ a quaint assembly of hodge-podge attendees to a Christmas season they will not forget; well most won't. It left me with questions about the secret cubby and its occasional inhabitant; how they kept silent without being seen. Not even a sneeze on a cold winter's night?<br />
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I wondered if the character names were part of a clue to discover their participant journey? But let's gather at Bleakly Manor and discover the intent of the visitors.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img alt="Bleakly Manor at sunrise." height="319" src="https://i.pinimg.com/564x/1f/c2/7a/1fc27a3205561af4a1cb14dfff5235e3.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="400" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Bleakly Manor at sunrise.</span></td></tr>
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Two of the people have met before. Clara Chapman and Benjamin Lane had deep expectations that were hampered by an unforeseen timing of events. Were they pawns in a game of deceit?<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://i.pinimg.com/564x/7c/7a/3c/7c7a3ce392bb75e1a728d0aaf758811d.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="CLARA CHAPMAN" border="0" height="200" src="https://i.pinimg.com/564x/7c/7a/3c/7c7a3ce392bb75e1a728d0aaf758811d.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Clara Chapman</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://i.pinimg.com/564x/c4/80/30/c4803000a7cbf66dfee14d77bde2a1e5.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="BENJAMIN LANE" border="0" height="200" src="https://i.pinimg.com/564x/c4/80/30/c4803000a7cbf66dfee14d77bde2a1e5.jpg" width="133" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Benjamin Lane</td></tr>
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Longing to find the truth, they scramble to be understood without building walls of defense.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img alt="Bleakly Manor" height="200" src="https://i.pinimg.com/564x/d9/8a/34/d98a344461bb4df0e8b15c0288a784f2.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="181" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bleakly Manor</td></tr>
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<a href="http://jcgatlin.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/10/canstockphoto13914461.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="Image result for clue" border="0" src="http://jcgatlin.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/10/canstockphoto13914461.jpg" height="200" width="200" /></a><br />
Would you stay at Bleakly Manor, being promised your one wish could be attained? It appears cozy enough while they wait for their host to appear. Each knock at the door delivers another inkling of suspicion as the question arises, "How do they know the casual occupants and their inclusion?"<br />
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Unraveling the sequence to the end, you may await with the characters to find out their course.<br />
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EnJ*O*Y this excerpt from <i>12 Days at Bleakly Manor</i> ~ <span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Chapters One - Four</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b>The First Day</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><b>DECEMBER 24, 1850</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Chapter One</span></div>
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<i>London, 1850</i></div>
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Christmas or not, there was nothing merry about the twisted alleys of Holywell. Clara Chapman forced one foot in front of the other, sidestepping pools of. . .well, a lady ought not think on such things, not on the morn of Christmas Eve—or any other morn, for that matter.<br />
Damp air seeped through her woolen cape, and she tugged her collar tighter. Fog wrapped around her shoulders, cold as an embrace from the grim reaper. Though morning had broken several hours ago, daylight tarried, seeming reluctant to make an appearance in this part of London—and likely wishing to avoid it altogether. Ancient buildings with rheumy windows leaned toward one another for support, blocking a good portion of the sky.<br />
She quickened her pace. If she didn’t deliver Effie’s gift soon, the poor woman would be off to her twelve-hour shift at the hatbox factory.<br />
Rounding a corner, Clara rapped on the very next door, then fought the urge to wipe her glove. The filthy boards, hung together more by memory than nails, rattled like bones. Her lips pursed into a wry twist. A clean snow might hide the sin of soot and grime in this neighborhood, but no. Even should a fresh coating of white bless all, the stain of so much humanity would not be erased. Not here. For the thousandth time, she breathed out the only prayer she had left.<br />
<i>Why, God? Why?</i><br />
The door swung open. Effie Gedge’s smile beamed so bright and familiar, Clara’s throat tightened. How she missed this woman, her friend, her confidant—her former maid.<br />
“Miss Chapman? What a surprise!” Effie glanced over her shoulder, her smile faltering as she looked back at Clara. “I’d ask you in but. . .”<br />
Clara shoved away the awkward moment by handing over a basket. “I’ve brought you something for your Christmas dinner tomorrow. It isn’t much, but…” It was Clara’s turn to falter. “Anyway, I cannot stay, for Aunt’s developed a cough.”<br />
Effie’s smile returned, more brilliant than ever. “That’s kind of you, miss. Thank you. Truly.”<br />
The woman’s gratitude, so pure and genuine, rubbed Clara’s conscience raw. Would that she might learn to be as thankful for small things. And small it was. Her gaze slipped to the cloth-covered loaf of bread, an orange, and used tea leaves wrapped in a scrap of paper. Pressing her lips together, she faced Effie. “I wish it were more. I wish <i>I</i> could do more. If only we could go back to our old lives.”<br />
“Begging your pardon, miss.” Effie rested her hand on Clara’s arm, her fingers calloused from work no lady’s maid should ever have to perform. “But you are not to blame. I shall always hold to that. There is no ill will between us.”<br />
Clara hid a grimace. Of course she knew in her head she wasn’t to blame, but her heart? That fickle organ had since reverted to her old way of thinking, pulsing out <i>“you are unloved, you are unwanted”</i> with every subsequent beat.<br />
“Miss?”<br />
Clara forced a smile of her own and patted the woman’s hand. “You are the kind one, Effie. You’ve lost everything because of my family, and yet you smile.”<br />
“The Lord gives, and the Lord takes away. I suppose you know that as well as I, hmm?” Her fingers squeezed before she released her hold. “I wish you merry, Miss Chapman, this Christmas and always.”<br />
“Thank you, Effie. And a very merry Christmas be yours, as well.” She spun, eyes burning, and pushed her way back down the narrow alley before Effie saw her tears. This wasn’t fair. None of it.<br />
Her hired hansom waited where she’d left it. The cab was an expense she’d rather not think on, but altogether necessary, for she lived on the other side of town. She borrowed the driver’s strong grip to ascend onto the step, then when inside, settled her skirts on the seat while he shut the door.<br />
Only once did she glance out the window as the vehicle jostled along London’s rutted roads—and immediately repented for having done so. Two lovers walked hand in hand, the man bending close and whispering into the woman’s ear. A blush then, followed by a smile.<br />
Clara yanked shut the window curtain, the loneliness in her heart rabid and biting.<br />
That could have been her. That <i>should</i> have been her.<br />
<i>Why, God? Why?</i><br />
She leaned her head back against the carriage. Was love to be forever denied her? First her father’s rejection, then her fiancé’s. She swallowed back a sob, wearier than twenty-five years ought to feel.<br />
Eventually the cab jerked to a halt, and she descended to the street. She dug into her reticule and pulled out one of her last coins to pay the driver. At this rate, she wouldn’t have to hire a cab to visit Effie next Christmas. She might very well be her neighbor.<br />
“Merry Christmas, miss.” The driver tipped his hat.<br />
“To you, as well,” she answered, then scurried toward Aunt’s town house. A lacquered carriage, with a fine pair of matched horses at the front, stood near the curb. Curious. Perhaps the owner had taken a wrong turn, for Highgate, while shabbily respectable, was no Grosvenor Square.<br />
Clara dashed up the few stairs and entered her home of the last nine months, taken in by the charitable heart of her Aunt Deborha Mitchell. The dear woman was increasingly infirm and housebound, but in her younger days she’d hobnobbed with people from many spheres.<br />
Noontide chimes rang from the sitting-room clock, accompanied by a bark of a cough. Clara untied her hat and slipped from her cloak, hanging both on a hall tree, all the while wondering how best to urge Aunt back to her bed. The woman was as stubborn as. . . She bit her lower lip. Truth be told, tenacity ran just as strongly in her own veins.<br />
Smoothing her skirts, she pulled her lips into a passable smile and crossed the sitting room’s threshold. “I am home, Aunt, and I really must insist you retire—oh! Forgive me.”<br />
She stopped at the edge of the rug. A man stood near the mantel, dressed in deep blue livery. Her gaze flickered to her aunt. “I am sorry. I did not know you had company.”<br />
