(Tulsa, OK) - "It's an honor just to be nominated": familiar words for Emmy and Grammy nominees. Still, Brent and Deanna Higgins never believed the phrase would pertain to their family. Outreach magazinehas recently honored the Higgins' book, I Would Die for You, with a nomination as Outreach Resource of the Year.
That nomination, however, came with a great cost. I Would Die for You chronicles the life and death of their young son, BJ Higgins; along with his faith; his passion for missions and his love for God. Compelling excerpts from personal notes, blog entries school assignments and journals reveal his clear calling and enthusiasm for sharing the gospel of Christ. BJ's challenging words and example combine to inspire readers of all ages.
After returning from his second short-term international mission trip at the age of 15, BJ became seriously ill. Six days before his sixteenth birthday, he died. His story lives on throughout the pages of his parents' book.
In spite of the inevitable grief , Brent and Deanna share their son's message of selfless sacrifice through both I Would Die for You and Awe Star Ministries, the nonprofit ministry that coordinated his mission trips. Their prayer? That countless others will embrace BJ's vision and give their all for the cause of Christ.
QUESTIONS AND ANSWERS ABOUT THE BOOK:
1. Describe how BJ became involved in short-term mission trips. How did these trips impact BJ’s faith?
BJ watched other members of our family participate in church mission trips. He couldn’t wait for his turn! When Brent led a team to Kentucky to serve in a school, BJ went along. At age fourteen, he learned of an opportunity to minister in Peru. He served there with Awe Star Ministries two consecutive summers and his heart broke over the world’s lostness. His mission service ignited a passion to see the Gospel reach the nations.
2. Even as a young boy BJ’s passion for God shone through in his life. How did you see that passion then and as he grew?
In his childhood, his passion sometimes came across as judgmental. When he learned to share out of love, his witness became much more effective. He was bold and unafraid to share the Gospel in any way possible. After his mission trips, his heightened passion led him to spend more time in the Word, in prayer, in fellowship, and worship. BJ could turn almost any conversation to the things of God because he genuinely loved others.
3. Share the story of BJ’s illness and the time when God called him home.
Three weeks after his 2005 Peru trip, BJ became critically ill. On the way to the hospital, he told Brent, “Dad, I know you’re scared. I believe the Lord will deliver me through this. But if he doesn’t, I’m going home to be with him, and that’s okay with me.” Friends began a blog we still maintain, http://www.prayforbj.com/. It received thousands of hits as people across the world prayed for our son. After a six-week battle with a mysterious infection, BJ went to heaven days before his sixteenth birthday.
4. How did BJ’s faith journey become the inspiration for the song, “I Would Die For You” written by MercyMe’s lead singer, Bart Millard?
Within a week of BJ’s hospitalization Bart (a friend from the band’s early years) called Brent. Our oldest daughter had posted some of BJ’s journal entries on our blog and Bart was amazed at his spiritual depth. He emailed fans encouraging them to pray. MercyMe grieved deeply when BJ died. Our son’s life and writings inspired Bart to put words to a tune he already had, now the final song on the “Coming Up to Breathe” CD.
5. BJ’s life and death have touched many people. Which of his qualities and/or experiences seems to impact others the most?
People didn’t realize it was possible to live a life as sold out to Christ as BJ’s. They’re amazed at the boldness he showed when God told him to witness to four Peruvian policemen carrying uzis. As he wrote, he was “mucho scardios,” but all four accepted Christ. His passionate declaration, “I will not be satisfied. I will not let my passion be hid in a bottle” still touches people in deep ways.
6. As you both continue to partner with Awe Star Ministries, what are your hopes and dreams for this ministry? For this book?
We hope to impact students’ lives, discipling and partnering with them in missions. We long for them to realize that surrender to Christ can occur without crossing borders. God calls us to live a missionary lifestyle within our own culture. Our hope for the book is not that our son be glorified but that God multiply his message. We pray that God draws those who read it to embrace their Savior and live for Him as never before.
7. Where can readers learn more about BJ and I Would Die For You? Where can they learn more about Awe Star Ministries?
http://www.prayforbj.com/ contains devotionals, complete archives, pictures, and BJ’s own words. Recently, we posted a video of his life at www.youtube.com/watch?v=gRNANk5rI2g. You’ll find I Would Die for You anywhere Christian books are sold. http://www.revellbooks.com/ contains a link for a free companion Bible study. Friend us on Facebook: Brent A. Higgins; Deanna Tucker Higgins.
Visit http://www.awestar.org/ to learn more about international missions opportunities. May God use you to extend BJ’s passion to reach the nations and “raise a revolution” in Him.
PARENTING TIPS FROM THE HIGGINS:
▪Stay in the Word and in prayer if you expect your children to do so. Too many times, parents expect that the youth pastor is going to grow their children. You can’t expect your kids to live a lifestyle you’re not.
▪ Be sure you have a firm answer from God before you respond to your child about a request. For example, when BJ first wanted to serve overseas, our initial answer was “no,” but that was a knee-jerk reaction. Parents must be careful to hear from the Holy Spirit and not respond out of pure protectiveness or emotion.
▪If at all possible, have a regular devotional time with your family.This should include prayer, not just rote prayer but significant time with God. This teaches kids how to pray and encourages them in their walk with the Lord
▪ Arrange to have dinner together as a family as often as you can.This gives you an opportunity to share as a family and also allows you to listen to your children. Kids won’t spill unless parents are willing to listen.
▪ Don’t be afraid to let your children fail.Sometimes kids need to try things and learn that failure is a part of life. They need all kinds of experiences as they move into adulthood.
▪ Encourage your children to be bold in their faith.Do activities as a family—mission trips and other projects—that require boldness. Encourage them to be involved in opportunities to share their faith.
▪ Listen, listen, and listen to your children. We say this humbly because we learned from our mistakes. Often your kids are telling you things by what they don’t tell you. (See the note about having dinner together above).
▪ When discouraging things happen, don’t remove your child’s opportunities to obey God.Your child’s relationship with God should never be used as a weapon. Opportunities for fellowship(youth group, etc.) shouldn’t be contingent on “good” behavior.
▪ If you make a commitment, follow through. If your child makes a commitment, help him or her follow through on it, too. The lesson here: your faithfulness sets an example for others.
▪ Practice what you preach to your children.Demonstrate the fruit of the Spirit through your love, kindness, etc. Although we weren’t (and aren’t) perfect parents, we tried to follow through in our lives with the things we taught our kids.
