I have read several books by Elizabeth George and can say that she is an excellent Christian author. Her book entitled A Woman After God's Own Heart is one I have recommended to many women. My daughter read it for a class for young women last year and she says it is now one of her favorite non-fiction books.
I knew I was getting a good book when I saw Mrs. George's name. She writes with a style that sounds just like a loving mother or friend. I can tell that she really loves what she does and cares about the women she is writing to.
Raising a Daughter After God's Own Heart is a much needed book for mothers today. It contains much practical, biblical help for raising a daughter to love God and follow Him wholeheartedly. The stories Elizabeth uses to illustrate the truths of God's word are interesting and helpful. I can see several places in the book where I need to work on some things in my life as I train my daughter to do the same. But I do no despair, because I have someone like Mrs. George to show me how.
The author show us mothers that we have several roles in our daughters' lives: cheerleader, coach, shepherd, teacher, social secretary, homebuilder, prayer warrior, and marathon runner. She explains each of these roles and gives wise guidance on what we can do to fulfill those roles.
At the end of each chapter is a section called "Mom's Think Pad" where Elizabeth gives us questions to help us think through what we have just read. This is where the book becomes very practical. As you answer the questions you begin to see the areas in which you need to work in order to bring your life more in line with Scripture.
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!
Harvest House Publishers; Reprint edition (August 1, 2011)
***Special thanks to Karri
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.
In the fifth and concluding volume of her bestselling The Emerald Ballad Series, BJ Hoff brings the exciting Irish-American historical drama to a climax with all the passion and power readers have come to expect from her.
The saga finds Morgan Fitzgerald adapting to life in a wheelchair as a result of an assailant’s bullet to his spine. Meanwhile, his wife, Finola, must face the dark memories and guarded secrets of her past. In New York City, policeman Michael Burke is caught in a conflict between his faith and his determination to bring a dangerous enemy to justice.
This unforgettable series began with the promise of an epic love story and an inspiring journey of faith. The finale delivers on that promise.
About This Series: BJ Hoff’s Emerald Ballad series was one of the most memorable series published in the 1990s. With combined sales of 300,000 copies, these beloved books found a place in the hearts of BJ’s many fans. Now redesigned and freshly covered the saga is available again to a new generation of readers—and BJ’s many new fans due to her highly successful Amish series, The Riverhaven Years—The Emerald Ballad series will once again find an enthusiastic audience.
Product Details:
List Price: $14.99
Paperback: 384 pages
Publisher: Harvest House Publishers; Reprint edition (August 1, 2011)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 0736927964
ISBN-13: 978-0736927963
AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:
Dark Terror
For hope will expire
As the terror draws nigher,
And, with it, the Shame…
James Clarence Mangan (1803–1849)
Near the coast of Portugal
Late June 1850
A little before midnight, Rook Mooney left his card game and went on deck. The starless night sky churned with low-hanging clouds, and although the wind was only beginning to blow up, Mooney knew the storm would be on them within the hour.
He hated sea storms at night, especially the ones that came up all of a sudden. The Atlantic was bad-tempered and unpredictable; she could turn vicious as a wounded witch without warning. Even the most seasoned sailor never took her for granted, and many a callow youth had been turned away from the sea forever by a particularly savage gale.
Had it not been for the brewing storm, Mooney would have been glad for the wind. Lisbon had been sultry, too warm for his liking. He was ready for Ireland’s mild skies.
Hunched over the rail, he stared into the darkness. Although they were another night closer to Ireland, his mood was nearly as black as the sky. He had thought to see Dublin long before now, but instead he had spent three months in a filthy Tangier cell for breaking an innkeeper’s skull.
The darkness deep within him rose up and began to spread. It was her fault. The Innocent. His hands tightened on the rail, his mouth twisting at the memory of her. All these months—more than a year now—and he still couldn’t get her out of his mind. She was like a fire in his brain, boiling in him, tormenting him, driving him half mad.
Nothing had gone right for him since that night at Gemma’s Place. He spent his days with a drumming headache, his nights in a fog of whiskey and fever. His temper was a powder keg, ignited by the smallest spark. Even women were no good for him now. He could scarcely bear the sight of the used, worn-out strumpets who haunted the foreign ports. They all seemed dirty after her. Her, with her ivory skin and golden hair and fine clean scent.
Like some shadowy, infernal sea siren, she seemed to call to him. He was never free of her, could find no peace from her.
His grip on the rail increased. Soon, in only a few days now, they would reach Dublin. He would go back to Gemma’s Place. This time he wouldn’t go so easy on her. This time when he was finished with her, he would put an end to her witchery. He’d snuff out her life…and be free.
All at once rain drenched him. Waves churned up like rolling dunes, pitching the ship as if it were a flimsy child’s toy. Angry and relentless, the gale whipped the deck. Salt from the sea mixed with the rain, burning Mooney’s eyes and stinging his skin as the downpour slashed his face.
He swore into the raging night, anchoring himself to the rail. He felt no terror of the storm, only a feral kind of elation, as if the wildness of the wind had stirred a dark, waiting beast somewhere in the depths of his being.
Drogheda
The small cottage in the field seemed to sway in the wind. Frank Cassidy resisted the urge to duck his head against the thunder that shook the walls and the fierce lightning that streaked outside the window.