“Come in, child.” Aunt waved her forward, the fabric of her sleeve dangling too loosely from the woman’s arm. “This involves you.”<br />
The man advanced, offering a creamy envelope with gilt writing embellishing the front. “I am to deliver this to Miss Clara Chapman. That is you, is it not?”<br />
She frowned. “It is.”<br />
He handed her the missive with a bow, then straightened. “I shall await you at the door, miss.”<br />
Her jaw dropped as he bypassed her, smelling of lavender of all things. She turned to Aunt. “I don’t understand.”<br />
“I should think not.” Aunt nodded toward the envelope. “Open it.”<br />
Clara’s name alone graced the front. The penmanship was fine. Perfect, actually. And completely foreign. Turning it over, she broke the seal and withdrew an embossed sheet of paper, reading aloud the words for Aunt to hear.<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i>The Twelve Days of Christmas*</i><i>As never’s been reveled</i><i> Your presence, Miss Chapman,</i><i>Is respectfully herald.</i><i>Bleakly Manor’s the place</i><i>And after twelve nights</i><i>Five hundred pounds</i><i>Will be yours by rights.</i></blockquote>
She lowered the invitation and studied her aunt. Grey hair pulled back tightly into a chignon eased some of the wrinkles at the sides of her eyes, yet a peculiar light shone in the woman’s faded gaze. Aunt Deborha always hid wisdom, but this time, Clara suspected she secreted something more.<br />
“Who sent this?” Clara closed the distance between them and knelt in front of the old woman. “And why?”<br />
Aunt shrugged, her thin shoulders coaxing a rumble in her chest. A good throat clearing staved off a coughing spell—for now. “One * Brief explanations of historical traditions mentioned throughout this story can be found on pages 183–184. does not question an opportunity, my dear. One simply mounts it and rides.”<br />
“You can’t be serious.” She dissected the tiny lift of Aunt’s brows and the set of her mouth, both unwavering. Incredible. Clara sucked in a breath. “You think I should go? To Bleakly Manor, wherever that is?”<br />
“I think”—Aunt angled her chin—“you simply must.”<br />
______________<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">* Brief explanations of historical traditions mentioned throughout this story can be found on pages 183–184.</span><br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Chapter Two</span></div>
<br />
Running an absent finger over the burnt scabs on his forearm, Benjamin Lane sagged against the cell’s stone wall, welcoming the sharp sting of pain. It wouldn’t last long. The crust would fall away, leaving a series of black numbers etched into his skin. A permanent mark, forever labeling him a convict to be feared, and driving a final stake through the heart of his efforts to be something in this world. Turning aside, he spit out the sour taste in his mouth, then his lips curled into a snarl. He was something, all right.<br />
An outcast.<br />
Anger rose in him like a mad dog, biting and completely impotent, for he had no idea who’d put him in this rat hole. The only thing he did know, he wished he didn’t. Not now. Not ever. Growling roared in his ears. Was that him? <i>Oh, God.</i> Not again.<br />
Betrayal from an enemy he could understand, but from the woman he loved? What man could fathom that? For nine months he’d turned that question over and over, examining every angle, each nuance, and still he could not reckon Clara’s duplicity.<br />
<i>Why, God? Why?</i><br />
A finger at a time, Ben opened his hand and stared fiercely at a small chunk of stone, barely discernable in the darkness. Worn smooth now by nearly a year of caressing. He flipped it over, just like his unanswered questions, the sleekness of the rock against his palm reminding him he was human, not beast. Outside his cell, a shriek crawled beneath the crack in his door, reaching for him, taunting him to believe otherwise. To join the howl and become one with the pack of hopeless men.<br />
He flipped the rock again. The movement tethered him to sanity.<br />
Cocking his head, he listened with his whole body. Something more than screams crept in. The scrape of boot leather. Growing louder. Metal on metal, key battling key. The low murmur of a coarse jest shared between two guards.<br />
Sweat popped out on Ben’s forehead. He pressed his back into the wall, an impossible wish to disappear digging into his gut. The footsteps stopped. Only a slab of scarred wood separated him from his tormentors. Some Christmas this would be.<br />
The key jiggled in the lock, and his stomach twisted. It was safer to remain here. In the dark. At least in this womb of crumbling brick and blackness he still heard the cries of other prisoners, as regular as a mother’s heartbeat. He yet felt the dampness of rot on his skin, tasted the rancid gruel served once a day. Still breathed. Still lived.<br />
He flipped the rock again.<br />
The door swung open. A lantern’s glow silhouetted two ghouls.<br />
One stepped forward, a club in his grasp. “Out with ye, Lane. Warden’s got a little Christmas gift with yer name on it.”<br />
Ben wrapped his fingers tight around the stone. Should he make a run for it? Spring an attack and wrestle for the club? Go limp? He’d sigh, if he had any breath to spare, but even that seemed a precious commodity nowadays.<br />
No, better to face this head-on and not relinquish the last morsel of his dignity. He shuffled forward, the chains on his feet rasping. Shackles bit a fresh wound into his ankles with each step.<br />
Leaving behind the only haven he’d known the past nine months, he stumbled into the corridor, guards at his back, prodding, poking. He lurched along, passing other doors, other convicts, inhaling the stench and guilt of Millbank Prison. How many wretches as innocent as he perished behind those doors?<br />
One foot. Then the other. Drag, step. Drag, step. Until the stairway. The weight of his chains pulled him back as he ascended. By the time he reached the top, blood trickled hot over his feet.<br />
“Move it!”<br />
The guard’s club hit between his shoulder blades, knocking him forward and jarring loose his precious stone. It clacked onto the floor, as loud to him as the hammer pounding in Christ’s nails, then bounced down the stairs, taking his soul along with it.<br />
No!<br />
He wheeled about, diving for his only remainder of hope.<br />
But a boot caught him in the gut. A club cracked against his skull. Half-lugged, half-dead, he landed in the warden’s office like an alley cat thrown against a curb. The warden’s sigh barely registered.<br />
“Don’t know why I expected anything different. Thank you, gentlemen. You may wait outside. Up you go, Lane.” Warden Hacksby extended a hand.<br />
Ignoring the offer, Ben sucked in a breath and forced his body up, staggering until the room stopped spinning.<br />
“If nothing else, you are consistent.” Hacksby chuckled and seated himself behind a desk as angular as the man himself. “Do you know what day it is?”<br />
Ben worked out the soreness in his jaw before words could escape. “Sorry. I’ll have to check my calendar and get back to you. Or. . .wait a minute. Ahh, yes. Am I to sail for Australia today?” He narrowed his eyes. “But we both know I’ll never reach the shore.”<br />
“Ever the cynic, eh? Really, Lane. After all the hospitality I’ve shown you.” Hacksby tut-tutted, the curl of his lip exposing yellowed teeth. “But no. There’s been a change of plans. You’ve received another offer, should you choose to take it.”<br />
Bitterness slipped from Ben’s throat in a rusty laugh. “What, the gallows? A firing squad? Or has Queen Victoria invited me for Christmas tea?”<br />
“Aha! So you do know what day it is. Always the sly one, are you not?” Hacksby rose from his seat and leaned across the desk, a creamy envelope with Ben’s name in golden script on the front. “For you. Your freedom, possibly—providing you play by the rules. If not, you’re to be shot on sight for any escape attempt.”<br />
Ben eyed the paper. What trick was this? He was supposed to be transported to a labor camp halfway across the world, not handed an engraved invitation. He stiffened. This was a trap. He knew it to the deepest marrow in his bones.<br />
Nevertheless, he reached out, and for the smallest of moments, the warden held one edge, he the other. Liberty hanging in the balance.<br />
Maybe.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Chapter Three</span></div>
<br />
Despite her cold fingers, Clara rubbed away the frost on the coach’s window, then peered out into the December night. She ought be sore by now, riding such a distance over country roads, but truly, this carriage was magnificent—and so was the mansion that popped into view as they rounded a bend. She leaned closer, then reared back as her breath fogged the glass. With a furious swipe of her glove, she stared out the cleared circle, slack jawed.<br />
<i>This</i> was Bleakly Manor?<br />
A grand structure, torches ablaze, lit the night like the star of Bethlehem. The building stood proud at three stories tall, with candles winking behind row upon row of mullioned windows. Clearly whoever owned Bleakly didn’t care a fig about window taxes. Clara held her breath and edged closer, careful not to muddle her view with rime. Garland swagged from the roofline the entire length of the building. How on earth had they managed that? Red bows with dangling ribbons hung from each wall sconce, and as the carriage drew nearer, a gust of wind lent them life, and they waved a greeting.<br />
She sat back against the cushion, stunned. There was nothing bleak about this manor. Who had invited her—a lowly lady’s companion— to such an estate? Who would even want to keep company with her? And more importantly, why?<br />