“No. Your will hurts too much.” It was more a whisper than words as he slid down the wall to the floor and grasped hold of the stones beneath him, clawing at them.“Not Your will. Not anymore.”(p.131)
There is something raw and achingly beautiful about Jamie Carie’s writing. Jamie takes history and brings it to your heart and mind with words and phrases that wring the emotion out of you and leave you hungry for more. Love’s First Light will release from B&H Publishing in July, and I want to urge everyone to read this breathtaking saga- set amid the terror of the French Revolution!
Christophe St. Laurent and his sister, Emilie, belong to a noble family. When Robespierre begins his reign of terror in France, he begins by flooding the guillotine with the blood of nobles, and no one is safe. Meanwhile, tucked away in the small village of Carcassonne, the women of the Bonham family are experiencing their own excruciating circumstances, and end up working side by side – a widowed mother with two daughters, one also a widow and pregnant – Suzanne, Stacia and Scarlett. Scarlett is the niece by marriage to Robespierre, and she cares nothing much about the Revolution swirling about her until she encounters a stranger during her nightly visit to her husband’s grave.In no time at all Scarlett, Christophe and the Bonham women find themselves surviving one of the bloodiest and most terrifying periods in the history of France.
Love’s First Light paints a true picture of God’s grace and sovereignty in all situations. The reality of France in the late 1700’s was as horrifying and terror ridden as any country’s history when revolution sweeps its landscape. Trust was a rare commodity, and untold numbers were executed with no thought of justice. The seed of love that germinates and begins to bloom amid this desolate backdrop is breathtaking in its reality and wondrously portrayed alongside a faith that is as firm and unshakable as the stars in the heavens. Although there are moments when each character cries out in despair and becomes overwhelmed by the hopelessness of the situation, the Lord is faithful to show them His hand, and they cling to it with fearless abandon.
Emilie and Christophe’s characters are amazing, and Scarlett is the epitome of a strong and courageous woman. Jasper and Suzanne’s introduction to each other seems to set off an entire series of events that make a delightful paradox to the reigning terror of the day.In short, I am once again left breathless by the beauty of Jamie Carie’s writing. Please, pre-order your copy of Love’s First Light today! You can visit B&H fiction website to learn more about this great novel, as well as the Author’s site to learn all about her award-winning fiction!
What’s all the hubbub about Amish fiction? Major media outlets like Time and ABC Nightline are covering it, and authors like Cindy Woodsmall are making the New York Times bestseller list regularly. What makes these books so interesting?
It is time for a FIRST Wild Card Tour book review! If you wish to join the FIRST blog alliance, just click the button. We are a group of reviewers who tour Christian books. A Wild Card post includes a brief bio of the author and a full chapter from each book toured. The reason it is called a FIRST Wild Card Tour is that you never know if the book will be fiction, non~fiction, for young, or for old...or for somewhere in between! Enjoy your free peek into the book!
You never know when I might play a wild card on you!
Plus a Tiffany's Bracelet Giveaway! Go to Camy Tang's Blog and leave a comment on her FIRST Wild Card Tour for Be Strong and Curvaceous, and you will be placed into a drawing for a bracelet that looks similar to the picture below.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Award-winning author Shelley Adina wrote her first teen novel when she was 13. It was rejected by the literary publisher to whom she sent it, but he did say she knew how to tell a story. That was enough to keep her going through the rest of her adolescence, a career, a move to another country, a B.A. in Literature, an M.A. in Writing Popular Fiction, and countless manuscript pages. Shelley is a world traveler and pop culture junkie with an incurable addiction to designer handbags. She writes books about fun and faith—with a side of glamour. Between books, Shelley loves traveling, playing the piano and Celtic harp, watching movies, and making period costumes.
List Price: $9.99 Reading level: Young Adult Paperback: 240 pages Publisher: FaithWords (May 13, 2009) Language: English ISBN-10: 0446179620 ISBN-13: 978-0446179621
I'm running a tad behind, but I highly recommend this series! I've loved them all so far! My reviews are here and here.
I hope to have a full review soon! These are TERRIFIC books and would be perfect for Summer reading fun!!
AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:
NOTHING SAYS “ALONE” like a wide, sandy beach on the western edge of the continent, with the sun going down in a smear of red and orange. Girlfriends, I am the go-to girl for alone. Or at least, that’s what I used to think. Not anymore, though, because nothing says “alive” like a fire snapping and hissing at your feet, and half a dozen of your BFFs laughing and talking around you.
Like the T-shirt says, life is good.
My name’s Shani Amira Marjorie Hanna, and up until I started going to Spencer Academy in my freshman year, all I wanted to do was get in, scoop as many A’s as I could, and get out. College, yeah. Adulthood. Being the boss of me. Social life? Who cared? I’d treat it the way I’d done in middle school, making my own way and watching people brush by me, all disappearing into good-bye like they were flowing down a river.
Then when I was a junior, I met the girls, and things started to change whether I wanted them to or not. Or maybe it was just me. Doing the changing, I mean.
Now we were all seniors and I was beginning to see that all this “I am an island” stuff was just a bunch of smoke. ’Cuz I was not like the Channel Islands, sitting out there on the hazy horizon. I was so done with all that.
Lissa Mansfield sat on the other side of the fire from me while this adorable Jared Padalecki look-alike named Kaz Griffin sat next to her trying to act like the best friend she thought he was. Lissa needs a smack upside the head, you want my opinion. Either that or someone needs to make a serious play for Kaz to wake her up. But it’s not going to be me. I’ve got cuter fish to fry. Heh. More about that later.
“I can’t believe this is the last weekend of summer vacation,” Carly Aragon moaned for about the fifth time since Kaz lit the fire and we all got comfortable in the sand around it. “It’s gone so fast.”
“That’s because you’ve only been here a week.” I handed her the bag of tortilla chips. “What about me? I’ve been here for a month and I still can’t believe we have to go up to San Francisco on Tuesday.”
“I’m so jealous.” Carly bumped me with her shoulder. “A whole month at Casa Mansfield with your own private beach and everything.” She dipped a handful of chips in a big plastic container of salsa she’d made that morning with fresh tomatoes and cilantro and little bits of—get this—cantaloupe. She made one the other day with carrots in it. I don't know how she comes up with this stuff, but it’s all good. We had a cooler full of food to munch on. No burnt weenies for this crowd. Uh-uh. What we can’t order delivered, Carly can make.