After months of following a maze of wrong turns, Cassidy could scarcely believe that he now sat across from the one person who might finally bring his search to an end. It had been a long, frustrating quest, and up until now a futile one. But tonight, in this small, barren cottage outside the old city where Black Cromwell had unleashed his obscene rage, his hopes were rising by the moment.
Friendship had motivated him to undertake the search for Finola Fitzgerald’s past, but nothing more than the unwillingness to disappoint Morgan had kept him going. He owed his old friend a great deal—indeed, he would have done most anything the Fitzgerald had asked of him. But in recent months he had wondered more than once if this entire venture might not end in total defeat. Every road he had taken led only to failure. Every clue he had followed proved worthless.
Until now.
The possibility of finding his answers in Drogheda had first occurred to Cassidy months ago. A Dublin street musician’s vague remark about an unsolved murder in the ancient city—a tragic mystery involving a young girl—had fired his interest and sent him on his way that same week.
According to the musician, a woman named Sally Kelly and her son Peter were likely to have information about the incident. Cassidy had wasted several days in Drogheda trying to locate the pair, only to discover that they had gone north some years past.
He started on to Cavan, eventually traveling as far west as Roscommon, but found no trace, not even a hint, of the Kellys. He started back to Drogheda, discouraged and uncertain about what to do next. To his astonishment, a casual conversation with a tinker on the road revealed that a youth named Peter Kelly had taken up a small tenant farm just outside the old city only weeks before.
Now, sitting across from the lad himself, Cassidy could barely contain his excitement. Even the brief, fragmented story he had managed to glean so far told him that this time he would not leave Drogheda empty-handed.
“If only you could have talked with me mum before she passed on,” Peter Kelly was saying. “She more than likely could have told you all you want to know. There’s so much I can’t remember, don’t you see.”
Kelly was a strapping young man, with shirt sleeves rolled over muscled arms. His face was sunburned and freckled, his rusty hair crisp with tight curls.
“Still, I’d be grateful to hear what you do remember,” Cassidy told him. “Anything at all.”
Dipping one hand into the crock on the table, Kelly retrieved a small potato, still in its jacket, and began to peel it with his thumbnail. Motioning toward the crock, he indicated that Cassidy should help himself.
For a short time they sat in silence, perched on stools at the deal table eating their potatoes. The cottage was old, with but one room and a rough-hewn fireplace. Boxes pegged to the wall held crockery and plates. A straw mattress was draped with a frayed brown blanket. There were no other furnishings.
Peter Kelly had a friendly, honest face and intelligent eyes. “I don’t mind telling you what I recall,” he said, “but I fear it isn’t much. ’ Twas a good seven years ago, or more. I couldn’t have been more than ten or eleven at the time, if that.”
“And your mother was employed as cook?” prompted Cassidy.
The youth nodded. “Aye, she had been in service for Mr. Moran since I was but a wee wane. It was just the two of us. Me da had already passed on long before then.”
“Tell me about Moran,” Cassidy prompted. “Was he a wealthy man?”
Kelly took another bite of potato and shrugged. “Not wealthy and not poor,” he said. “He had an apothecary, but he also acted as a physician of sorts. His father before him left the business and the property. The land was fine, but not exceedingly large. There were some small crops and a few trees—and a lake.”
“And Moran himself? What sort of a man was he?”
Again the lad shrugged. “I recall he was an elderly gentleman. All alone, except for the daughter. His wife died in childbirth, I believe. As best I remember, he treated Mum and me fine.” He paused. “Mum said Mr. Moran doted on the daughter.”
“You mentioned the day of the shooting,” Cassidy urged. “I’d be grateful if you’d tell me about it.”
Peter Kelly licked his fingers before reaching for another potato. “I recall it was a warm day. Spring or summer it must have been, for the trees were in leaf and the sun was bright. I was in the woods when I heard all the commotion. I wasn’t supposed to go in the woods at all,” he explained, glancing up, “for Mum was always fearful of the place. But I played there every chance I got, all the same.”
Rubbing his big hands on his trouser legs, he went on. “But didn’t I go flying out of there fast enough when I heard the screaming? Took off as if the devil himself was after me, I did.”
Cassidy leaned forward, his muscles tensed. “What screaming would that have been?”
“Why, it sounded for all the world like a mountain cat in a trap! ’ Twas too far away for me to see, but I could tell the ruckus was coming from near the lake, at the far end of the property. I took off running for the house.”
He glanced at Cassidy, his expression slightly shamefaced. “I was but a lad,” he muttered. “All I could think of was to get away from the terrible screaming without me mum finding out I’d been playing in the woods again. She was a stern woman.”
“So you saw nothing at all?”
The boy shook his head, and Cassidy felt a shroud of familiar disappointment settle over him. Still, he wasn’t about to give up. “And what happened then, lad?”
“Mum hauled me into the kitchen, then went for Mr. Moran. He told us to stay put while he went to investigate.” He paused. “I saw a pistol in his hand, and I remember me mum was shaking something fierce. We heard the shots not long after Mr. Moran left the house with the gun.”
Cassidy’s interest piqued. He leaned forward. “Shots, did you say?”
Kelly nodded. “Mr. Moran was shot and killed that day.” After a moment he added, “Everyone said it was the teacher who murdered him.”