The coach stopped, and the door opened. She gave up trying to solve such a puzzle as the footman helped her to the drive.<br />
“I’ll see to your bags, miss.” A lad, no more than fourteen yet dressed in as fine a livery as the older man, tipped his head in deference.<br />
The respectful gesture stung. She hadn’t been so favored since that awful day, that nightmare day nine months previous, when she’d stood in front of an altar in a gown of white.<br />
“Ready, miss?”<br />
The footman’s voice pulled her from the horrid memory. She lifted her skirts to follow him without tripping. “Yes.”<br />
She was ready, truly, to meet whoever had invited her. Perhaps if she explained the frail state of her aunt, she wouldn’t be required to stay the full Twelve Days of Christmas.<br />
After ascending granite stairs, she and the footman passed through an arched doorway and entered a foyer the size of Aunt’s dining and sitting rooms combined. A crystal chandelier dripped golden light over everything, from a cushioned bench against one wall to a medieval trestle table gracing the other. Fresh flowers filled a cut-glass vase atop the table. Marble tile gleamed beneath her feet, the echo of her steps reaching up to a mounted lion head on the wall in front of her, just above a closed set of doors. She couldn’t help but stare up into the cold, lifeless eyes, wondering how many people before her had done the same.<br />
“I should be happy to take your cloak and bonnet, miss.” The footman held out his arm.<br />
Her fingers shook as she unbuttoned her coat and untied her hat, though she was hard-pressed to decide if the jittery feeling was from cold air or nerves. Handing over her garments, she waited for further instruction from the tall fellow.<br />
But without a word, he pivoted and disappeared down a darkened hallway to her left.<br />
She stood, unsure, and clenched her hands for fortification, sickeningly aware of a gaze burning holes through her soul. Yet the only other pair of eyes in the foyer besides hers was the lion’s.<br />
She sucked in a breath. Nerves. That’s what. Had to be.<br />
To her right, another set of doors hid secrets, merry ones by the sound of it. Yellow light and conversation leached out through a crack between threshold and mahogany. Licking her lips, she squared her shoulders, resolved to meet the master of the house, then pushed open the door.<br />
Across the Turkish carpet, perched upon a chair and balancing a small box on her lap, a white-haired lady held up a quizzing glass to one eye and peered at Clara. “Oh, lovely! Such a beautiful creature. Don’t you think, Mr. Minnow?”<br />
“Why yes!” A lean man, more bones than flesh, jumped up from a settee and dashed toward Clara so quickly she retreated a step.<br />
He bowed, deep enough that his joints cracked, and held the pose longer than necessary. The scent of ginger wafted about him. When he straightened, he smiled at her with lips that were far too elastic. “Mr. Minnow at your service, mum. William Minnow, esquire. Well, not quite yet, but soon, I am certain. And you are?”<br />
Clara blinked. Was this the master of Bleakly Manor? A lanky eel in a suit?<br />
Instant remorse squeezed her chest. Who was she, a woman fallen from the graces of society, to judge the appearance of a man of substance? She dipped her head. “I am Clara Chapman.”<br />
“Clara Chapman! Oh, but I like the sound of that.” The elder on the chair waved a handkerchief at her. “Step nearer, dearest, and let’s look at you up close, shall we?”<br />
Familiar with the idiosyncrasies of the elderly, she complied, but froze several paces in front of the woman. A pink nose with whiskers poked out of the box on the lady’s lap, where a hole had been cut jaggedly into the side. Red eyes emerged, followed by a furry body and a naked tail, flesh-coloured and long. A second mouse emerged after it. The two scampered to the edge of the old lady’s knee and rose up on hind legs, testing the air with quivering noses.<br />
Clara stiffened. Hopefully the creatures would turn right around and disappear back into the box.<br />
The lady merely scrutinized her as if nothing more than a teacup and saucer rested on her lap. “Such a marvelous creature, Miss Chapman.”<br />
Was she speaking of her or the mice? “Th–Thank you,” she stuttered. “I am sorry, but I didn’t catch your name, ma’am?”<br />
“No, you did not.” The lady beamed at her. “I am Miss Scurry, and now we shall all be the jolliest of companions, shall we not?”<br />
“We shall, and more.” Mr. Minnow’s heels brushed against the carpet, then he reached for her hand and placed it on his arm. “Come, sit and warm yourself, my pet.”<br />
<i>Pet?</i> She barely had time to turn the word over before he escorted her to a settee near the hearth and pushed her into it.<br />
“I’m wondering, Miss Chapman”—Mr. Minnow smiled down at her—“not that Miss Scurry and I aren’t exceedingly grateful, for we are, but why exactly have you invited us here to share the Twelve Days with you?”<br />
“Me?” She shook her head, yet the movement did nothing to make sense of his question. “But you are mistaken, for I received an invitation myself.”<br />
“Bosh! This is a pickled herring.” Flipping out the tails of his suit coat, he joined her on the settee, much too close for propriety. “I thought you, being a lady of such grace and beauty, surely belonged to this house.”<br />
“I’m afraid not.” She edged away from him.<br />
“Sh-sh-sh.” Miss Scurry, evidently just discovering the two escapees had scampered to the top of the box, shooed both mice into the hole on the side and plugged it up with her handkerchief. “Rest, my dears.” Then she gazed over at Mr. Minnow. “Don’t fret so, my fine fellow. The day of reckoning will come soon enough, and all will be made clear.”<br />
Mr. Minnow clapped his hands and rubbed them together. “I suppose there’s nothing to be done for it but to wait for the host to appear.” His head swiveled, and he narrowed his eyes at Clara. “You’re sure that’s not you?”<br />
“I am, Mr. Minnow. Very sure.”<br />
She bit her lip. Clearly neither of these two eccentrics was the host. So, who was?<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Chapter Four</span></div>
<br />
The prison cart juddered over a hump in the road, rattling Ben’s bones. He’d curled into a ball in one corner, tucking his knees to his chest and wrapping his arms about them. Even so, after hours on end and with the chill of night bearing down, there was no stopping the chattering of his teeth. He snorted. Between teeth and bones he was quite the percussionist.<br />
A low “whoa now” slowed the wheels, and finally the cart stopped. Ben jerked upright, crouched and ready, the sudden hammering of his heart forgetting the cold. The long ride here had given him plenty of time to consider his situation, and he’d come to one conclusion—these were his last hours on earth.<br />
So be it. He’d go out fighting against such a wicked injustice and find some measure of worth in the fray.<br />
The scrape of a key shoved into the metal lock, then a click, a creak, and the door swung open. “Yer ride ends here, Lane. Out ye go.”<br />
The dark shape of the guard disappeared and light poured in. Ben’s eyes watered. Light? Was it day, then? How far had he traveled?<br />
He edged forward, cautious, scanning, as more and more of the world expanded into his view. Black darkened the sky, so it was still night, but torches ablaze changed the immediate area to morning.<br />
“Move along! I’ve still got a drive back to London.” The guard spat out a foul curse. “Ye’d think I’d signed up to be a bleedin’ jarvey. They don’t pay me enough, I tell ye. Not near enough.”<br />
Ben dropped out of the door and immediately wheeled about, fists up, stance wide, prepared for battle.<br />
The guard merely shoved the door shut and relocked it, ignoring him—and there was no one else around.<br />
Truly? No one? Ben stared hard into the darkness beyond the light. The expansive grounds were rimmed with trees along the perimeter, black against black. Nothing moved except the wind through barren branches. Apparently he’d been taken some distance into the countryside. He turned to face the manor. Impressive, really. Tall. Well masoned. Crenellated at the top. Perhaps used as a stronghold centuries ago.<br />
“Hyah!”<br />
He spun. The cart lumbered down the curved drive, the guard urging the horses onward—without him. He was left standing alone. Unfettered. A brilliant mansion at his back and acres of freedom in front. He could run, here, now. Tear off and flee like the wind. Should he? He scrubbed a hand through his hair, recalling Hacksby’s threat.<br />
<i>“You’re to be shot on sight for any escape attempt.”</i><br />
The prison cart disappeared into the night. But slowly, emerging out of that same darkness, another shape loomed larger. A carriage, and a fine one at that. Should he wait and meet head-on whomever it carried?<br />
Cold ached in his bare feet and up his legs, yet the pain of the unknown throbbing in his temples hurt worse. He’d have a better chance of putting up a fight if he could actually move his frozen body. Pivoting, he climbed the stairs to the main entrance and rapped the brass knocker.<br />
The door opened immediately, as if the butler had stood behind it waiting for him.<br />
“Welcome, Mr. Lane.” The man’s upper lip curled to nearly touch his nose.<br />
Ben smirked. He ought be ashamed of his stench, but his time at Millbank had dulled that emotion, especially when it came to issues of hygiene. Even so, he took out his manners and dusted them off. “Thank you. I see you were expecting me.”<br />