“And to think I could have gone back to Chicago and spent the whole summer throwing parties and trashing the McMansion.” I sighed with regret. “Instead, I had to put up with a month in the Hamptons with the Changs, and then a month out here fighting Lissa for her bathroom.”
“Hey, you could have used one of the other ones,” Lissa protested, trying to keep Kaz from snagging the rest of her turkey-avocado-and-alfalfa-sprouts sandwich.
I grinned at her. Who wanted to walk down the hot sandstone patio to one of the other bathrooms when she, Carly, and I had this beautiful Spanish terrazzo-looking wing of the house to ourselves? Carly and I were in Lissa’s sister’s old room, which looked out on this garden with a fountain and big ferns and grasses and flowering trees. And beyond that was the ocean. It was the kind of place you didn’t want to leave, even to go to the bathroom.
I contrasted it with the freezing wind off Lake Michigan in the winter and the long empty hallways of the seven-million-dollar McMansion on Lake Road, where I always felt like a guest. You know—like you’re welcome but the hosts don’t really know what to do with you. I mean, my mom has told me point-blank, with a kind of embarrassed little laugh, that she can’t imagine what happened. The Pill and her careful preventive measures couldn’t all have failed on the same night.
Organic waste happens. Whatever. The point is, I arrived seventeen years ago and they had to adjust.
I think they love me. My dad always reads my report cards, and he used to take me to blues clubs to listen to the musicians doing sound checks before the doors opened. That was before my mom found out. Then I had to wait until I was twelve, and we went to the early shows, which were never as good as the late ones I snuck into whenever my parents went on one of their trips.
They travel a lot. Dad owns this massive petroleum exploration company, and when she’s not chairing charity boards and organizing fund-raisers, Mom goes with him everywhere, from Alaska to New Zealand. I saw a lot of great shows with whichever member of the staff I could bribe to take me and swear I was sixteen. Keb’ Mo, B.B. King, Buddy Guy, Roomful of Blues—I saw them all.
A G-minor chord rippled out over the crackle of the fire, and I smiled a slow smile. My second favorite sound in the world (right after the sound of M&Ms pouring into a dish). On my left, Danyel had pulled out his guitar and tuned it while I was lost in la-la land, listening to the waves come in.
Lissa says there are some things you just know. And somehow, I just knew that I was going to be more to Danyel Johnstone than merely a friend of his friend Kaz’s friend Lissa, if you hear what I’m saying. I was done with being alone, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t stand out from the crowd.
Don’t get me wrong, I really like this crowd. Carly especially—she’s like the sister I would have designed my own self. And Lissa, too, though sometimes I wonder if she can be real. I mean, how can you be blond and tall and rich and wear clothes the way she does, and still be so nice? There has to be a flaw in there somewhere, but if she’s got any, she keeps them under wraps.
Gillian, who we’d see in a couple of days, has really grown on me. I couldn’t stand her at first—she’s one of those people you can’t help but notice. I only hung around her because Carly liked her. But somewhere between her going out with this loser brain trust and then her hooking up with Jeremy Clay, who’s a friend of mine, I got to know her. And staying with her family last Christmas, which could have been massively awkward, was actually fun. The last month in the Hamptons with them was a total blast. The only good thing about leaving was knowing I was going to see the rest of the crew here in Santa Barbara.
The one person I still wasn’t sure about was Mac, aka Lady Lindsay MacPhail, who did an exchange term at school in the spring. Getting to know her is like besieging a castle—which is totally appropriate considering she lives in one. She and Carly are tight, and we all e-mailed and IM-ed like fiends all summer, but I’m still not sure. I mean, she has a lot to deal with right now, with her family and everything. And the likelihood of us seeing each other again is kind of low, so maybe I don’t have to make up my mind about her. Maybe I’ll just let her go the way I let the kids in middle school go.
Danyel began to get serious about bending his notes instead of fingerpicking, and I knew he was about to sing. Oh, man, could the night get any more perfect? Even though we’d probably burn the handmade marshmallows from Williams-Sonoma, tonight capped a summer that had been the best time I’d ever had.
The only thing that would make it perfect would be finding some way to be alone with that man. I hadn’t been here more than a day when Danyel and Kaz had come loping down the beach. I’d taken one look at those eyes and those cheekbones and, okay, a very cut set of abs, and decided here was someone I wanted to know a whole lot better. And I did, now, after a couple of weeks. But soon we’d go off to S. F., and he and Kaz would go back to Pacific High. When we pulled out in Gabe Mansfield’s SUV, I wanted there to be something more between us than an air kiss and a handshake, you know what I mean?
I wanted something to be settled. Neither of us had talked about it, but both of us knew it was there. Unspoken longing is all very well in poetry, but I’m the outspoken type. I like things out there where I can touch them.
In a manner of speaking.
Danyel sat between Kaz and me, cross-legged and bare-chested, looking as comfortable in his surf jams as if he lived in them. Come to think of it, he did live in them. His, Kaz’s, and Lissa’s boards were stuck in the sand behind us. They’d spent most of the afternoon out there on the waves. I tried to keep my eyes on the fire. Not that I didn’t appreciate the view next to me, because trust me, it was fine, but I know a man wants to be appreciated for his talents and his mind.
Danyel’s melody sounded familiar—something Gillian played while we waited for our prayer circles at school to start. Which reminded me . . . I nudged Carly. “You guys going to church tomorrow?”
She nodded and lifted her chin at Lissa to get her attention. “Girl wants to know if we’re going to church.”
“Wouldn’t miss it,” Lissa said. “Kaz and his family, too. Last chance of the summer to all go together.”
And where Kaz went, Danyel went. Happy thought.
“You’re not going to bail, are you?” Carly’s brows rose a little.
It’s not like I’m anti-religion or anything. I’m just in the beginning stages of learning about it. Without my friends to tell me stuff, I’d be bumbling around on my own, trying to figure it out. My parents don’t go to church, so I didn’t catch the habit from them. But when she was alive and I was a little girl, my grandma used to take me to the one in her neighborhood across town. I thought it was an adventure, riding the bus instead of being driven in the BMW. And the gospel choir was like nothing I’d ever seen, all waving their arms in the air and singing to raise the roof. I always thought they were trying to deafen God, if they could just get up enough volume.
