Until Robert Miller met Lilly Allen, his world had been dark. A widower after only two years of marriage, he's been living in a haze, filled with grief. He feels his life is already over-even though he's only twenty-five.
But his friendship with Lilly changes everything. For the first time since he can remember, he finds new reasons to wake up each day. Soon, he knows he's falling in love with Lilly. However, he also knows a marriage between the two of them can never happen. Lilly Allen is only eighteen. She had become pregnant out of wedlock. And, she's an Englisher. He, of course, is Amish.
Lilly also feels a strong attraction to Robert. She admires his quiet strength and dependability. She's also in awe of his devotion to his wife's memory. Lilly knows she could never measure up to his perfect Amish wife. She also comes to realize that no matter how much she might love a person, she can't change who she is. She loves Robert-not the Amish faith. No matter how much she loves him.she doesn't know if she'll ever be able to give up her independence and reliance on the modern world in order to say vows.
Coming from different worlds, does their love stand a chance?
My Thoughts: Love is a serious problem for the Amish. Oh, they have no problem loving God and loving and supporting each other, but when they meet someone, strike up a friendship and allow feelings to develop – heaven help them if the other person isn’t Amish!
The other problem the Amish suffer with is the desire to live a life devoid of the hard physical work and lack of choices their lifestyle creates. The lack of electricity, phones, artistic pursuits and all manner of other restrictions create natural problem areas within the human spirit, and sometimes the ramifications are life changing.
I’ve read a lot of Amish fiction this week. I’m ending up with Shelly Sheppard Gray’s Autumn’s Promise. And after a back to back to back reading…well, it all centers around folks struggling to either enter or leave the Amish faith. The main characters struggling in this story are Lilly Allen, Robert Miller and Caleb Graber. Each of these folks are struggling to overcome issues in their lives that present definite barriers to their Amish lifestyle. (well, in Lilly’s case, falling for an Amish guy) And each of them must sort out all manner of issues in order to make a decision about whether or not to be Amish.
Autumn’s Promise is the end of a series that I have not read up until now, so I feel like I’m sort of missing some of the details. However, the story is okay. It’s an inspirational romance. Not a complicated read. My viewpoint is a bit skewed because I’ve read about a lot of Amish folks this week. Personally, I think they just need to move into the 21st century and just join the rest of the world in sorting out their problems instead of creating a host of other problems for themselves by choosing to roll back time a hundred years or so.
Like I said…I’m tired of folks struggling with whether or not to by Amish. I’m ready to move on to something a little more current. About the Author:
Shelley Shepard Gray is the beloved author of the Sisters of the Heart series, including Hidden, Wanted, and Forgiven. Before writing, she was a teacher in both Texas and Colorado. She now lives in Southern Ohio where she writes full time.
“An item that lethal is bound to attract the worst sorts. It would be a pity to lose you. There are so few good heart’s who’ve managed to survive.” (p. 113)
Such warnings fill the lives of a treasure dog.
What, you ask, is a treasure dog? A treasure dog searches for exclusive, exotic and elusive art treasures. Davis Bunn’s latest novel, The Black Madonna, takes place amid the fiercely competitive lives of treasure dogs – all of whom are willing to go to extreme measures to satisfy their insanely rich clients. Within the story’s pages the reader travels to many locations around the globe, and mystery, danger and sheer terror dog the steps of every character all along the way!
Storm Syrrell, Harry Bennett and Emma Webb are the characters at the heart of this story. All of them find themselves tangled within a complicated and dangerous web of people who are seeking mythical artifacts and treasured art pieces that have held the world’s fascination for many years. Quite honestly, this entire experience reminds me of a good James Bond movie! And Emma! She can whup up on some bad guys! If I ever get in a tight spot, please send Emma to be my partner!
Seriously, this is an exciting and interesting read! And there really was (or is) a painting called the Black Madonna whose mystical past is included in the story. There are lots of fascinating people, locations and events within the pages of this novel, and all of the characters are just flawed enough to make them believable and likable folks. There is plenty of excitement to keep readers barreling through the pages, and the ending is both satisfying and believable.
So, if you’re looking for a novel with lots of intrigue and excitement – look no further! The Black Madonna is sure to satisfy!
About the Author:
Davis Bunn is the author of numerous national bestsellers in genres spanning historical sagas, contemporary thrillers, and inspirational gift books. He has received widespread critical acclaim, including three Christy Awards for excellence in fiction, and his books have sold more than six million copies in sixteen languages. He and his wife, Isabella, are affiliated with Oxford University, where Davis serves as writer in residence at Regent's Park College. He lectures internationally on the craft of writing
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!
***Special thanks to T.L. Higley for sending me a review copy.***
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Tracy started her first novel at the age of eight and has been hooked on writing ever since. After attending Philadelphia Biblical University, she earned a B.A. in English Literature at Rowan University. She then spent ten years writing drama presentations for church ministry. A lifelong interest in history and mythology has led Tracy to extensive research into ancient Greece, Egypt and Rome, and shaped her desire to shine the light of the gospel into the cultures of the past. She has traveled through Greece, Turkey, Egypt, Israel, Jordan and Italy to research her novels, and looks forward to more travel as the series continues.