“Yes, sir. We have a room prepared for you after such a journey. If you would follow me.” Turning on his heel, the butler strode the length of the grand foyer toward a door with a stuffed lion head mounted above it.<br />
Ben studied the man as he went. He could pose a threat, for his shoulders were broad as a ceiling beam and those stout legs might pack a wallop of a kick. But the silver streaks in his hair labeled the fellow past his prime. Even so, better to keep his distance.<br />
He followed, leaving plenty of space between them, then paused and stared up at the lion head. Light from the chandelier reflected back brightly from those eyes, transparent, lifelike and—<br />
“Mr. Lane?”<br />
He jumped at the butler’s voice. What was wrong with him? There were bigger mysteries afoot than a dead lion. “Of course. Sorry.”<br />
He caught up to the man, who’d opened double doors, revealing an even bigger lobby. A wide, carpeted staircase, lit by intermittent wall sconces, led up to a first-floor gallery, where more lamps burned. Interesting that pains had been taken to decorate the outside of the manor, yet not one sprig of holly or mistletoe hung inside.<br />
Behind them, the front door knocker banged. Two stairs ahead of him, the butler stopped and pulled out a gold chain from his waistcoat, then flipped open the lid of a watch tethered to the end of it. His eyebrows pulled into a solid line, and a low rumble in his throat gruffed out. “Pardon me, Mr. Lane. If you’d wait here, please.”<br />
Here? On the stairs? A duck at rest to be shot from behind? He waited for the butler to pass, then tracked him on silent feet and slipped into the shadow cast by a massive floor clock.<br />
A man in a sealskin riding cloak entered, frost on his breath and hat pulled low. He stomped his boots on the tiles, irreverent of the peace.<br />
The butler dipped his head. “Mr. Pocket, I presume?”<br />
“I am.” The new arrival pulled off his hat and ran a hand through his shorn hair, the top of his head quite the contradiction to his bushy muttonchops. A rumpled dress coat peeked through the gap of his unbuttoned coat, and his trousers looked as if they’d never seen a hot iron. Clearly the man was not married, nor was he the master of the manor.<br />
“You were not due to arrive for another half hour, sir.” A scowl tugged down the corners of the butler’s mouth.<br />
Mr. Pocket twisted his lips, his great muttonchops going along for the ride. “Yet the invitation did not specify an arrival time, unless. . . ahh! I see. The deliveries were spaced out to ensure a regulated arrival schedule. Am I correct?”<br />
“Very clever, Inspector.”<br />
“Part of the job.”<br />
So the fellow was a lawman. Ben flattened his back against the wall, sinking deeper into the shadow of the clock. Questions ticked in his mind with each swing of the pendulum. Was Pocket sent to make sure he didn’t run or to finish him off? Or possibly set him up for something more sinister than embezzlement and fraud? But why the big charade? Why not just kill him in jail or ship him off as planned?<br />
“If you wouldn’t mind stepping in here until dinner, sir.” The butler opened a door in a side wall, but his back hindered Ben’s view into the room. “You may meet some of the other guests while you wait.”<br />
“All right. Don’t mind if I do.” Mr. Pocket swept past the man and vanished.<br />
Ben dashed back to the stairs, folded his arms, and leaned against the railing as if he’d never moved.<br />
The butler hesitated on the bottom stair only long enough to say, “My apologies for the delay, Mr. Lane. Please, let us continue.”<br />
Ben trailed the man as he traveled up two flights, then noted every door they passed and any corridors intersecting the one they traveled. There were two, one lit, one dark. They stopped at the farthest chamber of what he guessed to be the east wing.<br />
The butler opened the door but blocked him from entering. “You’ll find a bath drawn in front of the hearth, grooming toiletries on a stand opposite, and a set of dinner clothes laid out on the bed. I shall send a footman up to retrieve you in”—he reclaimed his watch once more and held it up for inspection before tucking it away—“forty-five minutes. Is that sufficient?”<br />
“Very generous,” he replied.<br />
“Very good.” The butler stepped aside, allowing him to pass, then pulled the door shut.<br />
Ben froze. The chamber gleamed in lamplight and gilt-striped wallpaper, so large and glorious it might overwhelm a duke. At center, a four-poster bed commanded attention, mattresses high enough to require a step stool. Against one wall stood an oversized roll-top desk and matching chair, decked out with full stationery needs. Several padded chairs and three different settees formed two distinct sitting areas. A screen offered privacy for necessary functions, and thick brocaded drapery covered what must be an enormous bank of windows.<br />
He changed his mind. This would overwhelm a king.<br />
Shaking off his stupor, he stalked to the copper basin in front of the fire. Steam rose like a mist on autumn water, smelling of sage and mint. Nine months. Nine never-ending months of filth and sweat and blood.<br />
He stripped off his prison garb, heedless of ripping the threadbare fabric, and kicked the soiled lump from him, uncaring that it lodged beneath the bed. Good riddance.<br />
Water splashed over the rim as he sank into the water, warmth washing over him like a lover’s embrace. A sob rose in his throat. This time last year, he’d bathed before dinner just like this. Dressed in fine clothes similar to those laid on the counterpane. Dined by candlelight with the woman he loved fiercely. Kissed Clara’s sweet lips until neither of them could breathe.<br />
What a fool.<br />
He snatched the bar of soap off the tray hooked to the tub’s side, then scrubbed harder than necessary. Of course this wasn’t like last Christmas Eve. It could never be.<br />
For he wouldn’t see Clara ever again.<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Michelle Griep, <i>12 Days at Bleakly Manor</i> Shiloh Run Press, an imprint of Barbour Publishing, Inc., © 2017. Used by permission.</span>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">author Michelle Griep</td></tr>
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**I received a complimentary copy of this book from Barbour Publishing and was under no obligation to post a review.**<br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">· Piece 17 projects for intermediate-level quilters, including 12 quilts and 5 smaller pillows and mini quilts</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">· Stitch new takes on well-known techniques with award-winning quilter Victoria Findlay Wolfe (</span><span style="color: #39afa9; font-family: Source Sans Pro, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; line-height: inherit;"><a href="http://bumblebeansinc.blogspot.com/">blog,</a> </span></span><a href="http://www.15minutesplay.com/">teaching site</a>)<span style="background-color: white; color: #424242; font-family: "Source Sans Pro", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;">.</span></div>
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My Review:<br />
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I preordered a signed copy of <i>Modern Quilt Magic</i> in July after seeing the wonky colors! Love how they are put together in an irregular pattern and not matching at all! Loved it!! The patterns of our lives are not following a trail of another but rather the path God sets before us, individually.<br />
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<i><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Cascade</span></i> is what drew me in!<br />
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Arrange the Pieces<br />On a design wall (or the floor), arrange the pieces to create a gradational effect. I started with pairs of left and right curves from the same fabrics in an arc. Then I played with some, making matching pairs into V's and filling in with other single curves. Use the photo as a reference and have fun seeing how your fabrics work together from dark to light and back again!<br /> <i>Modern Quilt Magic</i>, 113</blockquote>
This scrappy quilt pattern shows Fabrics, Crib, Twin, Full, Queen, and King along with how to make the curve. Step-by-step is shown with instructions on cutting and arranging the pieces; constructing and joining the rows and finishing.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img alt="Image result for "Cascade" Victoria Findlay Wolfe, 2016, quilted by Shelly Pagliai" src="https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/originals/f4/c5/6b/f4c56b878a1c73a90722bebd581b26bf.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Cascade" Victoria Findlay Wolfe, 2016, quilted by Shelly Pagliai</td></tr>
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Here are topics covered: Partial-Seam Construction; Blocks with Partial Seams; Mini Made Fabric; Y-Seams; Free-Form Curves; with Coloring Design Pages and Patterns with a notation to "use a ruler to measure these inch marks to verify that printout is correctly sized."<br />
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I enjoyed this book so much I wanted to share it!</div>
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<img height="33" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSErDECvX0xux_Kh3mO8RBykwfC4UVxLbW6mGNB5WzSZzFGXS0wdhGPRuM5vRUZWZ1lhk4f73zVZWGdVT1sPeiZL8zdm2px8-5fpwjfgMvR4J333Dyoj2FGmMqqQtKP9tTDo0akk8PoDU/s400/Screen+Shot+2012-01-11+at+3.35.23+PM.png" width="400" /></div>