So I like the music part. Always have. And I’m beginning to see the light on the God part, after what happened last spring. But seeing a glimmer and knowing what to do about it are two different things.
“Of course not.” I gave Carly a look. “We all go together. And we walk, in case no one told you, so plan your shoes carefully.”
“Oh, I will.” She sat back on her hands, an “I so see right through you” smile turning up the corners of her mouth. “And it’s all about the worship, I know.” That smile told me she knew exactly what my motivation was. Part of it, at least. Hey, can you blame me?
The music changed and Danyel’s voice lifted into a lonely blues melody, pouring over Carly’s words like cream. I just melted right there on the spot. Man, could that boy sing.
Blue water, blue sky
Blue day, girl, do you think that I
Don’t see you, yeah I do.
Long sunset, long road,
Long life, girl, but I think you know
What I need, yeah, you do.
I do a little singing my own self, so I know talent when I hear it. And I’d have bet you that month’s allowance that Danyel had composed that one. He segued into the chorus and then the bridge, its rhythms straight out of Mississippi but the tune something new, something that fit the sadness and the hope of the words.
Wait a minute.
Blue day? Long sunset? Long road? As in, a long road to San Francisco?
Whoa. Could Danyel be trying to tell someone something? “You think that I don’t see you”? Well, if that didn’t describe me, I didn’t know what would. Ohmigosh.
Could he be trying to tell me his feelings with a song? Musicians were like that. They couldn’t tell a person something to her face, or they were too shy, or it was just too hard to get out, so they poured it into their music. For them, maybe it was easier to perform something than to get personal with it.
Be cool, girl. Let him finish. Then find a way to tell him you understand—and you want it, too.
The last of the notes blew away on the breeze, and a big comber smashed itself on the sand, making a sound like a kettledrum to finish off the song. I clapped, and the others joined in.
“Did you write that yourself?” Lissa removed a marshmallow from her stick and passed it to him. “It was great.”
Danyel shrugged one shoulder. “Tune’s been bugging me for a while and the words just came to me. You know, like an IM or something.”
Carly laughed, and Kaz’s forehead wrinkled for a second in a frown before he did, too.
I love modesty in a man. With that kind of talent, you couldn’t blame Danyel for thinking he was all that.
Should I say something? The breath backed up in my chest. Say it. You’ll lose the moment. “So who’s it about?” I blurted, then felt myself blush.
“Can’t tell.” His head was bent as he picked a handful of notes and turned them into a little melody. “Some girl, probably.”
“Some girl who’s leaving?” I said, trying for a teasing tone. “Is that a good-bye?”
“Could be.”
I wished I had the guts to come out and ask if he’d written the song for me—for us—but I just couldn’t. Not with everyone sitting there. With one look at Carly, whose eyes held a distinct “What’s up with you?” expression, I lost my nerve and shut up. Which, as any of the girls could tell you, doesn’t happen very often.
Danyel launched into another song—some praise thing that everyone knew but me. And then another, and then a cheesy old John Denver number that at least I knew the words to, and then a bunch of goofy songs half of us had learned at camp when we were kids. And then it was nearly midnight, and Kaz got up and stretched.
He’s a tall guy. He stretches a long way. “I’m running the mixer for the early service tomorrow, so I’ve got to go.”
Danyel got up, and I just stopped my silly self from saying, “No, not yet.” Instead, I watched him sling the guitar over one shoulder and yank his board out of the sand. “Are you going to early service, too?” I asked him.
“Yeah,” he said, sounding a little surprised. “I’m in the band, remember?”
Argh! As if I didn’t know. As if I hadn’t sat there three Sundays in a row, watching his hands move on the frets and the light make shadows under his cheekbones.
“I just meant—I see you at the late one when we go. I didn’t know you went to both.” Stutter, bumble. Oh, just stop talking, girl. You’ve been perfectly comfortable talking to him so far. What’s the matter?
“I don’t, usually. But tomorrow they’re doing full band at early service, too. Last one before all the turistas go home. Next week we’ll be back to normal.” He smiled at me. “See you then.”
Was he looking forward to seeing me, or was he just being nice? “I hope so,” I managed.
“Kaz, you coming?”
Kaz bent to the fire and ran a stick through the coals, separating them. “Just let me put this out. Lissa, where’s the bucket?”
“Here.” While I’d been obsessing over Danyel, Lissa had run down to the waterline and filled a gallon pail. You could tell they’d done this about a million times. She poured the water on the fire and it blew a cloud of steam into the air. The orange coals gave it up with a hiss.
I looked up to say something to Danyel about it and saw that he was already fifty feet away, board under his arm like it weighed nothing, heading down the beach to the public lot where he usually parked his Jeep.
I stared down into the coals, wet and dying.
I couldn’t let the night go out like this.
“Danyel, wait!” The sand polished the soles of my bare feet better than the pumice bar at the salon as I ran to catch up with him. A fast glance behind me told me Lissa had stepped up and begun talking to Kaz, giving me a few seconds alone.
I owed her, big time.
“What’s up, ma?” He planted the board and set the guitar case down. “Forget something?”
“Yes,” I blurted. “I forgot to tell you that I think you’re amazing.”
He blinked. “Whoa.” The barest hint of a smile tickled the corners of his lips.
I might not get another chance as good as this one. I rushed on, the words crowding my mouth in their hurry to get out. “I know there’s something going on here and we’re all leaving on Tuesday and I need to know if you—if you feel the same way.”
“About . . . ?”
“About me. As I feel about you.”
He put both hands on his hips and gazed down at the sand. “Oh.”
Cold engulfed me, as if I’d just plunged face-first into the dark waves twenty feet away. “Oh,” I echoed. “Never mind. I guess I got it wrong.” I stepped back. “Forget about it. No harm done.”
“No, Shani, wait—”
But I didn’t want to hear the “we can still be friends” speech. I didn’t want to hear anything except the wind in my ears as I ran back to the safety of my friends.
I've enjoyed Mark Mynheir's work since his first novel, Rolling Thunder, hit the shelves! His latest novel, The Night Watchman, begins a new adventure for his readers as we embark on a suspenseful, faith-filled journey with retired police detective Ray Quinn.
I was honored to be able to chat with Mark via email, and I am delighted to share some of his insights with you today. Please, welcome Mark Mynheir to my window!