Curbing his impatience, Cassidy knotted his hands. “What teacher, Peter?”
Young Kelly scratched his head. “Why, I can’t recall his name—it’s been so long—but I do remember he was a Frenchman. Mr. Moran was determined his daughter would be educated, you see, and not in no hedge school, either. He hired the Frenchman as a tutor, and to coach her in the voice lessons. She was musical, you know.”
Cassidy’s mind raced. “This teacher—he lived with the family, did he?”
“He did. It seems to me he had a room upstairs in the house.”
“But what reason would he have had to shoot James Moran?”
Peter Kelly met Cassidy’s eyes across the table. “The story went that Mr. Moran must have been trying to save his daughter from the man’s advances, but the Frenchman got the best of him. Mr. Moran was elderly, mind, and would have been no match for the teacher.”
As Cassidy struggled to piece together what Kelly had told him, the youth went on. “I’m afraid I don’t know much else, sir. Only that Mr. Moran died from the shooting, and the daughter disappeared.”
Cassidy looked at him. “Disappeared?”
“She was never seen after that day,” said Kelly, crossing his arms over his chest. “Mum went looking for her after she found Mr. Moran dead, but there wasn’t a trace of her, not a trace. Nothing but her tin whistle, which they found lying near the lake. No, they never found her nor the Frenchman.” He drew in a long breath, adding, “Mum always said she didn’t believe they tried any too hard, either.”
Cassidy frowned. “Why would she think that?”
Peter Kelly twisted his mouth. “The police didn’t care all that much, don’t you see. The Morans weren’t important enough for them to bother with, Mum said. They didn’t know where to look, so they simply pretended to search.”
Cassidy drummed his finger on the table. “Could the girl simply have run off with the Frenchman, do you think?”
The other shook his head forcefully. “No, sir, I’m certain it was nothing of the sort. Mum was convinced the Frenchman had done something terrible to the lass, and that was why Mr. Moran went after him. But Mr. Moran, he was that frail; a younger man would outmatch him easy enough, she said. Mum was convinced until the day she died that the Frenchman murdered Mr. Moran and then ran off.”
Cassidy rubbed his chin. “But that doesn’t account for the girl,” he said, thinking aloud. “What of her?”
“It pained me mum to think so, but she always believed the Frenchman took the lass with him.”
“Abducted her, d’you mean?”
Peter nodded. “Aye, and perhaps murdered her as well.” He seemed to reminisce for a moment. “Mum never liked that Frenchman, you see. Not a bit. He gave himself airs, she said, and had a devious eye.”
Cassidy’s every instinct proclaimed that at last he had found what he was searching for, but he had been thwarted too many times not to be cautious. Getting to his feet, he untied the pouch at his waist and withdrew the small portrait Morgan had sent him some months past.
He unfolded it, then handed it to Peter Kelly. “Would this be the girl?” he asked, his pulse pounding like the thunder outside. “Would the Moran lass resemble this portrait today, do you think?”
As Kelly studied the portrait, his eyes widened. “Why, ’tis her,” he said, nodding slowly. “Sure, ’tis Miss Finola herself.”
Cassidy stared at him. “Finola?” he said, his voice cracking. “That was her name—Finola? ”
“It was indeed,” the lad said. “And didn’t it suit her well, at that? Tall and lovely, she was, and several years older than myself. Wee lad that I was, I thought her an enchanted creature. A princess…with golden hair.”
A wave of exhilaration swept over Cassidy. He had all he could do not to shout. According to Morgan, the one thing Finola Fitzgerald had seemed to remember about her past was her given name.
“You’re quite sure, lad?” he said, his voice none too steady. “It’s been many a year since you last saw the lass, after all.”
Kelly nodded, still studying the portrait. “ ’ Tis her. Sure, and she’s a woman grown, but a face is not easily forgotten, no matter the years.”
“Now that is the truth,” agreed Cassidy, smiling at the boy.
“Is she found then, sir, after all this time?” Kelly asked, returning the portrait to Cassidy.
Still smiling, Cassidy stared at the portrait. “Aye, lad,” he said after a moment, his voice hoarse with excitement. “She is found. She is safe, and a married woman now.”
“Ah…thanks be to God!” said Peter Kelly.
“Indeed,” Cassidy echoed. “Thanks be to God.”
Nelson Hall, Dublin
For the second time in a week, Finola’s screams pierced the late night silence of the bedroom. Instantly awake, Morgan reached for her, then stopped. He had learned not to touch her until she was fully awake and had recognized him.
“Finola?” Leaning over her, he repeated her name softly. “Finola, ’tis Morgan. You’re dreaming, macushla. You are safe. Safe with me.”
Her body was rigid, her arms crossed in front of her face as if to ward off an attack. She thrashed, moaning and sobbing, her eyes still closed.
Outside, thunder rumbled in the distance and the lightning flared halfheartedly, then strengthened. As if sensing the approaching storm, Finola gave a startled cry.
Morgan continued to soothe her with his voice, speaking softly in the Irish. It was all he could do not to gather her in his arms. But when the nightmare had first begun, months ago, he had made the mistake of trying to rouse her from it. She had gone after him like a wild thing, pummeling him with her fists, scraping his face with her nails as she fought him off.