List Price: $ 14.99 Paperback: 344 pages Publisher: B&H Books (September 15, 2010) Language: English ISBN-10: 1433668564 ISBN-13: 978-1433668562
My Review:
“The truth, my child, always has enemies.” (p. 180)
The truth of Christ’s redemptive power has always been the target of the enemy.Tracy Higley explores this great spiritual battle in a dramatic way in her latest book, Petra: City in Stone.Cassia and her son Alexander enter this great battle quite unaware as they flee to Petra for refuge.Julian – an early followers of Christ – also flees to Petra as he seeks to escape the persecution of Rome and protect his family.Neither Julian nor Cassia could imagine what awaits them in the ancient city of stone.
I have enjoyed all of Tracy Higley’s books immensely, but Petra is extra special.This story explores the natural state of all mankind and the resistance that comes against everyone when they try to follow Christ.Ancient Rome is infamous for their persecution of Christians, and Higley does a masterful job of recreating the lives of the first believers as they sought to do God’s will in the face of such terror.Higley also captures the powerful ways that Christ and the Holy Spirit moved and worked in people’s lives as they received the first letter from Paul and the encouragement of the early disciples.
Higley also explores the powerful way the love of Christ reaches out to followers of the pagan religions prominent in that day. I particularly enjoyed the way she develops characters who display realistic reactions to their first encounter with the early church and the followers of The Way.Without exception, all of the characters in this novel, both the main characters and the supporting roles, play a vital part in creating a realistic look into ancient Petra and the time of Rome’s growing persecution.
As I said earlier, Petra City in Stone stands out in Higley’s repertoire of stories.The plight of Cassia and Alexander is both gripping and suspenseful, as is Julian’s realization of God’s will for his life among the early Christians.More than that, Petra is a poignant reminder to all believers that they are engaged in a fierce spiritual battle, and that obedience to Christ often comes at a great price.May we all engage in this war as valiantly as Higley and her ancient characters!
Dear readers, Petra is destined to change lives! I really believe that!I can’t recommend it highly enough!!
AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:
The streets of Rome lay barren and empty, sucked dry by the colossal Flavian Amphitheatre that had swallowed seventy-five thousand Roman citizens in a single gulp, and would hold each one captive until they had enjoyed the horrors that Julian now raced to prevent.
More time. He needed more time. Already the crowd inside the four-story rim of stone cheered for the first event.
Julian’s sandals smacked the black basalt road that led toward the amphitheatre. The blistering Roman sun pounded the moisture from his skin and left him panting. He had run most of way, since an old servant in Vita’s house had pointed a gnarled finger toward the east, toward the Forum, toward the arena of death.
Eighty arches ringed the outside of the theatre on each of its first three stories. The bottom arches provided access to the public, and the second story’s niches held statues of the gods and emperors, who now looked down on Julian as he sprinted across the large travertine slabs that paved the arena’s edge.
He ran toward one of the four main entrances and fumbled for the tessera, the stone tile he wore around his neck. The designatores at the entrance would insist on examining it, to see the sector, row and seat to which he was assigned.
Indeed, the usher at this entrance was full of his own importance, and held a palm to Julian’s oncoming rush as though he could stop him with only the force of his arm.
“Too long in your bed this morning, eh?” His smug smile took in Julian’s hastily-wrapped toga and sweat-dampened hair.
Julian thrust the tessera before the man’s eyes. “Here, here, look at it.”
Still the amused smile. The usher opened his mouth to speak again.
“Look at it!”
Daunted, the man let his eyes travel over the tile, then took a tiny breath and stepped back. His grin faded to a look of regret over his own impudence, and he bowed his head. As if that were not enough, he bowed at the waist and extended a hand to invite Julian to enter.
Julian did not wait for an apology. He pushed past the usher and under the vaulted entrance, then straight through the arena’s outer corridor and up a ramp that led to the cavea, the wedge-shaped sections of marble seats. This main entrance led directly to the central boxes reserved for the elite.
He exploded from the dimly lit ramp onto the terrace. The morning sun slashed across half the seats, the height of the amphitheatre leaving the other half in shade. The red canvas velarium, the awning used to shade the spectators, would be raised before it got much hotter, but for now, thousands of bleached togas on white marble blinded the eye and the smell of the masses assaulted the nose.
Julian crossed the terrace in two strides, slammed against the waist-high wall that separated him from the arena, and saw a figure dash at him from the shadows.
His mother’s hands were on his arms in an instant. “Julian, what are you doing?” Her words were frantic, as clipped and terror-filled as his every movement.
“They have Vita, Mother!”
She wrenched his body fiercely to face her. Julian stood nearly a cubit taller than his mother, but Ariella had retained all the strength of her youth, along with the beauty. “There is nothing that can be done, my son.”
He yanked his arms from her grasp. “Do not say that!” Julian searched the cavea behind him, full to overflowing with the purple-edged togas of senators. “Where is Father? Is he here?”
“Julian, think! You must think.” Ariella’s voice was urgent and low and her clutching fingers again slowed Julian’s restlessness. “You will bring more harm – “
“I do not care!” His voice snagged with emotion, and he fought to harden the feelings into action. “I must end this.”
“You cannot, son.”
He turned flashing eyes on Ariella. “It is my fault! Do you not understand? I should be down in those cages.”
Ariella’s eyes misted. “I would not lose both my son and his betrothed on the same day.”
Betrothed. The word washed more guilt over Julian’s stricken soul.
A senator, one of his father’s friends, walked past and paused to hold out an arm in greeting to Julian. “Fine day for the games, is it not?”