You have written a story that takes us into the heart of a true police detective.While Ray Quinn is obviously not a Christian, it is obvious that your faith is a very strong and vital part of who you are.What is it like to share you faith on the job when you have to face man’s depravity day after day?
In some ways, it’s easier to witness to another cop because you don’t have to spend a lot of time explaining the Sin Doctrine - - that the world is a fallen and ugly place, desperately in need of a Savior.Most cops know something’s horribly wrong with humanity and the world.I’ve found that many are open to talks about spiritual things and Christ.It’s a good environment to be a Christian, although sometimes it’s tough too.
People are always skeptical of politicians for some of the fictional reasons highlighted in The Night Watchman.In reality, do the police/investigators/detectives have a good working relationship with local politicians overall? Or is there often a wide gap in what a policeman perceives as reality and what politicians perceive as reality?
I think there are wide gaps between what many politicians perceive as reality and the rest of us.(I had to get that dig in.)I’ve had very positive working relationships with the local politicians, so my experiences have been good.I’m not so sure it always works that way though.When I’m doing the detecting thing, I do try to steer away from political issues and stick to the catching of the bad guys.
You touch lightly on addictions of various sorts within your latest story.As a volunteer at a local rehab facility, I too have a window into this world.How great is the toll of addictions on our country?Don’t you perceive this to be one of the most insidious things in society today?Why or why not?
If everyone in this country stopped drinking and doing drugs, you could cut your police forces in half - - literally.I know it will never happen, at least until Christ returns, but most of the crime, abuse, and violence is associated in some way with drugs or alcohol.Yes, these abuses are insidious and from the evil one.
How common is it for retired police officers to enter into private investigatory work?Is that something you would ever do? Why or why not?
Many cops go into investigations or work for attorneys and such when they retire.My dream job would be to work on cold case homicides for twenty hours a week or so and use the rest of the time to write.We’ll see how that goes.
How do you find a balance between your work and writing?Certainly you must write in your sleep! J Is your family excited about your writing?
God is very good here.I don’t know how I’m able to get the books finished.My family is very supportive, and we work hard to make the balance fit.Like I said though, God really makes it happen.
The Night Watchman must have more books to follow! Can you give us a sneak peek into what Ray and Clevis will be up to next?Will we ever see Pam again?
Ray is up to more mischief as we speak.I can’t keep this guy out of trouble. He’s starting the investigation of a disgraced ex-cop who ends up murdered…with a load of serious suspects.We’ll see if Ray and Clevis can solve this one.
Pam’s still hanging around too!
What exciting things is God doing in your life right now?Any closing words of encouragement you’d like to share with your readers?
God is teaching me patience and endurance.The writing and police work have been tough to balance lately, but He’s making it work.
I’d like to thank your readers, and let them know to drop by and visit me at http://www.copwriter.com/ or on Facebook.Thanks!
I want to encourage you to sign up for my give away of Mark's latest work The Night Watchman! Please go here to leave a comment to be entered for the drawing.
“I’m the night watchman! I watch everyone else’s life go by.I don’t catch killers anymore.I’m lucky if I can catch a cold now.” (p. 35)
Ray Quinn makes a rather self-depreciating picture of a man at the beginning of Mark Mynheir’s latest novel, The Night Watchman.Retired from his work as a police detective after sustaining painful and permanently debilitating injuries, Ray spends his days recovering from long nights of boredom spent with his friend Jim.The highlight of his job as night watchman at eh Coral Bay Condos is sending his wanna-be-cop co-worker Clevis on wild ghost-chases so he can work his Sudoku puzzles in peace.However, all of that changes when two people are found dead on his watch!
Ray suddenly finds himself face to face with an opportunity to return to his role as detective.While neither a member of the police force or a licensed private detective, Ray is forced to depend on his co-worker Clevis and new “client” Pam to help him discover whether or not those found dead were victims of a murder-suicide or a double homicide.As they begin to uncover information, this unlikely trio stumbles into something much larger and more sinister than they bargained for! Will they survive long enough to uncover a killer?
I do believe Mark Mynheir has found his niche with The Night Watchman! Ran Quinn is a cynical, smart-mouthed guy whose observations of others and witty responses offer many laugh-out-loud moments among the intrigue.Mynheir naturally weaves in the gospel message through the life of one of the main characters, and Ray is faithful to brush aside the “God-stuff” and embrace his own self-imposed bitterness.
I loved the way Mynheir developed the character of Clevis, and I found then ending to be especially believable and satisfying!The Night Watchman is my favorite of Mynheir’s work thus far, and I’m very hopeful that we’ll be seeing lots more of Ray Quinn and his quirky side-kick!! This is a novel not to be missed!
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Mark Mynheir was born and raised on the east coast of Central Florida. Like most boys growing up, Mark enjoyed sports, mainly football and martial arts.
In 1983, he enlisted in the United States Marine Corps and went through basic training at Parris Island, South Carolina. After serving four years in the Marines, Mark changed gears and pursued a career in law enforcement.
During his career as a police officer, Mark has worked as a narcotics agent, a S.W.A.T. team member, and a homicide detective.
Over thirteen years ago, during a health crisis involving his oldest son, Mark gave his life to Jesus Christ. Shortly after his conversion, he felt God leading him in a new direction: writing. Now he balances dual careers as a police officer and novelist.
Mark is married to the love of his life and has three fantastic children, and they all currently reside in Central Florida.
I have an extra copy of The Night Watchman to give away!! Please leave your name and contact information to be entered into this drawing!!
“Lillian decided truth was complicated. Keeping it at bay would be easier than admitting she had been callously betrayed…” (p.107)
Tin Ann Forkner’s latest novel, Rose Housepresents a masterful search for truth amid the carnage of tragedy. Lillian has lost so very, very much, and even as she grieves her loss she discovers a betrayal so dark that hope is crushed entirely. Indeed, Lillian is but a shell of a woman when this story begins, and happiness is but a fleeting shadow.
What Lillian cannot know amid her grief is that her future is anything but hopeless. When she visits the rolling hills of Sonoma, California she discovers a house almost completely devoured by roses. Soft, fragrant blossoms intertwine with sharp, painful thorns to create an image in Lillian’s heart of hope – a longing for what once was and what could be yet again.