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***This review was written in my own words. No compensation was received. I preordered this book from the author's <a href="http://bumblebeansinc.blogspot.com/">website</a>.***<br />
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<br />Lane Hill Househttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12952459499802207852noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3948253853648439599.post-8430899699847165032017-10-28T13:55:00.000-05:002017-10-28T13:55:00.241-05:00The One Year® Experiencing God's Love Devotional by Sandra Byrd, © 2017<img alt="Packaging" src="https://files.tyndale.com/thpdata/images--covers/HiResJPG/978-1-4964-1318-5.jpg?width=330" /><br />
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">“Only one person never changes and is always with us: our Lord. With God, we can be more intimate than with any other because he is omnipresent—always with us. “So do not fear, for I am with you,” he pledges in Isaiah 41:10. “The Lord your God goes with you; he will never leave you nor forsake you,” </span><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Deuteronomy 31:6 promises. I have long known that God loves me and loves you. But I long to experience it each and every day.” </span><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">~ author Sandra Byrd</span></span></div>
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My Review:<br />
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I have always loved Sandra Byrd's writings and in addition to several of her historicals, I have another devotional she shares ~ <i><a href="http://www.sandrabyrd.com/books/the-one-year-home-and-garden-devotions/">The One Year® Home&Garden Devotions</a></i>. Her devotionals may be picked up any day and begin reading, so you don't have to wait for the new year... but, this may just be the one you choose for your Christmas gift to yourself to begin afresh on January 1, 2018. A wonderful gift to give to others, this devotional released October 3, 2017, ready now!<br />
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Why do I like these dailies? They come out of her heart and life and may bring to remembrance a similar time in your own life. A companionship of hearts ~ to boast us forward, to realize we do not stand alone, to encourage another and get us beyond our doors to share His love and life abundant. Sandra begins with a story, an applied Scripture, and a nudge for us.<br />
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Here are two excerpts from January (applies to any calendar year):<br />
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JANUARY 6</div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">In Need of a Little Christian-ease</span></div>
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So often we Christians exhort others to “have faith.” Have faith that the situation will be resolved in the right way. Believe that all will end well, although current events seem to be careening out of control. Trust that shattered relationships will be restored, that God is bigger than any situation or circumstance that we face and can overcome for and with us. Our advice is true and biblical. After all, we walk by faith and not by sight, as 2 Corinthians informs us. We’re so used to saying “just have faith,” though, that it’s become <i>Christianese</i>, something we casually reference but don’t practically facilitate.<br />
I’m here to tell you, it’s not “Christian- ease” to have faith in difficult times; it’s “Christian- hard.”<br />
We rejoice and praise together when times are good, but we must persevere and lean into faith in both God and his faithful followers when times are tough. God has promised that he will never leave nor forsake us, but as a child once said, I sometimes wish I had Jesus with skin on him, right here and right now, in my house.<br />
That little child’s prayer can be answered. The word<i> encourage</i> means to inspire courage or confidence in someone. People who need courage are facing a daunting, tiring, or worrisome situation. We are to help them be brave, to hold them up as it were, as they stand or fight. We experience the love of God in an unmatchable, powerful way when we act as his agents, on his behalf, offering that love to others. To “go and do likewise” (Luke 10:37) to someone who is disheartened is a marching order from Jesus Christ to all who believe.<br />
To whom, today or this week, can you bring a little “Christian-ease” by your loving, helping presence? Having a “Christian-hard” week, yourself? Be brave. Reach out to a loved one and ask for help and hugs.<br />
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<i><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Let us hold unswervingly to the hope we profess, for he who promised is faithful. And let us consider how we may spur one another on toward love and good deeds, not giving up meeting together, as some are in the habit of doing, but encouraging one another—and all the more as you see the Day approaching. </span></i><span style="text-align: right;">Hebrews 10:23‑25</span><br />
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JANUARY 14</div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Experiencing the Love of God</span></div>
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Training our senses, both physical and spiritual, to sense and see God at work around us takes practice. But it can be done and is well worth the effort to communicate with him in this manner every day. When we learn to discern his hands at work and act as his hands at work, we experience his love—and our partnership with him—in a deeper, more meaningful way.</div>
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Scripture tells us that “whatever is good and perfect is a gift coming down to us from God our Father (see James 1:17, <span style="font-size: x-small;">NLT</span>), so that’s a great place to start. Got something good going on? Thank you, Lord!</div>
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Scripture also tells us that “for whom the Lord loves He chastens” (Hebrews 12:6, <span style="font-size: x-small;">NKJV</span>). Had a gentle (or not so gentle!) correction lately, one that sent you in the right direction? Thank you, Lord!</div>
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I have always had a thing with pennies, between God and me. When I see one I remember what is stamped on it, “In God We Trust.” It reminds me to trust him. When I’m feeling weak or worried, I often find a penny on the floor or on the ground, and I know he’s drawn my eye to it.</div>
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One day I was under a lot of stress, and I asked the Lord, “Please reassure me.” I walked into the dry cleaner, which is owned by Christians, and heard a lovely praise song. I just knew that was from God! And then, as I paid, my eyes were drawn to a huge cup FILLED with pennies. “Need one? Take one!” it said. My eyes filled with tears. That was from him too.</div>
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How do you see God’s work in your life in the natural world around you this week? Don’t skip past this. Stay here, prayerfully, until you can list at least five ways.</div>
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<i>Whatever is good and perfect is a gift coming down to us from God our Father, who created all the lights in the heavens. </i><span style="text-align: right;">James 1:17</span><span style="font-size: x-small; text-align: right;">, NLT</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Sandra Byrd, <i>The One Year® Experiencing God's Love Devotional</i>, © 2017 Tyndale, © 2017. Used by permission.</span></div>
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Whatever the season, join in and let the Lord touch your heart with His wonderful plan for your individual life. His mercies endure forever!<br />
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And I am certain that
God, who began the good work within you, will continue his work until
it is finally finished on the day when Christ Jesus returns.<br />Philippians 1:6 <span style="font-size: x-small;">NLT</span></blockquote>
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His grace is readily
available to us. Discover the many and varied ways we experience the
love of God!</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img alt="Sandra Byrd" src="http://files.tyndale.com/thpdata/authorphotos/D2C/1172/Byrd_Sandra.jpg" height="200" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="151" /></td></tr>
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<a href="http://www.sandrabyrd.com/books/">Click here to enJ*O*Y this wide selection of Sandra Byrd's writings! Something for everyone.</a><br />
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***I would like to thank author Sandra Byrd and Tyndale for sending me a copy of <a href="http://www.sandrabyrd.com/books/the-one-year-experiencing-gods-love-devotional/">The One Year® Experiencing God's Love Devotional</a>. This review was written in my own words. No other compensation was received.***Lane Hill Househttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12952459499802207852noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3948253853648439599.post-10515572047087764982017-10-27T11:20:00.000-05:002017-10-27T11:20:06.384-05:00Where We Belong by Lynn Austin, © 2017<img src="http://lynnaustin.org/wordpress/wp-content/uploads/2017/10/blog-post.png" height="400" width="400" /><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Not unto us, O LORD, not unto us, but unto thy name give glory, for thy mercy, <i>and</i> for thy truth's sake.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Psalm 115:1</span></div>