Whatever went on in that dark, secret place of the dream must be an encounter of such dread, such horror, as to temporarily seize her sanity. The Finola trapped in that nightmare world was not in the least like the gentle, soft-voiced Finola he knew as his wife. In the throes of the dream she was a woman bound, terrorized by something too hideous to be endured.
No matter how he ached to rescue her, he could do nothing…nothing but wait.
In the netherworld of the dream, Finola stood in a dark and windswept cavern.
Seized by terror, she cupped her hands over her ears to shut out the howling of the wind.
The wind. She knew it was coming for her, could hear the angry, thunderous roar, feel the trembling of the ground beneath her feet as the storm raced toward her.
Faster now…a fury of a wind, gathering speed as it came, raging and swooping down upon her like a terrible bird of prey, gathering momentum as it hurled toward her…closing in, seizing her.
Black and fierce, it seemed alive as it dragged her closer…closer into its eye, as if trying to swallow her whole. As she struggled to break free, she heard in the farthest recesses of the darkness a strange, indefinable sound, a sound of sorrow, as if all the trees in the universe were sighing their grief.
She tried to run but was held captive by the force of the wind. It pounded her, squeezing the breath from her, dragging her into a darkness so dense it filled her eyes, her mouth, her lungs…oh, dear Jesus, it was crushing her…crushing her to nothing—
Finola sat straight up in bed, as if propelled by some raw force of terror. She gasped, as always, fighting for her breath.
Soaked in perspiration, Finola stared at Morgan, her gaze filled with horror.
Still he did not touch her. “You are safe, Finola aroon. ’ Twas only a bad dream. You are here with me.”
She put a hand to her throat and opened her mouth as if to speak, but made no sound. Finally…finally, she made a small whimper, like that of a frightened animal sprung free from a trap.
At last Morgan saw a glint of recognition. Finola moaned, then sagged into his waiting arms.
Stroking her hair, Morgan held her, crooning to her as he would a frightened child. “There’s nothing to harm you, my treasure. Nothing at all.”
“Hold me…hold me…”
Tightening his arms about her still more, he began to rock her gently back and forth. “Shhh, now, macushla…everything is well. You are safe.”
He felt her shudder against him, and he went on, lulling her with his voice, stroking her hair until at last he felt her grow still. “Was it the same as before?” he asked.
Her head nodded against his chest.
He knew it might be hours before she would be able to sleep again. So great was the dream’s terror that she dreaded closing her eyes afterward. Sometimes she lay awake until dawn.
Her description of the nightmare never failed to chill Morgan. It had begun not long after their first physical union. Although he could scarcely bring himself to face the possibility, he could not help but wonder if their intimacy, though postponed, might not somehow be responsible.
At the outer fringes of his mind lurked a growing dread that by marrying her and taking her into his bed, he had somehow invoked the nightmare. He prayed it was not so, but if it continued, he would eventually have to admit his fear to Finola. They would have to speak of it.
But not yet. Not tonight. Tonight he would simply hold her until she no longer trembled, until she no longer clung to him as if he alone could banish the horror.
Unwilling to forsake the comforting warmth of Morgan’s embrace, Finola lay, unmoving. Gradually she felt her own pulse slow to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. “I’m sorry I woke you,” she whispered.
He silenced her with a finger on her lips. “There is nothing to be sorry for. Hush, now, and let me hold you.”
Something was coming. Something dark. Something cold and dark and sinister…
Thunder boomed like distant cannon, and Finola shivered. Wrapped safely in Morgan’s arms, she struggled to resist the dark weight of foreboding that threatened to smother her.
It was always like this after the nightmare, as if the black wind in the dream still hovered oppressively near, waiting to overtake her after she was fully awake. Sometimes hours passed before she could completely banish the nightmare’s terror.
Were it not for the safe wall of Morgan’s presence to soothe and shield her, she thought she might go mad in the aftermath of the horror. But always he was there, his sturdy arms and quiet voice her stronghold of protection. Her haven.
“Better now, macushla ?” he murmured against her hair.
Finola nodded, and he gently eased her back against the pillows, settling her snugly beside him, her head on his shoulder.
“Try to sleep,” he said, brushing a kiss over the top of her head. “Nothing will hurt you this night. Nothing will ever hurt you again, I promise you.”
Finola closed her eyes and forced herself to lie still. She knew Morgan would not allow himself to sleep until she did, so after a few moments she pretended to drift off; in a short while, she heard his breathing grow even and shallow.
After he fell asleep, she lay staring at the window, trying not to jump when lightning streaked and sliced the night. She hugged her arms to herself as the thunder groaned. In the shelter of Morgan’s embrace, it was almost possible to believe that he was right, that nothing would hurt her ever again. She knew that with the first light of the morning, the nightmare would seem far distant, almost as if it had never happened.
But just as surely, she knew night would come again, and with the night would come the dream, with its dark wind and evil hidden somewhere deep within.
After a long time, Finola began to doze. But just as she sank toward the edge of unconsciousness, the wind shrieked. Like the sudden convulsion of a wren’s wings, panic shook her and she jolted awake.
Feeling irrationally exposed and vulnerable, she listened to the storm play out its fury. Thunder hammered with such force that the great house seemed to shudder and groan, while the wind went howling as if demanding entrance.