It is during her extended stay at La Rosaleda and her visit to see the Rose House that Lillian is befriended by a group of people who begin to touch her life in very unexpected ways. An artist, a vineyard owner, a couple that runs the local B&B and a young man who loves to take photographs are but a few people who reach out to Lillian as she begins to search for meaning amid the shambles of her life. Her estranged sister, Geena, also reappears at this point forcing Lillian to deal with some painful memories – and to find truth behind them. Danger is something else that follows Geena to La Rosaleda. The combination of these elements creates a beautiful, amazing and purposeful tale that will linger in your heart with the sweet, poignant effect of the roses for which the story is named.
Tina Ann Forkner has totally captured my heart with Rose House! The effects of tragedy, loss and hopelessness are powerfully but gently examined amid the love, friendship and spiritual encouragement of others who either share or experience their own life-tragedy. The image of the Rose House itself – blooms among thorns – takes on a life of its own, and by the end of the story the reader understands the true meaning of all that has taken place. The element of suspense woven amid the romance and heartache is the perfect addition to the story, and keeps the reader rather frantic toward the end.
Rose Houseis a rich and unforgettable story. Don’t miss it or you will have surely missed a treasure!
A NOTE FROM TINA: (answers to a couple of questions)
What was your inspiration for this story?
Well, in my first book, Ruby Among Us, there was a house that was called the Rose House. It has a difficult, but hopeful story behind it. As for the other themes in the book, it's hard to describe. It is definitely fiction. I am blessed that my life hasn't been quite as difficult as Geena's and Lillian's, but I have lived through some things and have watched friends live through others. It isn't a far stretch to write about such things. I also grew up in Oklahoma like Lillian did and I also have a wonderful sister. She isn't like Geena! :-)
Are you already working on your next novel?
I am working on a few new novels! I am looking forward to being able to share those details.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Tina Ann Forkner writes contemporary fiction that challenges and inspires. She grew up in Oklahoma and graduated with honors from CSU Sacramento before settling in Wyoming. She lives with her husband, their three bright children and their dog and stays busy serving on the Laramie County Library Foundation Board of Directors. She is the author of Ruby Among Us, her debut novel, and Rose House, which recently released from Waterbrook Press/Random House.
You can visit Tina's website to learn more about her work!
It is time for a FIRST Wild Card Tour book review! If you wish to join the FIRST blog alliance, just click the button. We are a group of reviewers who tour Christian books. A Wild Card post includes a brief bio of the author and a full chapter from each book toured. The reason it is called a FIRST Wild Card Tour is that you never know if the book will be fiction, non~fiction, for young, or for old...or for somewhere in between! Enjoy your free peek into the book!
You never know when I might play a wild card on you!
From her earliest childhood, there was nothing Tracy loved better than stepping into another world between the pages of a book. From dragons and knights, to the wonders of Narnia, that passion has never abated, and to Tracy, opening any novel is like stepping again through the wardrobe, into the thrilling unknown. With every book she writes, she wants to open a door like that, and invite readers to be transported with her into a place that captivates. She has traveled through Greece, Turkey, Egypt, Israel and Jordan to research her novels, and looks forward to more travel as the Seven Wonders series continues. It’s her hope that in escaping to the past with her, readers will feel they’ve walked through desert sands, explored ancient ruins, and met with the Redeeming God who is sovereign over the entire drama of human history.
List Price: $14.99
Paperback: 400 pages
Publisher: B&H Books (March 1, 2009)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 0805447318
ISBN-13: 978-0805447316
I am a HUGE fan of Tracy Higley's work! Read my review here.
AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:
Prologue
In my dreams, it is often I who kills Amunet. Other nights it is Khufu, in one of his mad rages. And at other times it is a great mystery, destined to remain unknown long after the ka of each of us has crossed to the west.
Tonight, as I lay abed, my dreams reveal all the truth that I know.
Merit is there, like a beautiful lotus flower among the papyrus reeds.
“Hemi,” she whispers, using the shortened form of my name in the familiar way I long for. “We should join the others.”
The tufts of reeds that spring from the marsh’s edge wave around us, higher than our heads, our private thicket.
“They are occupied with the hunt,” I say.
A cloud of birds rises from the marsh in that moment, squawking their protest at being disturbed. Merit turns her head to the noise and I study the line of her jaw, the long curls that wave across her ear. I pull her close, my arms around her waist.
Her body is stiff at first, then melts against mine.
“Hemi, you must let me go.”
Some nights in my dreams I am a better man.
“Merit.” I bury my face in her hair, breathe in the spicy scent of her. “I cannot.”
I pull her into my kiss.
She resists. She pushes me away and her eyes flash accusation, but something else as well. Sorrow. Longing.
I reach for her again, wrapping my fingers around her wrist. She twists away from my grasp. I do not know what I might have done, but there is fear in her eyes. By the gods, I wish I could forget that fear.
She runs. What else could she do?
She runs along the old river bed, not yet swollen with the year’s Inundation, stagnant and marshy. She disappears among the papyrus. The sky is low and gray, an evil portent.
My anger roots me to the ground for several moments, but then the potential danger propels me to follow.
“Merit,” I call. “Come back. I am sorry!”
I weave slowly among the reeds, searching for the white flash of her dress, the bronze of her skin.
“Merit, it is not safe!”
Anger dissolves into concern. I cannot find her.
In the way of dreams, my feet are unnaturally heavy, as though I fight through alluvial mud to reach her. The first weighted drops fall from an unearthly sky.
And then she is there, at the base of the reeds. White dress dirtied, head turned unnaturally. Face in the water. My heart clutches in my chest. I lurch forward. Drop to my knees in the marsh mud. Push away the reeds. Reach for her.
It is not Merit.
It is Amunet.
“Amunet!” I wipe the mud and water from her face and shake her. Her eyes are open yet unfocused.
I am less of a man because, in that moment, I feel relief.
Relief that it is not Merit.
But what has happened to Amunet? Khufu insisted that our royal hunting party split apart to raise the birds, but we all knew that he wanted to be with Amunet. Now she is alone, and she has crossed to the west.
As I hold her lifeless body in my arms, I feel the great weight of choice fall upon my shoulders. The rain pours through an evil gash in the clouds.
Khufu is my friend. He is my cousin. He will soon wear the Double Crown of the Two Lands of Upper and Lower Egypt. And when Khufu is Pharaoh, I will be his grand vizier.
But it would seem that I hold our future in my hands now, as surely as I hold this girl’s body.