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My Review:</div>
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What I liked most about this story is that is shows where they are now and then backtracks to where they were from their own description and thoughts to their situation instead of talking in the third person.</div>
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Two sisters are used by God to rescue others and show them where they belong. Coming alongside, they react from their own character until they realize it is so much better to be cared for and protected.</div>
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"I will never leave you nor forsake you."</div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Then Moses summoned Joshua and said to him in the sight of all Israel, “Be strong and courageous, for you shall go with this people into the land that the LORD has sworn to their fathers to give them, and you shall put them in possession of it. It is the LORD who goes before you. He will be with you; he will not leave you or forsake you. Do not fear or be dismayed.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Deuteronomy 31:7-8 ESV</span></blockquote>
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Being on the path we are supposed to be on is so much safer than the self-care we think we are able to do to survive. Thrive is so much better. There will be challenges and conflicts to overcome, but... you will. We do not walk this earth alone. How much better when we discover we truly are where we were meant to be all along. Rebecca and Flora Hawes are two sisters who gather others to come alongside and join the adventure(s) of a lifetime. Fiesty Kate Rafferty and solemn weight-of-the-world on his shoulders, Soren Petersen, will eventually glory in their exchange ~ we hope! Readers: be aware. You will fall into this book head-on and be amazed at the story as it develops––day-by-day.<br />
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Quotes from <i>Where We Belong</i>:<br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">"We must pray for her too</span>––<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">not that she'll change into what we want her to be, but that she'll become all that God intends her to be." (394)</span></blockquote>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">"This is where we belong, isn't it? On the path that leads to serving God? Isn't that the essence of faith</span>––<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">walking forward, trusting what you can't see?" (448)</span></blockquote>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">"The irony wasn't lost on Rebecca that both of the people she loved... were refusing to accept grace and a brand-new life." (459)</span></blockquote>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">"... I want you to become all that God created you to be." (460)</span></blockquote>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">"We were completely helpless out there, but God..." (464)</span></blockquote>
I loved the detail in this book, and the extensive research and application of life and Truth of the Scriptures lived out as a reference point revealed in each day of continuing to put the next foot forward.<br />
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I have read a lot of author Lynn Austin's books. This book was different; more intense and right out of life, on the street action. These people really live ~ today, yesterday, and wherever we may find ourselves. A rescue. A respite. A time of recognizing a need for a hoped-for change to bring us true life beyond the mundane. What I liked about the sisters was that they brought people along ~ a journey built for them as well, a change that will bring a smile to your lips and hope in your heart. For it is possible to be redirected in a moment when you least expect.<br />
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This seasoned author is definitely a wordsmith galore, in plentiful amounts! Funny sections, serious aims, necessary to hold it all together under the One who has called us to be His own. EnJ*O*Y! I was astonished at how the depth could be more as historical feats are recalled and presented through these characters' lives. Bravo!<br />
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Travel in 1800 adventures in Chicago, Paris, the Sinai Desert; moving forward exactly where you are to be. There is no time period that this does not apply. Live wide open to all that is yours to behold and explore.<br />
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~*~<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://lynnaustin.org/2017/10/my-newest-baby/">http://lynnaustin.org/2017/10/my-newest-baby/</a></td></tr>
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<a href="http://lynnaustin.org.previewdns.com/wordpress/wp-content/uploads/2017/10/Sisters.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><br /><img border="0" src="http://lynnaustin.org.previewdns.com/wordpress/wp-content/uploads/2017/10/Sisters.jpg" /></a><br />
The real-life sisters, Agnes and Margaret Smith, who inspired my newest novel, “Where We Belong,” had a favorite motto that continues to intrigue me. Whenever they were in danger or in a precarious situation they would say, “God knows when the end of our days will be. We have nothing to fear.” I borrowed their motto for my fictional sisters, Becky and Flora Hawes, to use whenever they found themselves in a sticky situation.<br />
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Blessings as you fearlessly pursue a life of adventure for Christ.</span><br />
~ author Lynn Austin</blockquote>
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EnJ*O*Y this excerpt from Lynn Austin's <i>Where We Belong</i> ~ Chapter 1<br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">PART I</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Rebecca</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">CHAPTER </span><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">1</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>THE SINAI DESERT</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>1890</b></span></div>
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Rebecca Hawes lay awake in her tent, convinced that the howling wind was about to lift her entire camp into the air and hurl it to the far side of the desert. The desolate wasteland of the Sinai Peninsula lay beyond her tent door, thousands of miles and a world away from her home in Chicago. Sand pummeled the canvas; the thick material heaved and flapped as if trying to take flight. Rebecca gazed around in the darkness, her eyes open wide. She saw nothing. The sandstorm obliterated every ray of starlight and moonlight, making the darkness seem biblical, like one of the plagues God used to punish Egypt—a darkness that could be felt. She had thought, at age forty-five, that she would live at least another twenty years or so, but this storm just might be the end of her. Pity. There was so much more she hoped to accomplish.<br />
She remembered the luxurious hotel room she had left behind in Cairo two days ago and understood why the Israelites had longed to return to Egypt after camping in this wilderness, even if it meant slavery. Moses had been leading them to Mount Sinai to worship God, and she was on her way to the Monastery of Saint Catherine, built on the same site. The centuries of history invested in that mystic place fascinated her. Imagine—Emperor Justinian built the basilica at Saint Catherine’s in AD 557! She hoped she lived through the night to see it.<br />
An odd pounding noise caught Rebecca’s attention, a staccato beat that joined the shrieking wind and drumming canvas. She struggled to sit up on the sagging camp cot to listen. The sound, when she identified it, was a reassuring one—the Bedouin caravan drivers were securing the tent stakes shaken loose by the gale. Perhaps she wouldn’t blow away after all. How the men could see anything at all in such profound darkness was a mystery to her. She heard them speaking to their camels, the animals hissing and growling in response. Nasty beasts!<br />
Then a new thought occurred to her: What if the sand piled up into a mound around her tent, burying her, the equipment, the drivers, and even the camels?<br />
She swatted away the thought with a wave of her hand. There were much worse ways to die.<br />
“Becky? Are you awake?” her younger sister, Flora, whispered. She lay on a camp cot not two feet away, yet invisible in the gloom.<br />
“Yes, I’m here.” Rebecca groped toward the sound of Flora’s voice and found her arm, giving it a reassuring pat.<br />
“Well, this is certainly turning out to be an adventure, isn’t it?” Flora asked.<br />
Rebecca heard the suppressed laughter in Flora’s voice and grinned. “Yes, I believe this is the very definition of an adventure!” She started to laugh out loud, then buried her face in her blanket to muffle the sound. She could hear Flora doing the same. They might have been schoolgirls again, whispering after lights-out, instead of two middle-aged sisters.<br />
“If our society friends could see us now . . .” Flora sputtered.<br />
“They would have us committed to an asylum!”<br />
“I think Thomas Cook should add tours of the Sinai with a Bedouin camel caravan to his posh itineraries,” Flora said. “Don’t you?”<br />
Rebecca laughed out loud at the idea, then quickly covered her mouth again.<br />
“Shh . . . we’ll wake up Kate,” Flora whispered.<br />
“I’m already awake, Miss Flora.” Kate sounded peeved.<br />
“Oh, I’m so sorry, dear. It’s just that when I think of where we are and the absurdity of this storm—”<br />
“Yes, shouldn’t we be making social calls or raising funds for one of your charities?” Rebecca asked in her grandest voice. She and Flora laughed all over again. “We’d better control ourselves,” Rebecca finally said, “or Petersen will be sticking his somber head through the tent flap, wondering if we’ve become unbalanced.”<br />
“The boy has been our butler for two years, Becky. He knows full well how unbalanced we are. Remember the first time he saw us doing calisthenics in our backyard in our bloomers?”<br />
Her words brought more laughter, and Rebecca wiped tears from her eyes. She felt a fine layer of grit and tasted it on her lips. The wind pounded sand through every crack and seam and opening. She hoped it wouldn’t damage her photographic equipment. “Forgive us, Katie dear. We’ll settle down now, I promise. Go back to sleep.”<br />
“How can I sleep when I’m about to be blown away?” Kate grumbled. Rebecca couldn’t see their so-called lady’s maid in the darkness, but she could imagine the churlish frown on her face, her stiff posture and crossed arms. It had been Flora’s idea to try to transform the thieving, eighteen-year-old street urchin into their lady’s maid. Rebecca was beginning to believe it might be easier to spin straw into gold.<br />
“You don’t suppose we could be buried alive by morning, do you?” Flora asked. “Remember how Nimrud’s Palace was so completely engulfed by sand that the local Arabs didn’t even realize it was there until Henry Layard dug it out?”<br />
Rebecca smiled. “I had the very same thought. Perhaps some future archaeologist will find us a thousand years from now and wonder what on earth those crazy sisters were up to.”<br />
“Um . . . remind me again why we’re doing this,” Flora said.<br />
Rebecca heard the smile in her sister’s voice and was glad they were together. They had enjoyed exotic travel since they were schoolgirls—exploring Paris’ maze-like streets, traveling up the Nile in a <i>dahabeeah</i> to see the pyramids, perusing the <i>souks</i> and dark alleyways of places like Cairo and Jerusalem.<br />
“I believe we came here because we longed for an adventure, remember?” Rebecca replied. But that wasn’t the only reason. Midway through her life, Rebecca had fallen in love. Professor Timothy Dyk was brilliant, scholarly, warm, companionable—and in love with her, too. They were so well-suited that Rebecca might have been formed from the rib plucked from his side. But she couldn’t accept Timothy’s marriage proposal—not yet, anyway. Perhaps never. This quest at Saint Catherine’s was her last resort, and if it failed, she had no other recourse but to remain a spinster. Rebecca would endure sandstorms and desert perils and much, much more if she thought it would finally topple the wall between them.<br />
And then there was their young maid, Kate Rafferty. Who knew what effect this journey would have on her stony heart? Or on their cheerless, nineteen-year-old butler, Petersen, whom Flora had rescued from the orphan’s home? Someone had to try to reach these young people before they were lost forever. Why not Rebecca and Flora?<br />
One of the camels began braying loudly outside their tent. “Oh, those poor animals,” Flora said. “They have no shelter from the storm.”<br />
“You’re not going to invite them into our tent, are you?” Kate asked. “I know how softhearted you are, Miss Flora.”<br />
“Not unless they have a bath, first,” she replied, laughing. “They smell atrocious!”<br />
“Besides, they’re used to desert conditions,” Rebecca said. “God created them to endure sandstorms.” She didn’t believe for a moment that they had <i>evolved</i> through the process of natural selection as that heathen Charles Darwin proposed. His outrageous theories were in all the newspapers these days and many of the scientists she knew seemed to be embracing them. Rebecca could not, would not.<br />
“We should try to sleep now,” she said. “It’s certain to be a long day tomorrow.” They had traveled seven hours across the rocky desert yesterday, then risen before sunrise and traveled eight hours today before the sandstorm had forced them to hunker down. The storm had seemed both beautiful and terrifying as it rolled toward them, darkening the sky and filling the horizon like an eerie yellow thundercloud. Tomorrow’s journey would be at least as long as today’s, providing the storm blew itself out as the Bedouin sheikh assured her it would. The pace was exhausting, but Rebecca had hired the camel caravan for only forty days, including traveling time to Mount Sinai and back. She wanted to spend as many of those days as she could doing research at the monastery.<br />
“How much longer until we get there?” Kate asked.<br />
“It should take us another week to reach Saint Catherine’s.” “And are we going to have sandstorms like this every night? If so, I think we should turn around right now and go home. Besides, I don’t trust those camel drivers. Their leader keeps staring at me.”<br />
“It takes more than a sandstorm to make Flora and me turn back,” Rebecca said. “And I don’t think the sheikh will do you any harm. He’s probably staring because he thinks you’re pretty. Your red hair is very unusual.”<br />
Kate’s exasperated sigh was loud. The servant’s cot creaked and rustled as she thrashed in the dark, rolling over. “I was thinking about the Israelites when we were riding today,” Flora said. “It must have been so hard to trust God and keep walking through such desolate land. We know how their story ends and that they finally reached the Promised Land, but they had no idea what would happen next. They simply had to trust God and keep going.”<br />
Rebecca didn’t know how her journey through the Sinai would end either—whether her errand would lead to success and a breakthrough with Timothy or spell the end of their romance. She bid the other women good-night again and settled down on her cot, trying to get comfortable. She thought about how far they already had come—the cross-country train ride from Chicago to New York; the steamship voyage to France; another steamer through the Mediterranean and down to Cairo where they were delayed several days while arranging to meet with the Archbishop of Sinai to get permission to visit the monastery. Her ability to converse with him in Greek had impressed him greatly, and he not only granted permission but even took time to pray for their protection from the hot, desert winds that blew in from the Sahara. He had been kind—but his prayers obviously hadn’t changed God’s mind about sending the wind.<br />
While in Cairo, they had also hired the services of an agent, Mr. Farouk, to accompany them on their journey. He had purchased all their equipment, hired a cook, arranged for a camel caravan, and stockpiled enough food and drinking water for their entire forty-day expedition. Rebecca and Flora and their entourage then crossed the Gulf of Suez and met the Bedouin drivers and their animals. The shaggy, sun-browned men might have stepped right out of the pages of <i>The Arabian Nights</i>, covered from head to toe in white robes, with turbans wound around their heads and swords at their sides. After strapping dozens of crates of live chickens and turkeys to the camels, they were on their way.<br />
Rebecca knew it was outrageous for two unmarried women and their lady’s maid to travel alone through such rugged terrain with only their young butler—the somber yet faithful Petersen—as an escort. Who knew what sort of man this Mr. Farouk would turn out to be? Not to mention the twelve Bedouin camel drivers and their sheikh, who had insisted on joining them, carrying an ancient, rusting rifle that he waved in the air dangerously from time to time. Rebecca, however, had learned not to care what people thought. As for her safety, God already knew when the end of her days would be. She had no reason to fear.<br />
She did feel sorry for Petersen, though. He’d grown up on the streets of Chicago and had never ridden a horse, let alone a camel. He’d had a particularly difficult time staying comfortably seated these past two days, and she’d seen him rubbing his bottom whenever he dismounted. Neither sister had wished to subject Petersen to such discomfort, but he had insisted on coming along, sounding very biblical with his declaration that “wherever you go, I will go.” Knowing how much Petersen distrusted Kate, Rebecca suspected he’d come along to protect them from her, rather than from pagan foreigners.<br />
The wind howled on; the canvas thrummed. Rebecca pulled the blanket tightly around herself, seeking comfort more than warmth. What would it be like to have the man she loved sleeping beside her, curled together like spoons in a drawer, listening to the familiar rhythm of his breathing, feeling his heartbeat? She may never know. But whether Timothy was part of her future or not, Rebecca hoped that the discoveries she unearthed at Mount Sinai would make this long, perilous journey worthwhile in the end.<br />
She fidgeted on the narrow cot, unable to get comfortable. Trying to sleep was hopeless, the shrieking wind and pelting sand too unnerving. In spite of all her carefully made plans, Rebecca was, in this moment, helpless. Yet hadn’t she been in danger before on some of her other travels? Perhaps nothing as deadly as this sandstorm, but frightening, nonetheless. She decided to travel back through her memories to the very beginning, when it was just Father, Flora, and her—and the elderly servants who’d cared for them, of course. If Rebecca truly was about to die, at least her final thoughts would be of the people she loved.<br />