Julian straightened at once, resuming the noble bearing trained into him since childhood, and returned the man’s grip. He nodded once in agreement, but did not speak. The senator moved on, and Julian dropped his shoulders, ashamed that he had not made a statement.
Ariella seemed to read his thoughts. Her dark eyes held his own. “It will take more than a day to change the Empire.”
Julian looked out over the yellow sand of the arena. “But this day, Mother, this day we must!” He slapped a hand against the top of the marble wall. “I am going to find Father.”
“Julian, you know that he can do nothing – “
He spun on her. “No. I am tired of both of you, always moving about your circles quietly, behind closed doors, the truth spoken only in whispers.” He lifted his own voice as an example. “There is a time to speak!”
Ariella’s nostrils flared, but she said nothing. Turning from her, Julian stalked to the nearest break in the seating and ascended the tiers alongside his father’s section. Here, the nobility did not sit on wooden planks as the rest of the citizens, but were given cushions or even chairs for comfort. He scanned the rows of seats for his father’s graying head, and instead met his dark gray eyes.
Julian shook his head and opened his mouth to shout across the intervening seats, but his father held up a hand, then stood and excused himself from his colleagues. He slid along in front of a dozen other senators, and emerged at the end of the row beside Julian.
Quietly, he spoke into his son’s ear. “I have just now heard. It is outrageous.”
Julian’s hands balled into fists at his side. “You must do something.”
“What can I do, Julian? The emperor has ruled, and Trajan is not a man to be defied.”
Across the arena, Julian watched as a trapdoor slid upward and a huddled band of men and women were prodded onto the sand at the end of Roman spears. Julian’s heart pounded with the shortness of the time left and he turned on his father with the frenzy of desperation. “She is out there, Father!”
But his father’s eyes held only grief, not anger. Not the fiery anger that could change the future, even now.
Julian pushed past him, down the steps. If his parents would do nothing from their positions of influence, then he would stop this madness from a position of strength.
It had been his fault, all of it. Trajan had made his stance clear. As long as they kept to themselves, did not flaunt their disagreement with imperial policy, did not take a public stand, they would be left alone. But that had not been enough for Julian. Passionate about the truth, eager to show himself a leader and foolish enough to believe himself invincible, he had spoken too loudly, in too many places.
And now this. Vita and the others arrested, convicted, and sentenced without his knowledge. Julian had brought this on them all, but he had escaped their fate.
At the terrace level he circled the arena toward the imperial box. The amphitheatre was one of the few places where the public had access to the divine emperor. Julian grasped at the thin hope that he could get near enough to plead for Vita’s life.
He had not loved her. Not like he should, though he had tried. He had never known a more virtuous woman. The arranged match between them was a good one. But Julian had never felt more than the flame of admiration and respect for her, and he saw nothing but the same in her eyes. Still, they would have been married.
We will be married.
The foot-stomps of the crowd rose around him like a hundred thousand drumbeats. The cadence resonated in his chest and pushed him forward. He knew that sound. It was the sound of a mob hungry for blood.
Terror drove his footsteps. He could not look to the arena. Not even when he heard more trapdoors rise and the low growl of beasts begin.
The crowd screamed as one, and their shouts lifted to the pale blue sky like a puff of evil smoke from the underworld. Julian’s bones seemed to turn to water. He raced on. The emperor’s raised box was in sight.
But then they were beside him again, both his parents this time, grasping at his arms, pulling him backward.
“It is too late, son.” His mother’s voice held the grief of both the present and the past, for she had seen much sorrow in the arena in her day.
His father turned him to the wall to face the sand. “You must say goodbye, Julian. You must say goodbye.”
He let his parents hold him there at the marble wall. He scraped his hands across the top, then gripped the white stone.
Lions. Six of them. Circling, circling the knot of friends in the center of the bright yellow sand that had been brought from one of the hills of Rome and spread on wooden planking to soak up the blood of gladiator, beast, and the condemned.
The lions charged at once, but for Julian, the moment stretched out, like a thread of silk spun from a slow-turning wheel, and though the crowd still bellowed, in his head all had gone silent and he saw only his group of friends, crumpling in on themselves like sand flowing into a sinkhole.
The lions must have roared before they pounced, though Julian heard nothing, and felt only the relentless scraping of his own hands across the stone wall. He scraped until his hands were torn and bloody, wanting to bleed with her, wanting to bleed with all of them, as he should have.
The sun had risen to pour its rays into the center of the arena, and the yellow sand beneath them turned to molten gold in the light, an oval of liquid gold with Vita and the others drowning in the center of it. He saw her face for a moment, lifted to heaven.
His mind disconnected and drifted strangely, then, to the words at the end of the Apostle John’s Revelation, and his vision of the New Jerusalem with its streets of pure gold.
Would Vita fall asleep in this golden sand and wake to streets of gold?
The beasts did their job well and quickly, and when it was over and the mutilated bodies of his friends lay scattered across the sand, Julian woke from his stupor and felt the guilt of every lost life bear down on him as though the stones around him had collapsed on his head. He tasted bile rising in his throat, and turned away from the wall to retch onto the paving stones.
His parents held his arms as he emptied the contents of his stomach. He heard the jeers directed toward him. When he stood, the tear-streaked faces of both his parents matched his own.
But he found no solace in their shared grief. They did not have to bear the guilt of it as he did. As he always would. He pulled from their embrace and escaped the amphitheatre, running back the way he had come, running like a haunted man.
Days later, when his guilt and grief had hardened into bitter anger, he tried once again to change the minds and policies of the Roman government. But in the end he brought only more disgrace, and more danger, upon his family.
In the cool of the evening three days after Vita’s death, he stood at the terrace wall of his father’s lavish villa in the Roman countryside, looking down into the flowered gardens his mother had commissioned, and listening to the fountain that trickled night and day into the central pool. He inhaled deeply of the night air, dragging in the scent of roses.
His guilt over Vita’s death had not abated, and he had added to it with his actions in the days since. His brazen words in the Senate House, and later the Forum, had identified him as one who should have also met his death in the arena that day.
Perhaps that was his wish. To be arrested himself, to be thrown before the gaping yaw of a dozen lions, to be given what he deserved.
But his family. He had not wanted the same for his family. His only brother, long since stationed in some military outpost, had never embraced the family’s beliefs, but even he could be reached by the long arm of the empire, and brought back to face condemnation with the rest.
Behind him, slaves stirred to prepare the evening meal and lit torches on the veranda. His parents would appear soon and they would all pretend that their privileged life continued.
But Julian had made a decision. His life in Rome was over. To protect his family, he must disappear.
He thought of his brother’s stories of the provinces that lay at the edges of the Empire. Of Britannia, of Judea. But even there the Roman army could search out a man. No, he must go further east than even Judea.
There was a place, a hidden city he had heard tales of since he was a boy. Stories that had sparked his imagination and given him the desire to travel across the desert sand to discover the city tucked between the rock cliffs of Arabia.
Petra. Capital of the Nabatean kingdom, wealthy center of the east-west trade route, and beyond even the Roman Empire’s reach.
Julian rubbed his hands together, palms still raw from being torn open the day Vita died. Yes, it was a good plan.
Journey to the charming villages of the Amana Colonies, 1885
Gretchen Kohler can't help but dream of a life beyond tending her father's general store and keeping an eye on her younger brother and senile grandmother. She enjoys creative writing and believes she has a talent for it, but her traditional Amana village frowns upon artistic pursuits of that sort. So Gretchen confines her stories and poems to her journals, letting only close friends read them.
When a young reporter comes into her store and strikes up a conversation, she believes she's found a kindred spirit. Soon, she shares some of her stories with him—only to have her trust betrayed in the worst of ways. Will Gretchen lose her job, her reputation, and the love of her childhood beau all because of one unfortunate decision?
My Thoughts:
“My daughter has my permission to read books and to write stories as long as it does not interfere with her Bible reading and prayer.” ( p. 269)
Gretchen Kohler is blessed to have a father who understands her desire to capture the events ofher life with the written word.Her life has many burdens that are greatly relieved by the fulfillment of this activity.Gretchen is the primary character in Judith Miller’s latest novel, More Than Words, and her life in the Amana Colonies in 1885 is difficult place to find personal fulfillment in an individual task.These historic colonies thrived on everyone acting as part of the whole, and artistic pursuits of any kind were frowned upon.Gretchen learns a difficult lesson in trust, and her writing proves to be the avenue through which she must learn it.
Gretchen must also learn valuable lessons about balancing her personal desires with the family obligations that are thrust upon her.Caring for her younger brother and her aging grandmother often prove difficult, and gaining a life of her own sometimes feels like a distant dream.But it is through her faithfulness and devotion to her family that Gretchen is able to reach out to others, and she touches many lives with the unconditional love she exhibits.
The Amana colonies presented an interesting concept, and this is not the first story I’ve read within this context.However, this communal, agrarian society would not have appealed to me personally.Legalism in not the way I would enjoy practicing my faith.Fortunately, Gretchen’s life was filled with people who allowed her as much personal freedom as was possible within the colonies, and she was loved by a man who appreciated her gifts and abilities.I did enjoy the closeness of the family in the story, and I think Gretchen has a bright future ahead.
More than Words serves as the introduction the Judith Miller’s Daughters of Amana series.She has created many more interesting characters though which she can explore the Amana Colonies.
About the Author:
Judith Miller is an award-winning author whose avid research and love for history are reflected in her novels, two of which have placed in the CBA top ten lists. In addition to her writing, Judy is a certified legal assistant. Judy makes her home in Topeka, Kansas. Visit her Web site at www.judithmccoymiller.com.
Sun, summer, and a scrumptious sailing instructor. What more could a girl want?
When spunky Marguerite Westing discovers that her family will spend the summer of 1895 at Lake Manawa, Iowa, she couldn't be more thrilled. It's the perfect way to escape her agonizingly boring suitor, Roger Gordon. It's also where she stumbles upon two new loves: sailing, and sailing instructor Trip Andrews.
But this summer of fun turns to turmoil as her father's secrets threaten to ruin the family forever. Will free-spirited Marguerite marry Roger to save her father's name and fortune? Or will she follow her heart--even if it means hurting the family she loves?
Full of sharp wit and blossoming romance, Making Waves will whisk you away to a breezy lakeside summer holiday.
My thoughts:
“Lord, I can’t live in his mashed potato world. I need my tubers scalloped and diced and baked and fried and different every time. I need excitement and change as much as I need air. I know what I’m planning is deceptive, but you understand. After all, you made me this way. Right?” (p. 49)
Marguerite’s urgent prayer, sent heavenward in utter desperation, is rather telling about her personality. This bright, fun-loving exuberant girl has painted herself into an unbearable situation trying to do what is expected of her by her parents. Up until this point, she’s never felt compelled to willfully deceive others to get what she wants. However, the desire of her heart this time is not something a lady of her social standing is able to obtain in the late 1800’s. Marguerite has never cared very much about the restraints of her social class.
Trip Andrews doesn’t care much for what others think of him either unless that someone is his father. Perhaps he cares too much about pleasing him. Trip is an absolute stickler when it comes to demanding that others tell him the truth, but he can’t be honest with himself about the desires of his own heart when it conflicts with his perception of what his father will think of him.
Making Waves is a story that deals with very realistic dynamics of human relationships, and all of these relationships are set amid the opulent lake-side vacation campground of the Westing family. I found it utterly delightful to learn about the “lifestyles of the rich and famous” in the late 1800’s! I wasn’t surprised that Marguerite’s mother was such a fuss-budget about making sure that her lifestyle would be maintained in the style to which she was accustomed after she married. But I was aggravated that the woman so readily discounted love in her daughter’s marriage relationship. No wonder Marguerite was so headstrong and determined – she had a master teacher! Yet Marguerite possessed something far greater than the comforts provided by her parent’s wealth. She had faith in God – albeit still immature. When she finally learns to trust her circumstances to God, the outcome is more than she ever hoped or dreamed.
All of the characters in this story are a bit manipulative when it comes to getting what they want. The consequences vary by degree, but they have a lot to learn about telling the truth both to themselves and each other. I was totally enamored with Marguerite’s personality as well as Trip! It was a ton of fun to see them mature in their self-respect and their trust in God’s plans for their lives. There is a lot of fun to be had throughout this novel as well as a lot of self-reflective truths about honesty in our relationships – especially the one we have with God!
Lorna Seilstad will make many HUGE waves within the inspirational romance genre! This is a spectacular debut novel and I can’t wait to see what comes next from this author’s pen!
About the author: Lorna Seilstad is a history buff, antique collector, and freelance graphic designer. A former high school English and journalism teacher, she has won several online writing awards and is a member of American Christian Fiction Writers. She lives in and draws her setting from Iowa. This is her first novel.
“This story is for everyone but not everyone is for this story.” (back cover copy)
Ted Dekker aptly describes his latest book, Immanuel’s Veins, when stating who his target audience is – and who it is not.Immanuel’s Veins is told in classic Dekker style, and it is sure to be a hit with all of his fans, both old and new.Dekker has chosen a venue that is extremely popular right now and added his unique style to create a love story with eternal consequences.Whether you are one for whom this story is written will be determined rather quickly.
I’m going to be honest and tell you that the first third of this book got on my nerves. It seemed rather odd to me that seasoned warriors would go so ga-ga over a woman. However, as the story progressed and I understood that there was a bit more going on than just two people meeting each other for the first time, and from that point on, I was quickly drawn further into the story. As I continued to the end, I found nuggets of spiritual truth hidden along the way.Dekker is obviously rather put off by religion for religion’s sake, and he makes that very apparent in his writing. He longs for everyone to understand the love that God has shown to His people, and for followers to show that love to one another.
Actually, his stated intent is to explore sacrificial love. He explores this concept through the universal concept of relationship between a man and a woman – and makes it very clear that there is a vast difference between real love and love for pleasure’s sake alone. The hallmark of real love is a willingness to sacrifice and the main character has to deal with that in a rather extreme way.The poor man resists the draw of this love at first, bound by duty to fulfill his assigned mission. However, as he realizes what his duty will ultimately cost him, he then embarks in a life or death struggle between forces of good and evil. He is called to sacrifice by a love that makes him willing to fight an evil far greater than any he has ever known.
I know this may sound kind of vague, but I don’t want to give anything away. This story should be discovered and uncovered as I did it – page by page. The summation of truth that spoke to me most was found on page 366: “So then, if you read this book, and if you encounter any person who might strike you as lost to the darkness, I would only implore you to love them and pray they be delivered into the light by a blood that works to purge evil.” This book contains many surprises, and hallmark Dekker suspense. Do you think you are someone for whom this story was written?
I have a VERY SPECIAL give away for this book!! A very limited number of t-shirts were printed to promote this book! (my 15-year-old son has already hijacked mine!) If you'd like to receive a free t-shirt, please enter your name, contact information AND your definition of sacrificial love on this post! I'll draw a winner at the end of the week!
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
The son of missionaries John and Helen Dekker, whose incredible story of life among headhunters in Indonesia has been told in several books, Ted Dekker learned at a very early age the difference between authentic Christianity and so-called religion. Surrounded by the vivid colors of the jungle and a myriad of cultures, Dekker received a first-class education on human nature and behavior. This, he believes, is the foundation of his writing.
After earning his Bachelor's Degree in Religion and Philosophy from Evangel College, Dekker spent time in the corporate world before turning to writing full-time in 1997. He states that each time he writes, he finds his vision of God just a little clearer and his expression of that vision a little more vivid. Dekker's body of work contains over twenty novels including Thr3e, The Circle Series, and Sinner.
He lives in Austin, Texas, with his wife LeeAnn and their four children.
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!
***Special thanks to Karri James, Marketing Assistant, Harvest House Publishers for sending me a review copy.***
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
BJ Hoff’s bestselling historical novels continue to cross the boundaries of religion, language, and culture to capture a worldwide reading audience. Her books include Song of Erin and American Anthem and such popular series as The Riverhaven Years, The Mountain Song Legacy, and The Emerald Ballad. Hoff’s stories, although set in the past, are always relevant to the present. Whether her characters move about in small country towns or metropolitan areas, reside in Amish settlements or in coal company houses, she creates communities where people can form relationships, raise families, pursue their faith, and experience the mountains and valleys of life. BJ and her husband make their home in Ohio.
Publisher: Harvest House Publishers (July 1, 2010)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 0736927883
ISBN-13: 978-0736927888
My Thoughts: BJ Hoff holds a special place in my heart. For you see, she was one of the first Christian authors I read and followed. Yes, I bought a copy of Song of the Silent Harp when it was first published in 1991 and had to wait patiently for the following books to make their appearance on the store shelves! That is why I felt compelled to participate in this tour. The Emerald Ballad Series is one of the finest series of books you'll ever read! The characters are richly defined, and their lives are realistically portrayed as the story moves from the potatoe famine in Ireland to a new country in turmoil - America.
BJ Hoff truly is a master story teller, and you will never forget her stories. Harvest House has done a beautiful job in the re-release of this series, and I'm quite certain both old and new fans alike will be thrilled to read these epic stories. If you like historical settings, plots with lots of intrigue, suspense and romance - all bound with a rich thread of God's grace and mercy - then please, add BJ Hoff's Emerald Ballad series to your library! You will be the richer for having done so!
AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:
Daniel
Write his merits on your mind;
Morals pure and manners kind;
In his head, as on a hill,
Virtue placed her citadel.
William Drennan (1754–1820)
Killala, County Mayo (Western Ireland)
January, 1847
Ellie Kavanagh died at the lonesome hour of two o’clock in the morning—a time, according to the Old Ones, when many souls left their bodies with the turning of the tide. A small, gaunt specter with sunken eyes and a vacant stare, she died a silent death. The Hunger had claimed even her voice at the end. She was six years old, and the third child in the village of Killala to die that Friday.
Daniel kept the death watch with his mother throughout the evening. Tahg, his older brother, was too ill to sit upright, and with their da gone—killed in a faction fight late last October—it was for Daniel to watch over his little sister’s corpse and see to his mother.
The small body in the corner of the cold, dimly lit kitchen seemed less than human to Daniel; certainly it bore little resemblance to wee Ellie. Candles flickering about its head mottled the ghastly pallor of the skull-like face, and the small, parchment-thin hands clasping the Testament on top of the white sheet made Daniel think uneasily of claws. Even the colored ribbons adorning the sheet mocked his sister’s gray and lifeless body.
The room was thick with shadows and filled with weeping women. Ordinarily it would have been heavy with smoke as well, but the men in the village could no longer afford tobacco. The only food smells were faint: a bit of sour cheese, some onion, stale bread, a precious small basket of shellfish. There was none of the illegal poteen—even if potatoes had been available from which to distill the stuff, Grandfar Dan allowed no spirits inside the cottage; he and Daniel’s da had both taken the pledge some years before.
All the villagers who came and went said Ellie was laid out nicely. Daniel knew their words were meant to be a comfort, but he found them an offense. Catherine Fitzgerald had done her best in tidying the body—Catherine had no equal in the village when it came to attending at births or deaths—but still Daniel could see nothing at all nice about Ellie’s appearance.
He hated having to sit and stare at her throughout the evening, struggling to keep the sight of her small, wasted corpse from permanently imbedding itself in his mind. He was determined to remember his black-haired little sister as she had been before the Hunger, traipsing along behind him and chattering at his back to the point of exasperation.
Old Mary Larkin had come to keen, and her terrible shrieking wail now pierced the cottage. Squatting on the floor beside the low fire, Mary was by far the loudest of the women clustered around her. Her tattered skirt was drawn up almost over her head, revealing a torn and grimy red petticoat that swayed as her body twisted and writhed in the ancient death mime.
The woman’s screeching made Daniel’s skin crawl. He felt a sudden fierce desire to gag her and send her home. He didn’t think his feelings were disrespectful of his sister—Ellie had liked things quiet; besides, she had been half-afraid of Old Mary’s odd ways.
Ordinarily when Mary Larkin keened the dead, the entire cottage would end up in a frenzy. Everyone knew she was the greatest keener from Killala to Castlebar. At this moment, however, as Daniel watched the hysterical, withered crone clutch the linen sheet and howl with a force that would turn the thunder away, he realized how weak were the combined cries of the mourners. The gathering was pitifully small for a wake—six months ago it would have been twice the size, but death had become too commonplace to attract much attention. And it was evident from the subdued behavior in the room that the Hunger had sapped the strength of even the stoutest of them.
Daniel’s head snapped up with surprise when he saw Grandfar Dan haul himself off the stool and go trudging over to the howling women grouped around Ellie’s body. He stood there a few moments until at last Mary Larkin glanced up and saw him glaring at her. Behind the stringy wisps of white hair falling over her face, her black eyes looked wild and fierce with challenge. Daniel held his breath, half-expecting her to lash out physically at his grandfather when he put a hand to her shoulder and began speaking to her in the Irish. But after a moment she struggled up from the floor and, with a display of dignity that Daniel would have found laughable under different circumstances, smoothed her skirts and made a gesture to her followers. The lot of them got up and huddled quietly around the dying fire, leaving the cottage quiet again, except for the soft refrain of muffled weeping.
Daniel’s mother had sat silent and unmoving throughout the entire scene; now she stirred. “Old Dan should not have done that,” Nora said softly. “He should not have stopped them from the keening.”
Daniel turned to look at her, biting his lip at her appearance. His mother was held in high esteem for her good looks. “Nora Kavanagh’s a grand-looking woman,” he’d heard people in the village say, and she was that. Daniel thought his small, raven-haired mother was, in fact, the prettiest woman in Killala. But in the days after his da was killed and the fever had come on Ellie, his mother had seemed to fade, not only in her appearance but in her spirit as well. She seemed to have retreated to a place somewhere deep inside herself, a distant place where Daniel could not follow. Her hair had lost its luster and her large gray eyes their quiet smile; she spoke only when necessary, and then with apparent effort. Hollow-eyed and deathly quiet, she continued to maintain her waxen, lifeless composure even in the face of her grief, but Daniel sometimes caught a glimpse of something shattering within her.
At times he found himself almost wishing his mother would give way to a fit of weeping or womanly hysteria. Then at least he could put an arm about her narrow shoulders and try to console her. This silent stranger beside him seemed beyond comfort; in truth, he suspected she was often entirely unaware of his presence.
In the face of his mother’s wooden stillness, Daniel himself turned inward, to the worrisome question that these days seldom gave him any peace.
What was to become of them?
The potato crop had failed for two years straight, and they were now more than half the year’s rent in arrears. Grandfar was beginning to fail. And Tahg—his heart squeezed with fear at the thought of his older brother—Tahg was no longer able to leave his bed. His mother continued to insist that Tahg would recover, that the lung ailment which had plagued him since childhood was responsible for his present weakness. Perhaps she was right, but Daniel was unable to convince himself. Tahg had a different kind of misery on him now—something dark and ugly and evil.
A tight, hard lump rose to his throat. It was going to be the same as with Ellie. First she’d grown weak from the hunger; later the fever had come on her until she grew increasingly ill. And then she died.
As for his mother, Daniel thought she still seemed healthy enough, but too much hard work and too little food were fast wearing her down. She was always tired lately, tired and distracted and somber. Even so, she continued to mend and sew for two of the local magistrates. Her earnings were less than enough to keep them, now that they lacked his da’s wages from Reilly the weaver, yet she had tried in vain to find more work.
The entire village was in drastic straits. The Hunger was on them all; fever was spreading with a vengeance. Almost every household was without work, and the extreme winter showed no sign of abating. Most were hungry; many were starving; all lived in fear of eviction.
Still, poor as they were as tenant farmers, Daniel knew they were better off than many of their friends and neighbors. Thomas Fitzgerald, for example, had lost his tenancy a few years back when he got behind in his rent. Unable thereafter to get hold of a patch of land to lease, he barely managed to eke out an existence for his family by means of conacre, wherein he rented a small piece of land season by season, with no legal rights to it whatever. The land they occupied was a mere scrap. Their cabin, far too small for such a large family, was scarcely more than a buffer against the winter winds, which this year had been fierce indeed.
Daniel worried as much about the Fitzgeralds as he did about his own family. His best friend, Katie, was cramped into that crude, drafty hut with several others. She was slight, Katie was, so thin and frail that Daniel’s blood chilled at the thought of what the fever might do to her. His sister had been far sturdier than Katie, and it had destroyed Ellie in such a short time.
Katie was more than his friend—she was his sweetheart as well. She was only eleven, and he thirteen, but they would one day marry—of that he was certain. Together they had already charted their future.
When he was old enough, Daniel would make his way to Dublin for his physician’s training, then come back to set up his own practice in Castlebar. Eventually he’d be able to build a fine house for himself and Katie—and for his entire family.
There was the difference of their religions to be considered, of course. Katie was a Roman and he a Protestant. But they would face that hurdle later, when they were older. In the meantime, Katie was his lass, and that was that. At times he grew almost desperate for the years to pass so they could get on with their plans.
A stirring in the room yanked Daniel out of his thoughts. He glanced up and caught a sharp breath. Without thinking, he popped off his stool, about to cry out a welcome until he remembered his surroundings.
The man ducking his head to pass through the cottage door was a great tower of a fellow, with shoulders so broad he had to ease himself sideways through the opening. Yet he was as lean and as wiry as a whip. He had a mane of curly copper hair and a lustrous, thick beard the color of a fox’s pelt. He carried himself with the grace of a cat-a-mountain, yet he seemed to fill the room with the restrained power of a lion.
As Daniel stood watching impatiently, the big man straightened, allowing his restless green eyes to sweep the room. His gaze gentled for an instant when it came to rest on Ellie’s corpse, softening even more at the sight of Daniel’s mother, to whom he offered a short, awkward nod of greeting. Only when he locked eyes with Daniel did his sun-weathered face at last break into a wide, pleased smile.
He started toward them, and it seemed to Daniel that even clad humbly as he was in dark frieze and worn boots, Morgan Fitzgerald might just as well have been decked with the steel and colors of a warrior chief, so imposing and awe-inspiring was his presence. He stopped directly in front of them, and both he and Daniel stood unmoving for a moment, studying each other’s faces. Then, putting hands the size of dinner plates to Daniel’s shoulders, Morgan pulled him into a hard, manly embrace. Daniel breathed a quiet sigh of satisfaction as he buried his cheek against Morgan’s granite chest, knowing the bond between him and the bronze giant to be renewed.
After another moment, Morgan tousled Daniel’s hair affectionately, released him, and turned to Nora. The deep, rumbling voice that could shake the walls of a cabin was infinitely soft when he spoke. “I heard about Owen and the lass, Nora. ’Tis a powerful loss.”
As Daniel watched, his mother lifted her shadowed eyes to Morgan. She seemed to grow paler still, and her small hands began to wring her handkerchief into a twisted rope. Her voice sounded odd when she acknowledged his greeting, as if she might choke on her words. “ ’Tis good of you to come, Morgan.”
“Nora, how are you keeping?” he asked, leaning toward her still more as he scrutinized her face.
Her only reply was a small, stiff nod of her head before she looked away.
Daniel wondered at the wounded look in Morgan’s eyes, even more at his mother’s strained expression. The room was still, and he noticed that the lank-haired Judy Hennessey was perched forward on her chair as far as she could get in an obvious attempt to hear their conversation. He shot a fierce glare in her direction, but she ignored him, craning her neck even farther.
Just then Grandfar Dan moved from his place by the fire and began to lumber toward them, his craggy, gray-bearded face set in a sullen scowl. Daniel braced himself. For as long as he could remember, there had been bad blood between his grandfather and Morgan Fitzgerald. Grandfar had carried some sort of a grudge against Morgan for years, most often referring to him as “that worthless rebel poet.”
“Sure, and that long-legged rover thinks himself a treasure,” Grandfar would say. “Well, a scoundrel is what he is! A fresh-mouthed scoundrel with a sweet-as-honey tongue and a string of wanton ways as long as the road from here to Sligo, that’s your Fitzgerald! What he’s learned from all his books and his roaming is that it’s far easier to sing for your supper than to work for it.”
Now, watching the two of them square off, Daniel held his breath in anticipation of a fracas. A warning glint flared in Morgan’s eye, and the old man’s face was red. They stared at each other for a tense moment. Then, to Daniel’s great surprise, Morgan greeted Grandfar with a bow of respect and, instead of goading him as he might have done in the past, he said quietly, “ ’Tis a bitter thing, Dan. I’m sorry for your troubles.”
Even shrunken as he was by old age and hard labor, Grandfar was a taller man than most. Still, he had to look up at Morgan. His mouth thinned as they eyed each other, but the expected sour retort did not come. Instead, the old man inclined his head in a curt motion of acknowledgment, then walked away without a word, his vest flapping loosely against his wasted frame.
Morgan stared after him, his heavy brows drawn together in a frown. “ ’Tis the first time I have known Dan Kavanagh to show his years,” he murmured, as if to himself. “It took the Hunger to age him, it would seem.”
He turned back to Daniel’s mother. “So, then, where is Tahg? I was hoping to see him.”
Nora glanced across the kitchen. Tahg lay abed in a small, dark alcove at the back of the room, where a tattered blanket had been hung for his privacy. “He’s sleeping. Tahg is poorly again.”
Morgan looked from her to Daniel. “How bad? Not the fever?”
“No, it is not the fever!” she snapped, her eyes as hard as her voice. “ ’Tis his lungs.”
Daniel stared down at the floor, unable to meet Morgan’s eyes for fear his denial would be apparent. “Nora—”
Daniel raised his head to see Morgan searching his mother’s face, a soft expression of compassion in his eyes. “Nora, is there anything I can do?”
Daniel could not account for his mother’s sudden frown. Couldn’t she tell that Morgan only wanted to help? “Thank you, but there’s no need.”
Morgan looked doubtful. “Are you sure, Nora? There must be something—”
She interrupted him, her tone making it clear that he wasn’t to press. “It’s kind of you to offer, Morgan, but as I said, there is no need.”
Morgan continued to look at her for another moment. Finally he gave a reluctant nod. “I should be on my way, then. The burial—will it be tomorrow?”
Her mouth went slack. “The burial…aye, the burial will be tomorrow.”
Hearing her voice falter, Daniel started to take her hand, but stopped at the sight of the emptiness in her eyes. She was staring past Morgan to Ellie’s corpse, seemingly unaware of anyone else in the room.
Morgan shot Daniel a meaningful glance. “I’ll just be on my way, then. Will you walk outside with me, lad?” Without waiting for Daniel’s reply, he lifted a hand as if to place it on Nora’s shoulder but drew it away before he touched her. Then, turning sharply, he started for the door.
Eager to leave the gloom of the cottage, and even more eager to be with Morgan after months of separation, Daniel nevertheless waited for his mother’s approval. When he realized she hadn’t even heard Morgan’s question, he went to lift his coat from the wall peg by the door. With a nagging sense of guilt for the relief he felt upon leaving, he hurried to follow Morgan outside.
I just wanted to state clearly here on my blog that the books I review are provided to me in exchange for my opinion and thoughts. I am a member of two blog alliances and I work directly with publicists and publishers at their request to review a variety of Christian fiction and non-fiction books. I receive no compensation other than free copies of the books to read, and when a give away is offered, that copy of the book is also provided by the publisher for that exact purpose.
I give my opinions both positively and negatively and will continue to do so as time permits and as I am able. I do this because I love to read and I love to share my thoughts with others who love good books and Christian stories.