I lower Amunet to the mud again and awake, panting and sweating, in my bed. I roll from the mat, scramble for a pot, and retch. It is not the first time.
The sunlight is already burning through the high window in my bedchamber.
The past is gone. There is only the future.
And I have a pyramid to build.
1
In the fifth year of Khufu, the Golden Horus, Great in Victories, Chosen of Ra, as the pyramid rose in the desert like a burning torch to the sun god himself, I realized my mistake and knew that I had brought disorder.
“Foolishness!” Khons slapped a stone-roughened hand on the papyri unrolled on the basalt-black slab before us, and turned his back on the well-ordered charts to study the workforce on the plateau.
I refused to follow his gaze. Behind me, I knew, eight thousand men toiled, dragging quarry stones up ramps that snaked around my half-finished pyramid, and levering them into beautiful precision. Below them, intersecting lines of men advanced with the rhythm of drumbeats. They worked quickly but never fast enough.
My voice took on a hard edge. “Perhaps, Khons, if you spent more time listening and less blustering—”
“You speak to me of time?” The Overseer of Quarries whirled to face me, and the muscles in his jaw twitched like a donkey’s flank when a fly irritates. “Do you have any idea what these changes mean?” He waved a hand over my plans. “You were a naked baboon at Neferma’at’s knee when he and I were building the pyramids at Saqqara!”
This insult was well-worn, and I was sick of it. I stepped up to him, close enough to map every vein in his forehead. The desert air between us stilled with the tension. “You forget yourself, Khons. I may not be your elder, but I am grand vizier.”
“My good men,” Ded’e interrupted, his voice dripping honey as he smoothed long fingers over the soft papyrus. “Let us not quarrel like harem women over a simple change of design.”
“Simple!” Khons snorted. “Perhaps for you. Your farmers and bakers care not where Pharaoh’s burial chamber is located. But I will need to rework all the numbers for the Giza quarry. The timeline for the Aswan granite will be in chaos.” Khons turned on me. “The plans for the queen’s pyramid are later than grain in a drought year. A project of this magnitude must run like marble over the rollers. A change like this—you’re hurling a chunk of limestone into the Nile, and there will be ripples. Other deadlines will be missed—”
I held up a hand and waited to respond. I preferred to handle Khons and his fits of metaphor by giving us both time to cool. The sun hammered down on upon the building site, and I looked away, past the sands of death, toward the life-giving harbor and the fertile plain beyond. This year’s Inundation had not yet crested, but already the Nile’s green waters had swelled to the border of last year’s floodplain. When the waters receded in three months, leaving behind their rich silt deposits, the land would be black and fertile and planting would commence.
“Three months,” I said. In three months, most of my workforce would return to their farms to plant and till, leaving my pyramid unfinished, dependent on me to make it whole.
Khons grunted. “Exactly. No time for changes.”
Ded’e scanned the plateau, his fingers skimming his forehead to block the glare, though he had applied a careful line of kohl beneath his eyes today. “Where is Mentu? Did you not send a message, Hemiunu?”
I looked toward the workmen’s village, too far to make out anyone approaching by the road. Mentu-hotep also served as one of my chief overseers. These three answered directly to me, and under them commanded fifty supervisors, who in turn organized the twelve-thousand-man force. Nothing of this scale had ever been undertaken in the history of the Two Lands. In the history of man. We were building the Great Pyramid, the Horizon of the Pharaoh Khufu. A thousand years, nay, ten thousand years from now, my pyramid would still stand. And though a tomb for Pharaoh, it would also bear my name. A legacy in stone.
“Perhaps he thinks he can do as he wishes,” Khons said.
I ignored his petty implication that I played favorites among my staff. “Perhaps he is slow in getting started today.” I jabbed a finger at the plans again. “Look, Khons, the burial chamber’s relocation will mean that the inner core will require less stone, not more. I’ve redesigned the plans to show the king’s chamber beginning on Course Fifty. Between the corbelled ascending corridor, the burial chamber, five courses high, and the five relieving chambers that will be necessary above it, we will save 8,242 blocks.”
“Exactly 8,242? Are you certain?” De’de snorted. “I think you must stay up all night solving equations, eh, Hemi?”
I inclined my head to the pyramid, now one-fourth its finished height. “Look at it, De’de. See the way the sides angle at a setback of exactly 11:14. Look at the platform, level to an error less than the span of your little finger.” I turned on him. “Do you think such beauty happens by chance? No, it requires constant attention from one who would rather lose sleep than see it falter.”
“It’s blasphemy.” Khons’s voice was low. It was unwise to speak thus of the Favored One.
I exhaled and we hung over the plans, heads together. Khons smelled of sweat and dust, and sand caked the outer rim of his ear.
“It is for the best, Khons. You will see.”
If blasphemy were involved it was my doing and not Khufu’s? I had engineered the raising of the burial chamber above ground and, along with it, Khufu’s role as the earthly incarnation of the god Ra. It was for the good of Egypt, and now it must be carried forward. Hesitation, indecision—these were for weak men.
“Let the priests argue about religious matters,” I said. “I am a builder.”
Ded’e laughed. “Yes, you are like the pyramid, Hemi. All sharp angles and unforgiving measurements.”
I blinked at the observation, then smiled as though it pleased me.
Khons opened his mouth, no doubt to argue, but a shout from the worksite stopped him. We three turned to the pyramid, and I ground my teeth to see the workgangs falter in their measured march up the ramps. Some disorder near the top drew the attention of all. I squinted against the bright blue sky but saw only the brown figures of the workforce covering the stone.
“Cursed Mentu. Where is he?” Khons asked the question this time.
As Overseer for Operations, Mentu took charge of problems on the line. In his absence, I now stalked toward the site.
The Green Sea Gang had halted on the east-face ramp, their draglines still braced over their bare shoulders. Even from thirty cubits below I could see the ropy muscles stand out on the backs of a hundred men as they strained to hold the thirty-thousand-deben-weight block attached to the line. Their white skirts of this morning had long since tanned with dust, and their skin shone with afternoon sweat.
“Sokkwi! Get your men moving forward!” I shouted to the Green Sea Gang supervisor who should have been at the top.
There was no reply, so I strode up the ramp myself, multiplying in my mind the minutes of delay by the stones not raised. The workday might need extending.