I remember reading The Emerald Ballad series whenever it was first published. I really enjoyed the story of the Fitzgeralds and the Burkes and I was sad to see it end with Dawn of the Golden Promise. I have read other books by B.J. Hoff, and I have loved every one of them. I'm so glad I was given this chance to re-read this particular book.
When I signed up for this review, I did not realize it was the last book in the Emerald series. I just saw that it was written by Mrs. Hoff. So I knew I was in for a treat!
I was right. Although I have read it before, it had been long enough that I did not remember all the details. It was like I was visiting old friends as I read. I became caught up in the narrative so much that I was disappointed when I reached the last page. This has made me want to read all the books in the series again so I can relive the stories. Hmmm.... I'm not sure when I'll be able to accomplish this, however. So many books, so little time!
I give Dawn of the Golden Promise 5 out of 5 stars.
"Lt. Raymond Novak prefers the pulpit to the cockpit, but at least his stateside job training B-17 pilots allows him the luxury of a personal life. As he courts Helen Carlisle, a young war widow and mother who conceals her pain under a frenzy of volunteer work, the sparks of their romance set a fire that flings them both into peril. After Ray leaves to fly a combat mission at the peak of the air war over Europe, Helen takes a job in a dangerous munitions yard and confronts an even graver menace in her own home. Will they find the courage to face their challenges? And can their young love survive until blue skies return?"
When I wrote my review of Sarah's first book, A Distant Melody, I described my fascination with all things pertaining to World War II. Sarah writes in such a way that that the reader feel that he/she is there in the midst of all the fighting the soldiers face and the struggles of the families back home. I devoured it, and I was surprised to learn it was Mrs. Sundin's first novel.
Then, in my review of the second book of the series, A Memory Between Us, I hinted at one of the scenes in the book where the heroine faced danger from another character. That was an extremely well written section and it is probaly why A Memory Between Us is my favorite of the three.
That is not to say I didn't like this third book, It, too, was a great read and one that I was reluctant to put dow. I am disappointed that there will be no more in the series, but I know more good books are to come from this talented author. Keep 'em coming, Sarah!
(I received this book from LitFuse for review purposes. I received no monetary compensation for this review. All opinions expressed are completely my own.)
Sarah Sundin received the 2011 Writer of the Year Award from the Mount Hermon Christian Writers Conference, and her second novel A Memory Between Us is a finalist for an Inspirational Readers' Choice Award. Her stories are inspired by her great-uncle who flew with the U.S. Eighth Air Force in England during World War II.
Sarah lives in California with her husband and three children. Visit with Sarah online at http://www.sarahsundin.com/.
To celebrate the release of Blue Skies Tomorrow, the final installment of the Wings of Glory series, Sarah is giving one lucky winner A Vintage Kindle Prize Package!
* Kindle with Wi-Fi
* Handmade vintage apron for you and a friend (see a photo here)
* Blue Skies Tomorrow (for Kindle)
To enter visit Sarah's blog. But, hurry, giveaway ends on 9/10. Winner will be announced on 9/12 on Sarah Sundin's blog. Details and official rules can be found when entering the contest.
WWW Wednesdays is a meme from Should Be Reading, where we answer three questions: What are you currently reading? What did you recently finish reading? and What do you think you'll read next? If you want to participate, answer the three questions, then put your link on the Should Be Reading Blog in the comment section. Happy reading!
What I am currently reading: I Used to be So Organized by Glynnis Whitwer -This is an excellent book on organizing, one of the best I've ever read. I know I will be using some of the ideas presented in it when I am finished. I will be reviewing it soon.
What I recently finished reading: The Runaway Preacher's Wife by Diane Moody- It looks like Amazon has this in ebook format for only $.99 right now. I would recommend it to anyone. Good book! I will review this one soon as well.
What I'll probably read next: Dawn of the Golden Promise by B.J. Hoff -And I see that this book is a reprint of one that Ms. Hoff wrote over 17 years ago. I may have read it before, I'm not sure. Anyway, I will be reading it and writing a review on October 30th.
The red brick home of Rev. John Rankin is a beacon--the first northern stop on the Underground Railroad. Across the Ohio River in Kentucky, every slave knows to look for it. They have heard that if they reach that house, they will never be captured. Across the Wide River tells the true story of the selfless sacrifices one Christian family made to help runaway slaves reach freedom.
My thoughts:
The story of Lowry and his family is a good one. I enjoyed reading about Lowry’s experiences as he and his family helped the escaped slaves find their way to freedom. The plot is believable and well-developed.
The 1830s must have been quite an exciting time to live through. Abolitionists risked their own lives to do what they believed was right. And slave owners were defending their “right” to own slaves. I’m sure that Christians like Lowry had many sleepless nights as they pondered on what God would have them do for the black people.
I think that Across the Wide River would be a great book for young adults to read. It gives them a character they can relate to and a cause that they can learn about through the eyes of someone their own age.
(I received this book from Kregel for review purposes. I received no monetary compensation for this review. All opinions expressed are completely my own.)
Ben Freeth has an extraordinary story to tell. Like that of many white farmers, his family's land was "reclaimed" for redistribution by Mugabe's government.
But Ben's family fought back. Appealing to international law, they instigated a suit against Mugabe's government in the SADC, the Southern African equivalent of NATO. The case was deferred time and again while Mugabe's men pulled strings. But after Freeth and his parents-in-law were abducted and beaten within inches of death in 2008, the SADC deemed any further delay to be an obstruction of justice. The case was heard, and was successful on all counts.
But the story doesn't end there. In 2009 the family farm was burned to the ground. The fight for justice in Zimbabwe is far from over--this book is for anyone who wants to see into the heart of one of today's hardest places and how human dignity flourishes even in the most adverse circumstances.
The PBS debut of Mugabe and the White African, the award-winning documentary of the same name, was on July 26. Watch now at PBS: http://www.pbs.org/pov/mugabe/.
I had a little trouble staying interested in the book. Not because of subject matter, but because it seemed to repeat facts and dates and names that I couldn't keep up with. However, I did learn a lot about the plight of white farmers in Zimbabwe (and many of the problems throughout Africa). It is a shame that thes things are being ignored and the dictators are allowed to continue their corrupt tactics in the countries they control. We need more men like Ben Freeth and others in the book to stand up to these evil monsters.
(I received this book from LitFuse for review purposes. I received no monetary compensation for this review. All opinions expressed are completely my own.)
About the Author:
Ben Freeth, MBE, is a British-born Zimbabwean farmer. He has lived in Zimbabwe most of his life and is raising his three young children there, together with his wife Laura. Ben's story has already been the subject of an award-winning documentary which won Best Documentary 2009 (British Independent Film Awards), was nominated for the BAFTA Outstanding Debut Film 2010, and shortlisted for an Oscar in 2010.
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 Suzanne Lorente for sending me a review cd.***
ABOUT THE ARTIST:
Suzanne Perry Lorente has been a child of the Lord since age 7. Her gift of music began at age two and has carried her through her life. She is an accomplished long time song writer, singer, guitarist and performer from the age of 13. At a young age, Suzanne chose a career of a professional entertainer as a single singer/guitarist in well known night clubs, dinner houses and special events, with a repertoire of more than 400 songs. During this same time frame, she achieved an Associate of Arts degree in Mass Media from Stephens College in Columbia, MO, and a Bachelor of Arts Degree in Music from San Jose State University in California. As time marched along, she realized God's calling on her life to turn her heart toward Him as she could hear that "still, small voice" asking her to leave the relentless work of night clubs and secular entertainment. "It was a vow that took place in a day, and His promise took place over my lifetime. I am so blessed and God has kept His promise that He would give me the songs to sing for His children and for His glory." Suzanne has sung first of all for her family, then in choirs, started and sang in many small groups and trios, sang solo for so many audiences and congregations throughout the United States, and left behind a legacy of musical scenarios as she tells her stories of how each of her songs came about. She has recorded an ageless cassette that continues to be in demand, and a new CD, that has high-lighted the songs God has given to her. Suzanne has been teaching voice and guitar since she was 14 years old. She is presently singing in the little City of Dixon, CA for their Farmers Markets, weddings, and events, as well as with her trio, Suzanne Lorente and Friends, as they embark on recording a CD together. They are out doing concerts whenever possible and wherever the Lord leads. "It's wonderful to see God change the lives and hearts of people as we just sing our songs and allow Him to work through us. I love that!"
This CD is a wonderful spiritual uplift and encouragement for any Christian who wants to grow, not only by hearing God's Word, but by doing what He's asking us to do. We have to take that first step and that's what this CD motivates believers and non-believers to do. The songs are original Christian Gospel scenarios that anyone can relate to, and that's what gives you the anointing strength to keep on going. You will love the beautiful orchestral and vocal backgrounds with each song as Suzanne Lorente and her trio envelope you with their angelic harmonies. God has put His Hand of blessing on Suzanne and given her songs throughout her lifetime of ministry. She and her gals are planning a tour and would love to include your church or event if it's possible. May God bless every listener and urge them to follow the Lord by listening to His "Still, Small Voice!"
(To hear more samples, please visit Suzanne's website)
Here is one of the songs, "Misunderstood." This song is an original of mine written on January 1st of 2010. I am the voice for those who have been aborted, abused and misunderstood. This is quite sad, but it's telling us that each one of these has identified with the misery, torture, and abuse that Jesus went through on the cross. Many 100's of thousands have died a martyr's death, and are with the Lord because He loves them. Please listen carefully! This could be such a blessing for the Christian pregnancy centers and homes of abused women and children.
Here are the lyrics:
Misunderstood – Matthew 18:1-7
Words and Music by Suzanne Lorente
Arranged by Jeannine O’Neal
How can it be they don’t hear them, they don’t see
What can I say? Jesus loves them, they are free.
No-one will take time to listen as they cry
Knowing that I have the answer, I know why.
They’ve been misunderstood time after time
Their tiny voices still ring in our minds
No-one to love them, no-one to care
What they have to say doesn’t matter…anyway.
There is a hard part to living, not to be heard
Hate takes the joy out of giving, their vision blurred
Where is the love that could give them wings to fly?
Knowing that I have the answer, I know why.
They’ve been misunderstood time after time
Their little voices still ring in our mind
No-one to hear them, no-one to care
What they have to say doesn’t matter…anyway.
Could you be one who can’t hear them, you can’t see?
Are you aware they are people like you and me?
What would have come of the children who were slain?
There’d be a world of compassion…no more pain!
We have misunderstood time after time
Their tiny voices still ring in our mind
Someone will love them, someone will care
What they have to say really matters…anyway.
He’s (Jesus) been misunderstood, but not for long
Each tiny baby to Him will belong.
He really loves them, He really cares
What He has to say is what matters…anyway!
What He has to say is what matters....anyway! Matt. 18:1-7
Additional high vocals Suzanne Lorente, Cecelia Dettle
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 Ashley Boyer, Publicist, WaterBrook Multnomah Publishing Group for sending me a review copy.***
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Tamara Leigh began her writing career in 1994 and is the best-selling author of fourteen novels, including Splitting Harriet (ACFW Book of the Year winner and RITA Award finalist), Faking Grace (RITA Award Finalist), and Leaving Carolina. A former speech and language pathologist, Tamara enjoys time with her family, faux painting, and reading. She lives with her husband and sons in Tennessee.
Tree-huggin’, animal-lovin’ Bridget Pickwick-Buchanan is on a mission. Well, two. First she has to come to terms with being a widow at thirty-three. After all, it’s been four years and even her five-year-old niece and nephew think it’s time she shed her widow’s weeds. Second, she needs to find a buyer for her family’s estate—a Biltmore-inspired mansion surrounded by hundreds of acres of unspoiled forestland. With family obligations forcing the sale, Bridget is determined to find an eco-friendly developer to buy the land, someone who won’t turn it into single-family homes or a cheesy theme park.
Enter J. C. Dirk, a high-energy developer from Atlanta whose green property developments have earned him national acclaim. When he doesn’t return her calls, Bridget decides a personal visit is in order. Unfortunately, J. C. Dirk is neither amused nor interested when she interrupts his meeting—until she mentions her family name. In short order, he finds himself in North Carolina, and Bridget has her white knight—in more ways than one. But there are things Bridget doesn’t know about J. C., and it could mean the end of everything she’s worked for…and break her heart.
Product Details:
List Price: $14.99 Paperback: 352 pages Publisher: Multnomah Books (July 19, 2011) Language: English ISBN-10: 1601421680 ISBN-13: 978-1601421685
I look up from the once-upon-a-time crisp page that has been softened, creased, and stained by the obsessive readings in which hermother indulges her.
Eyes wide, cheeks flushed, my niece nods. “Say the magic words.” Magic?
More nodding, and is she quivering? Oh no, I refuse to be a party to this. I smile big, say, “The end,” and close the book. “So, how about another piece of weddin’ cake?”
“No!” She jumps off the footstool she earlier dubbed her “princess throne,” snatches the book from my hand, and opens it to the back. “Wight here!”
I almost correct her initial r-turned-w but according tomy sister, it’s developmental and the sound is coming in fine on its own, just as her other r’s did.
Birdie jabs the H, E, and A. “It’s not the end until you say the magic words.”
And I thought this the lesser of two evils—entertaining my niece and nephew as opposed to standing around at the reception as the bride and groom are toasted by all the happy couples, among them, cousin Piper, soon to be wed to my friend Axel, and cousin Maggie, maybe soon to be engaged to her sculptor man, what’s-his-name.
“Yeah,” Birdie’s twin,Miles, calls from where he’s once more hanging upside down on the rolling ladder I’ve pulled him off twice. “You gotta say the magic words.”
Outrageous! Even my dirt-between-the-toes, scab-ridden, snot-on-the-sleeve nephew is buying into the fantasy.
I spring from the armchair, cross the library, and unhook his ankles from the rung. “You keep doin’ that and you’ll bust your head wide open.” I set him on his feet. “And your mama will—
”No, Bonnie won’t.
“Well, she’ll be tempted to give you a whoopin’.”
Face bright with upside-down color, he glowers.
I’d glower back if I weren’t so grateful for the distraction he provided. “All right, then.” I slap at the ridiculously stiff skirt of the dress Maggie loaned me for my brother’s wedding. “Let’s rejoin the party—”
“You don’t wanna say it.”Miles sets his little legs wide apart. “Do ya?” So much for my distraction.
“You don’t like Birdie’s stories ’cause they have happy endings. And you don’t.”
I clench my toes in the painfully snug high heels on loan from Piper.
“Yep.”Miles punches his fists to his hips. “Even Mama says so.”
My own sister? I shake my head, causing the blond dreads Maggie pulled away from my face with a headband to sweep my back. “That’s not true.”
“Then say it wight now!” Birdie demands.
I peer over my shoulder at where she stands like an angry tin soldier, an arm outthrust, the book extended.
“Admit it,”Miles singsongs.
I snap around and catch my breath at the superior, knowing look on his five-year-old face. He’s his father’s son, all right, a miniature Professor Claude de Feuilles, child development expert.
“You’re not happy.” The professor in training, who looks anything but with his spiked hair, nods.
I know better than to bristle with two cranky, nap-deprived children, but that’s what I’m doing. Feeling as if I’m watching myself from the other side of the room, I cross my arms over my chest. “I’ll admit no such thing.”
“That’s ’cause you’re afraid. Mama said so.” Miles peers past me.
“Didn’t she, Birdie?”
Why is Bonnie discussing my personal life with her barely-out-of-diapers kids?
“Uh-huh. She said so.”
Miles’s smile is smug. “On the drive here, Mama told Daddy this day would be hard on you. That you wouldn’t be happy for Uncle Bart ’cause you’re not happy.”
Not true! Not that I’m thrilled with our brother’s choice of bride, but…come on! Trinity Templeton? Nice enough, but she isn’t operating on a full charge, which wouldn’t be so bad if Bart made up for the difference. Far from it, his past history with illegal stimulants having stripped him of a few billion brain cells.
“She said your heart is”—Miles scrunches his nose, as if assailed by a terrible odor—“constipated.”
What?!
“That you need an M&M, and I don’t think she meant the chocolate kind you eat. Probably one of those—”
“I am not constipated.” Pull back. Nice and easy. I try to heed my inner voice but find myself leaning down and saying, “I’m realistic.”
Birdie stomps the hardwood floor. “Say the magic words!”
“Nope.”Miles shakes his head. “Constipated.”
I shift my cramped jaw. “Re-al-is-tic.”
“Con-sti-pa-ted.”
Pull back, I tell you! He’s five years old. “Just because I don’t believe in fooling a naive little girl into thinkin’ a prince is waiting for her at the other end of childhood and will save her from a fate worse than death and take her to his castle and they’ll live…” I flap a hand. “…you know, doesn’t mean there’s anything wrong with me.”
Isn’t there? “It means I know better. There may be a prince, and he may have a castle, and they may be happy, but don’t count on it lasting. Oh no. He’ll get bored or caught up in work or start cheatin’—you know, decide to put that glass slipper on some other damsel’s foot or kiss another sleeping beauty—or he’ll just up and die like Easton—” No, nothing at all wrong with you, Bridget Pickwick Buchanan, whose ugly widow’s weeds are showing.
“See!”Miles wags a finger.
Unfortunately, I do. And as I straighten, I hear sniffles.
“Now you done it!” Miles hustles past me. “Got Birdie upset.”
Sure enough, she’s staring at me with flooded eyes. “The prince dies? He dies and leaves the princess all alone?”The book falls from her hand, its meeting with the floor echoing around the library. Then she squeaks out a sob.
“No!” I spring forward, grimacing at the raspy sound the skirt makes as I attempt to reach Birdie before Miles.
He gets there first and puts an arm around her. A meltable moment, my mother would call it. After she gave me a dressing down. And I deserve one. My niece may be on the spoiled side and she may work my nerves, but I love her—even like her when that sweet streak of hers comes through. “It’s okay, Birdie,” Miles soothes. “The prince doesn’t die.”
Yes, he does, but what possessed me to say so? And what if I’ve scarred her for life?
Miles pats her head onto his shoulder. “Aunt Bridge is just”—he gives me the evil eye—“constipated.”
“Yes, Birdie.” I drop to my knees. “I am. My heart, that is. Constipated. I’m so sorry.”
She turns her head and, upper lip shiny with the stuff running out of her nose, says in a hiccupy voice, “The prince doesn’t die?” I grab the book from the floor and turn to the back. “Look. There they are, riding off into the sunset—er, to his castle. Happy. See, it says so.” I tap the H, E, and A.
She sniffs hard, causing that stuff to whoosh up her nose and my gag reflex to go on alert. “Weally happy, Aunt Bridge?”
“Yes.”
“Nope.” Barely-there eyebrows bunching, she lifts her head from Miles’s shoulder. “Not unless you say it.”
Oh dear Go—No, He and I are not talking. Well, He may be talking, but I’m not listening.
“I think you’d better.” Miles punctuates his advice with a sharp nod.
“Okay.” I look down at the page. “…and they lived…” It’s just a fairy tale—highly inflated, overstated fiction for tykes. “…they lived happily…ever…after.”
Birdie blinks in slow motion. “Happily…ever…after. That’s a nice way to say it, like you wanna hold on to it for always.”
Or unstick it from the roof of your mouth. “The end.” I close the book, and it’s all I can do not to toss it over my shoulder. “Here you go.”
She clasps it to her chest. “Happily…ever…after.”
Peachy. But I’ll take her dreamy murmuring over tears any day. Goodness, I can’t believe I made her cry. I stand and pat the skirt back down into its stand-alone shape. “More cake?”
“Yay!” Miles charges past me.
Next time— No, there won’t be a next time. I’m done with Little Golden Books.
is one I have recommended to many women. My daughter read it for a class for young women last year and she says it is now one of her favorite non-fiction books.
I knew I was getting a good book when I saw Mrs. George's name. She writes with a style that sounds just like a loving mother or friend. I can tell that she really loves what she does and cares about the women she is writing to. 
Raising a Daughter After God's Own Heart
is a much needed book for mothers today. It contains much practical, biblical help for raising a daughter to love God and follow Him wholeheartedly. The stories Elizabeth uses to illustrate the truths of God's word are interesting and helpful. I can see several places in the book where I need to work on some things in my life as I train my daughter to do the same. But I do no despair, because I have someone like Mrs. George to show me how.
- This is an excellent book on organizing, one of the best I've ever read. I know I will be using some of the ideas presented in it when I am finished. I will be reviewing it soon.