For as long as Rebecca could recall, Flora had been by her side—sister, best friend, confidante, and partner in adventures, great and small. . . .<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Lynn Austin, <i>Where We Belong</i> Bethany House, a division of Baker Publishing Group, © 2017. Used by permission.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img alt="Lynn Austin" src="http://cdn.bakerpublishinggroup.com/processed/authors/photos/thumb/Austin_Lynn1.jpg?1501173426" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>© Cori De Roos</i></td></tr>
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***Thank you to author Lynn Austin for the invitation to join the launch team for <i>Where We Belong</i>. This review was written in my own words. No other compensation was received.***Lane Hill Househttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12952459499802207852noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3948253853648439599.post-15260428311809845902017-10-23T00:30:00.000-05:002017-10-23T00:30:05.634-05:00The Dishonorable Miss DeLancey by Carolyn Miller, © 2017<span style="background-color: white; color: #bb5633; font-family: "arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif; font-size: medium;">Regency Brides: A Legacy of Grace, Book 2</span><br />
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<img alt="The Dishonorable Miss Delancey" src="http://www.kregel.com/books/9780825444524.jpg" height="400" width="258" /><br />
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Miss Clara DeLancey's wonderful future unfolds with the discovery of a golden friendship to mature into life beyond anything she could have imagined. And, the discovery... takes place no other than in the library at Brighton, returning books at Donaldson's!<br />
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Walking alone, even if it were only such a little way, felt so freeing. She crossed the Parade, hurrying past a draper's cart turning into Manchester Street, walked along the Steyne, and entered the library.<br />
--<i>The Dishonorable Miss DeLancey</i>, 22</blockquote>
And her true adventure begins!<br />
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See all noteworthy adventurers, books truly are the destiny of love and finding of true self.<br />
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As Clara is pressed into society, again, by her parents in hopes of finally finding the true love, well, maybe not seeing love, but being cared for in the manner the previous generation would so demand. I am pleased that Clara continues to realize the closeness friendship brings beyond the frivolities of supposed happily ever after; being seen at just the right engagement and being validated by invitation to a future lavish gathering.<br />
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I personally do not see why Clara is denounced as a social misfit from past observances. She followed her heart and was not the one dismissed beyond an unintended misunderstanding. I can see that happening when people are thrown together without regard for their personal care, but appearances only. Well, you will have to determine for yourself! Reading this series, you will be eager to pursue the newest return in the Spring of 2018, as the stories continue with Miss Winthrop, quietly emerging from the background.<br />
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Thank you, Carolyn Miller, for being introduced to your stories!!<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img alt="Alfriston village" src="http://myenglishfriends.co.uk/wp-content/uploads/village-300x209.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Brighton by the Sea</td></tr>
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***Thank you to the author and to Kregel Publications for sending me a copy of this novel. This review was written in my own words. No other compensation was received.***<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 10.56px; text-align: center;">author Carolyn Miller</td></tr>
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<br style="background-color: white; color: #bb5633; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px;" />
<a href="https://twitter.com/CarolynMAuthor" style="background-color: white; color: #888888; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px; text-decoration-line: none;">twitter</a><br />
<a href="https://www.carolynmillerauthor.com/" style="background-color: white; color: #888888; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px; text-decoration-line: none;">website</a><br />
<a href="https://au.pinterest.com/camillering/the-elusive-miss-ellison/" style="background-color: white; color: #888888; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px; text-decoration-line: none;">au.pinterest</a><br />
<a href="https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/15483848.Carolyn_Miller?from_search=true" style="background-color: white; color: #888888; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px; text-decoration-line: none;">Goodreads</a><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #bb5633; font-family: "arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px;">Carolyn Miller, her husband, and their four children live in New South Wales, Australia. The first book in a new Regency Brides series, <i>Winning Miss Winthrop</i>, Regency Brides: A Promise of Hope, Book I releases Spring 2018.</span><br />
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Books 1 and 2, Regency Brides: A Legacy of Grace series<br />
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<img height="320" src="https://d2zhgehghqjuwb.cloudfront.net/accounts/6330/original/1472050217321-8hm2g6wt45h2yhum-2aa1b4811da742967db6ac0e6dfa6df6.jpg?1472050219" width="206" /> <img height="320" src="https://d2zhgehghqjuwb.cloudfront.net/accounts/6330/original/1483558514301-mt2cevlcrcq54zki-4adcd7fe01052dc2f93aa6a7ef3eaf35.jpg?1483558523" width="206" /><br />
<br />Lane Hill Househttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12952459499802207852noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3948253853648439599.post-40750617205337297502017-10-16T00:21:00.000-05:002017-10-16T00:21:11.164-05:00Everywhere You Go There's a Zacchaeus Up a Tree: Small-Town Faith and Words of Wisdom by Roger Campbell, © 2017<img height="640" src="https://d2zhgehghqjuwb.cloudfront.net/accounts/6330/original/1494949178713-bdbs62trsq-a3518b94026649441a74a470dc72d8b6.jpg?1494949182" width="414" /><br />
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Join in these favorite snippets published in Roger Campbell's newspaper column.<br />
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Small towns with front porches. Twilight strollings and visits to reminisce the happenings of the day.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img alt="Image result for front porch gathering" height="238" src="https://pausesandclicks.files.wordpress.com/2017/03/porch2.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="320" /></td></tr>
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<a href="https://2beesinapod.com/wp-content/uploads/2017/09/fall-front-porch-gathering-1-2-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Image result for front porch gathering" border="0" height="320" src="https://2beesinapod.com/wp-content/uploads/2017/09/fall-front-porch-gathering-1-2-1.jpg" width="212" /></a>I have enjoyed the encouragement and thought following the reading of these gathered selections. I would suggest they not be read one after the other, but treated as a devotional to be thought upon during the day. Very applicable to several circumstances of life; a need to be thoughtful of another, a listener, a lifter of the head.<br />
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Scripture is brought into daily living as remembrances are given from emails he received that sparked a reflective response with a good kernel for each of us to plant and watch grow in our lives. Starting a good day ~ not grumbling, but thankful.<br />
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It has long been my practice to heed the counsel of another godly man given many years ago: "As you start your day, speak to God before speaking to anyone else. Listen for His voice before engaging in human conversation. Read His Word before reading anything else."<br /> --<i>Everywhere You Go There's a Zacchaeus Up a Tree</i>, 40.</blockquote>
I love this title! There may be someone searching for Jesus, out of sight in their view requiring a higher perch ~ to get above our earthly endeavors to reach what only He can give us ~ peace, love, One-on-one. Roger Campbell has relayed meeting Him places and times we may not be aware of beyond the noise. Early morning birds singing! Greeting the day as He watches over us.<br />
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I look forward to continuing to read each offering of uplifting hope as the days come anew. I will enjoy this little book with wisdom and comfort provided pointing us to the One who loves us with an everlasting love. What an honor for his family to have them compiled for generations to come.<br />
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***Thank you to Kregel Publications for sending a copy of Roger Campbell's stories. This review was written in my own words. No other compensation was received.***<br />
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<br />Lane Hill Househttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12952459499802207852noreply@blogger.com0