Halfway up the rubble ramp, a scream like that of an antelope skewered by a hunter’s arrow ripped the air. I paused only a moment, the men’s eyes on me, then took to the rope-lashed ladder that leaned against the pyramid’s side. I felt the acacia wood strain under the pounding of my feet, and slowed only enough for safety. The ladder stretched to the next circuit of the ramp, and I scrambled from it, chest heaving, and sprinted through the double-line of laborers that snaked around the final ramp. Here the pyramid came to its end. Still so much to build.
Sokkwi, the gang supervisor, had his back to me when I reached the top. Several others clustered around him, bent to something on the stone. Chisels and drills lay scattered about.
“What is it? What’s happened?” The dry heat had stolen my breath, and the words panted out.
They broke apart to reveal a laborer, no more than eighteen years, on the ground, one leg pinned by a block half set in place. The boy’s eyes locked onto mine, as if to beg for mercy. “Move the stone!” I shouted to Sokkwi.
He scratched his chin. “It’s no good. The stone’s been dropped. We have nothing to—”
I jumped into the space open for the next stone, gripped the rising joint of the block that pinned the boy and yelled to a worker, larger than most. “You there! Help me slide this stone!”
He bent to thrust a shoulder against the stone. We strained against it like locusts pushing against a mountain. Sokkwi laid a hand upon my shoulder.
I rested a moment, and he inclined his head to the boy’s leg. Flesh had been torn down to muscle and bone. I reached for something to steady myself, but there was nothing at this height. The sight of blood, a weakness I had known since my youth, threatened to overcome me. I felt a warmth in my face and neck. I breathed slowly through my nose. No good for the men to see you swoon.
I knelt and placed a hand on the boy’s head, then spoke to Sokkwi. “How did this happen?”
He shrugged. “First time on the line.” He worked at something in his teeth with his tongue. “Doesn’t know the angles, I suppose.” Another shrug.
“What was he doing at the top then?” I searched the work area and the ramp below me again for Mentu. Anger churned my stomach.
The supervisor sighed and picked at his teeth with a fingernail. “Don’t ask me. I make sure the blocks climb those ramps and settle into place. That is all I do.”
How had Mentu had allowed this disaster? Justice, truth, and divine order—the ma’at—made Egypt great and made a man great. I did not like to see ma’at disturbed.
On the ramp, a woman pushed past the workers, shoving them aside in her haste to reach the top. She gained the flat area where we stood and paused, her breath huffing out in dry gasps. In her hands she held two jars, brimming with enough barley beer to allow the boy to feel fierce anger rather than beg for his own death. The surgeon came behind, readying his saw. The boy had a chance at life if the leg ended in a stump. Allowed to fester, the injury would surely kill him.
I masked my faintness with my anger and spun away.
“Mentu!” My yell carried past the lines below me, down into the desert below, perhaps to the quarry beyond. He should never have allowed so inexperienced a boy to place stones. Where had he been this morning when the gangs formed teams?
The men nearby were silent, but the work down on the plateau continued, heedless of the boy’s pain. The rhythmic ring of chisel on quarry stone punctuated the collective grunts of the quarry men, their chorus drifting across the desert, but Mentu did not answer the call.
Was he still in his bed? Mentu and I had spent last evening pouring wine and reminiscing late into the night about the days of our youth. Some of them anyway. Always one story never retold.
Another scream behind me. That woman had best get to pouring the barley beer. I could do nothing more here. I moved through the line of men, noting their nods of approval for the effort I’d made on behalf of one of their own.
When I reached the base and turned back toward the flat-topped black basalt stone where I conferred with Khons and Ded’e, I saw that another had joined them. My brother.
I slowed my steps, to allow that part of my heart to harden like mudbricks in the sun, then pushed forward.
They laughed together as I approached, the easy laugh of men comfortable with one another. My older brother leaned against the stone, his arms crossed in front of him. He stood upright when he saw me.
“Ahmose,” I said with a slight nod. “What brings you to the site?”
His smile turned to a smirk. “Just wanted to see how the project proceeds.”
“Hmm.” I focused my attention once more on the plans. The wind grabbed at the edges of the papyrus, and I used a stone cubit rod, thicker than my thumb, to weight it. “The three of us must recalculate stone transfer rates—”
“Khons seems to believe your changes are going to sink the project,” Ahmose said. He smiled, his perfect teeth gleaming against his dark skin.
The gods had favored Ahmose with beauty, charm, and a pleasing manner that made him well loved among the court. But I had been blessed with a strong mind and a stronger will. And I was grand vizier.
I lifted my eyes once more to the pyramid rising in perfect symmetry against the blue sky, and the thousands of men at my command. “The Horizon of Khufu will look down upon your children’s grandchildren, Ahmose,” I said. I leaned over my charts and braced my fingertips on the stone. “When you have long since sailed to the west, still it will stand.”
He bent beside me, his breath in my ear. “You always did believe you could do anything. Get away with anything.”
The animosity in his voice stiffened my shoulders.
“Khons, Ded’e, if you will.” I gestured to the charts. Khons snorted and clomped to my side. And Ded’e draped his forearms across the papyrus.
“It must be gratifying,” Ahmose whispered, “to command men so much more experienced than yourself.”
I turned on him, my smile tight. “And it must be disheartening to see your younger brother excel while you languish in a job bestowed only out of pity—”
A boy appeared, sparing me the indignity of exchanging blows with my brother. His sidelock identified him as a young prince, and I recognized him as the youngest of Henutsen, one of Khufu’s lesser wives.
“His Majesty Khufu, the king, Horus,” the boy said, “the strong bull, beloved by the goddess of truth—”
“Yes, yes. Life, Health, Strength!” I barked. “What does Khufu want?” I was in no mood for the string of titles.
The boy’s eyes widened and he dragged a foot through the sand. “My father commands the immediate presence of Grand Vizier Hemiunu before the throne.”
“Did he give a reason?”
The prince pulled on his lower lip. “He is very angry today.”
“Very well.” I waved him off and turned to Khons and Ded’e, rubbing the tension from my forehead. “We will continue later.”
The two overseers made their escape before Ahmose and I had a chance to go at it again. I flicked a glance in his direction, then rolled up my charts, keeping my breathing even.
Behind me Ahmose said, “Perhaps Khufu has finally seen his error in appointing you vizier.” Like a sharp poke in the kidneys when our mother wasn’t watching.
“Excuse me, Ahmose.” I pushed past him, my hands full of charts. “I have an important meeting.”
ABOUT THE BOOK:
