He Loves Me! by Wayne Jacobsen

It is time to play a Wild Card! Every now and then, a book that I have chosen to read is going to pop up as a FIRST Wild Card Tour. Get dealt into the game! (Just click the button!) Wild Card Tours feature an author and his/her book's FIRST chapter!



You never know when I might play a wild card on you!

Today's Wild Card author is:

Wayne Jacobsen

and the book:

He Loves Me! Learning to Live in the Father's Affection

Windblown Media; 2nd edition (August 31, 2007)

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

Wayne Jacobsen: age 55, Publisher of Windblown Media. Wayne is also the director of Lifestream Ministries, and he wanders around the planet helping people sort out what Jesus really taught. He is the author of So You Don’t Want to Go To Church Anymore, He Loves Me: Learning to Live in the Father’s Affection, Authentic Relationships: Discovering the Lost Art of One Anothering, In My Father’s Vineyard, Tales of the Vine, and The Naked Church and co-hosts a weekly podcast called The God Journey. For 20 years he was a pastor and also a Contributing Editor to Christianity Today’s Leadership Journal.



Wayne was a collaborator on The Shack. In his spare time, he acts as a mediator of religious conflicts in public education as the President of BRIDGEBUILDERS, and is recognized nationally for his expertise in resolving church and state issues. He lives in Moorpark, California with his wife of thirty-three years and enjoys his children and grandchildren.



Visit the author's website.



Product Details:



List Price: $11.99

Paperback: 208 pages

Publisher: Windblown Media; 2nd edition (August 31, 2007)

Language: English

ISBN-10: 0964729253

ISBN-13: 978-0964729254



AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:

He loves me.



He loves me not.



He loves me.



He loves me not.



Daisy-Petal Christianity





THE LITTLE GIRL STANDS in the backyard chanting as she plucks petals one by one from the daisy and drops them to the ground. At game’s end, the last petal tells all: whether or not the person desired returns the affection.





Of course no one takes it seriously, and if children don’t get the answer they desire, they take another daisy and start again. It doesn’t take long even for children to realize that flowers weren’t designed to tell romantic fortunes. Why should they link their hearts’ desires to the fickleness of chance?





Why indeed! But it is a lesson far easier learned in romance than in more spiritual pursuits. For long after we’ve put away our daisies, many of us continue to play the game with God. This time we don’t pluck flower petals but probe through our circumstances trying to figure out exactly how God feels about us.





I got a raise. He loves me.



I didn’t get the promotion I wanted; I lost my job altogether. He loves me not!



Something in the Bible inspired me today. He loves me!



My child is seriously ill. He loves me not!



I gave money to someone in need. He loves me!



I let my anger get the best of me. He loves me not!



Something for which I prayed actually happened. He loves me!



I stretched the truth to get myself out of a tight spot.



He loves me not!



A friend called me unexpectedly to encourage me. He loves me!



My car needs a new transmission. He loves me not!





A PERILOUS TIGHTROPE





I have played that game most of my life, trying to sort out in any given moment how God might feel about me personally. I grew up learning that he is a God of love, and for the most part I believed it to be true. In good times, nothing is easier to believe. On days when my family is healthy and our relationships a joy, when my ministry thrives and both income and opportunity increase, when we have plenty of time to enjoy our friends and are not burdened with need, who wouldn’t be certain of God’s love?





But that certainty erodes when those times of bliss are interrupted with more troublesome events. A childhood condition that provided no end of embarrassment.



The day one of my friends in high school died of a brain tumor even as we prayed earnestly for his healing. When I wasn’t selected for a job I wanted in college because someone had lied about me.





The night my house was robbed. When I was severely burned in a kitchen accident. When I watched my father-in-law and my brother both die with debilitating illnesses even though they sought God earnestly for healing. When colleagues in ministry lied to me and spread false stories about me to win the support of others. When I didn’t know from where my next paycheck would come. When I saw my wife crushed by circumstances that I couldn’t get God to change, no matter how hard I tried. When doors of opportunity that appeared certain to open would suddenly slam shut like a windblown door. Then I wondered how God really felt about me. I couldn’t understand how a God who loved me either would allow such things into my life or wouldn’t fix them immediately so that I or people I loved wouldn’t have to endure such pain. He loves me not! Or so I thought on those days. My disappointment with God could easily turn two directions.



Often in my pain and frustration, when I felt as if I had done enough to deserve better, I would rail at God like the Job of old, accusing him of being either unfair or unloving.



In more honest moments, however, I was well aware of the temptations and failures that could exclude me from his care. I would come out of those times committed to trying harder to live the life I thought would merit his love. I lived for thirty-four years as a believer on this perilous tightrope. Even when there was no crisis hanging over my head, I was always wary of the next one God might drop on me at any second if I couldn’t stay on his good side. In some ways I had become like the schizophrenic child of an abusive father, never certain what God I’d meet on any given day—the one who wanted to scoop me up in his arms with laughter, or the one who would ignore me or punish me for reasons I could never understand. Only in the last twelve years have I discovered that my methods of discerning God’s love were as flawed as pulling petals from a daisy. I haven’t been the same since.





CONVINCING EVIDENCE





What about you?



Have you ever felt tossed back and forth by circumstances, occasionally certain but mostly uncertain about how the Creator of the universe feels about you? Or perhaps you’ve never even known how much God loves you.





In a Bible study recently, I met a forty-year-old woman who was active in her fellowship but admitted to a small group of us that she had never been certain that God loved her. She seemed to want to tell me more but finally only asked me to pray for her. As I did, asking God to reveal just how much he loved her, an image came to mind. I saw a figure I knew to be Jesus walking through a meadow hand in hand with a little girl about five years old. Somehow I knew this woman was that little girl. I prayed that he would help her discover a childlikeness of spirit that would allow her to skip through the meadows with him. When I finished praying I looked up at her eyes, brimming with tears.



“Did you say ‘meadow’?” she asked.





I nodded, thinking it odd she had focused on that word. Immediately she began to cry. When she was able to speak, she said, “I wasn’t sure I wanted to tell you. When I was five years old I was molested in a meadow by an older boy. Whenever I think about God, I think about that horrible event and I wonder why, if he loved me so much, he didn’t stop that from happening.”



She’s not alone. Many people carry scars and disappointments that appear to be convincing evidence that the God of love does not exist or, if he does, he maintains a safe distance from them and leaves them to the whim of other people’s sins. I don’t have a stock answer for moments like that, as if any could be effective in the midst of such pain. I told her that evidently





God wanted her to know he had been there with her, and although he didn’t act in the only way she could understand true love to act, he loved her nonetheless. He wanted to walk her through that defiled meadow and redeem it in her life.





He wanted to give her a measure of joy in the face of the most traumatic event of her life and turn what had destroyed her ability to trust into a stepping-stone toward grace. I know that can sound almost trite in the face of such incredible pain, but the process has begun for her. Eight months later I received an excited e-mail from her telling me in 270-point type, “I get it!” Does that mean she understands why it happened to her? Of course not. Nothing could explain that. But it does mean that God’s love was big enough to contain that horrible event and walk her out of it. It is my hope these words will encourage that process in you as well.





PERCEPTION VERSUS REALITY





Truly God has never acted toward us in any way other than with a depth of love that defies human understanding. I know it may not look like that at times. When he seems to callously disregard our most noble prayers, our trust in him can be easily shattered and we wonder if he cares for us. We can even come up with a list of our own failures that seemingly justify God’s indifference and beckon us into a dark whirlpool of selfloathing.





When we’re playing the he-loves-me-he-loves-me-not game, the evidence against God can appear overwhelming. For reasons we will probe throughout these pages, God does not often do the things we think his love would compel him to do for us. He often seems to stand by with indifference while we suffer. How often does he seem to disappoint our most noble expectations? But perception is not necessarily reality. If we define God only in our limited interpretation of our own circumstances, we will never discover who he really is. He has provided a far better way.





Our daisy-petal approach to Christianity can be swallowed up by the undeniable proof of his love for us on the cross of Calvary. That’s the side of the cross that has all but been ignored in recent decades. We did not see what really happened there between the Father and his Son that opened the door to his love so vast and so certain that it cannot be challenged even by our darkest days.





Through that door we can really know who God is and embrace a relationship with him that our deepest hearts have hungered to experience. That is where we’ll begin, because it is only in the context of the relationship God desires with us that we can discover the full glory of his love.





He does love you more deeply than you’ve ever imagined; he has done so throughout your entire life. Once you embrace that truth, your troubles will never again drive you to question God’s affection for you or whether you’ve done enough to merit it. Instead of fearing he has turned his back on you, you will be able to trust his love at the moments you need him most. You will even see how that love can flow out of you in the strangest ways to touch a world starved for it.





Learning to trust him like that is not something any of us can resolve in an instant; it’s something we’ll grow to discover for the whole of our lives. God knows how difficult it is for us to accept his love, and he teaches us with more patience than we’ve ever known. Through every circum-



stance and in the most surprising ways, he makes his love known to us in ways we can understand. So perhaps it’s time to toss your daisies aside and discover that it is not the fear of losing God’s love that will keep you on his path, but the simple joy of living in it every day.



On the day you discover that, you will truly begin to live!





How great is the love the Father has lavished on us, that we should be called children of God! And that is what we are!



—1 John 3:1





<><><><><><><><><><><>





For Your Personal Journey



How often do you find yourself doubting God’s love for you? When do you question his love the most? How certain are you that God loves you as deeply as he does anyone else in the world? When difficulties arise, do you find yourself doubting God’s love for you or trying to be more righteous so he’ll like you more? Ask God in the days ahead to reveal the depths of his love for you.





For Group Discussion



1. Share an experience you went through in which you really doubted if God cared about you.



2. How do you feel about it now? If you’re still unsure, what might you ask God to do to change your perception of that event?



3. If you look back now and know that God loved you even if you didn’t recognize it at the time, what did you learn in the process?



4. How can we encourage one another to be certain, instead of doubtful, about God’s love?

Good Bye Hollywood by Lisa Samson

It is October 11th, and FIRST is doing a special tour to 'Say Goodbye to Hollywood Nobody'.

Today's feature author is:

LISA SAMSON

and her book:

Goodbye Hollywood Nobody

NavPress Publishing Group (September 15, 2008)

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

Lisa Samson is the author of twenty books, including the Christy Award-winning Songbird. Apples of Gold was her first novel for teens

These days, she's working on Quaker Summer, volunteering at Kentucky Refugee Ministries, raising children and trying to be supportive of a husband in seminary. (Trying . . . some days she's downright awful. It's a good thing he's such a fabulous cook!) She can tell you one thing, it's never dull around there.

Other Novels by Lisa:

Hollywood Nobody, Finding Hollywood Nobody, Romancing Hollywood Nobody, Straight Up, Club Sandwich, Songbird, Tiger Lillie, The Church Ladies, Women's Intuition: A Novel, Songbird, The Living End

Visit her at her website.

Product Details

List Price: $12.99
Paperback: 192 pages
Publisher: NavPress Publishing Group (September 15, 2008)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 1600062229
ISBN-13: 978-1600062223

AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:

Monday, July 11, 6:30 a.m.

I awaken to a tap on my shoulder and open my eye. My right eye. See, these days it could be one of four people: Charley, Dad, Grampie, or Grammie.

“’Morning, dear!”

Grammie.

Oh well, might as well go for broke. I open the other eye.

“Did you sleep well?”

I shake my head and reach for my cat glasses. “Nope. I kept dreaming about Charley in Scotland.” We sent her off with her new beau, the amazing Anthony Harris, two days ago. “I imagined a road full of sheep chasing her down.”

“That would be silly. They would have to know she hates lamb chops.” Grammie sits on my bed. Yes, my bed. In their fabulous house. In my own wonderful room, complete with reproductions of the Barcelona chair and a platform bed of gleaming sanded mahogany. I burrow further into my white down comforter. I sweat like a pig at night, but I don’t care. A real bed, a bona fide comforter, and four pillows. Feather pillows deep enough to sink the Titanic in.

She pats my shoulder, her bangled wrists emitting the music of wooden jewelry. “Up and at ’em, Scotty. Your dad wants to be on the road by seven thirty.”

“I need a shower.”

“Hop to it then.”

Several minutes later, I revel in the glories of a real shower. Not the crazy little stall we have in the TrailMama, which Dad gassed up last night for our trip to Maine. Our trip to find Babette, my mother. Is she dead or alive? That’s what we’re going to find out.

It’s complicated.

The warm water slides over me from the top of my head on down, and I’ve found the coolest shampoo. It smells like limeade. I kid you not. It’s the greatest stuff ever.

Over breakfast, Grampie sits down with us and goes over the map to make certain Dad knows the best route. My father sits patiently, nodding as words like turnpike, bypass, and scenic route roll like a convoy out of Grampie’s mouth.

Poor Grampie. Dad is just the best at navigation and knows everything about getting from point A to point B, but I think Grampie wants to be a part of it. He hinted at us all going in the Beaver Marquis, their Luxury-with-a-capital-L RV, but Dad pretended not to get it.

Later, Dad said to me, “It’s got to be just us, Scotty. I love my mother and father, but some things just aren’t complete-family affairs.”

“I know. I think you’re right. And if it’s bad . . .”

He nods. “I’d just as soon they not be there while we fall apart.”

Right.

So then, I hop up into our RV, affectionately known as the TrailMama, Dad’s black pickup already hitched behind. (Charley’s kitchen trailer is sitting on a lot in storage at a nearby RV dealership, and good riddance. I’m hoping Charley never needs to use that thing again.) “Want me to drive?”

He laughs.

Yep. I still don’t have my license.

Man. But it’s been such a great month or so at the beach. So, okay, I don’t tan much really, but I do have a nice peachy glow.

I’ll take it.

And Grampie grilled a lot, and Grammie helped me sew a couple of vintage-looking skirts, and I’ve learned the basics of my harp.

I jump into the passenger’s seat, buckle in, and look over at my dad. “You really ready for this?” My heart speeds up. This is the final leg of a very long journey, and what’s at the end of the path will determine the rest of our lives.

He looks into my eyes. “Are you?”

“I don’t know,” I whisper. “But we don’t really have a choice, do we?”

“I can go alone.”

I shake my head. “No, Dad. Whatever we do, whatever happens from here on out, we do it together.”

“Deal.”

Hometown Favorite by Bill Barton and Henry O. Arnold

This week, the
Christian Fiction Blog Alliance
is introducing
Hometown Favorite
Revell (September 1, 2008)
by
Bill Barton and Henry O. Arnold


ABOUT THE AUTHORS:



Bill Barton is a business partner with Compass Technologies. An active member and volunteer at his church, Hendersonville Chapel, Barton is a regular speaker at services and other events. He lives in Hendersonville, Tennessee, with his family.



Henry O. Arnold has been a professional actor, writer, and director in theatre, film, and television. He co-wrote and produced the film The Second Chance starring Michael W. Smith and wrote the screenplay for the first authorized film documentary on evangelist Billy Graham, God's Ambassador. Arnold lives in Portland, Tennessee.


ABOUT THE BOOK

Talented, handsome, and personable, Dewayne Jobe rose from humble beginnings in rural Mississippi to play college football in Southern California and beyond. One of the best wide receivers in college ball, Dewayne is assured a promising career in professional football as one of those rare athletes whose exceptional abilities place him in a league of his own.

He easily finds success both on and off the field. Dewayne's got a beautiful, intelligent wife running his lucrative endorsement business and carrying his child and the pristine white picket fence to boot. The only thing lacking is a road sign confirming his address on Easy Street.

But catastrophe looms right around the corner and ultimately strikes with a crushing vengeance. Will Dewayne's faith and character stand the test of such tragedy? Or will he lose everything--including the love of his life?

This modern retelling of the story of Job will capture readers with the age-old question of why bad things happen to good people--and how good people can survive.

Combining realistic sports action and a deadly serious challenge to faith, Hometown Favorite is a story that won't let you up off the turf until the game clock hits zero.

If you'd like to read the first chapter of Hometown Favorite, go HERE

"An amazing story of betrayal, forgiveness, redemption and hope. The characters are vibrant and alive. Barton and Arnold have a rare and keen understanding of human nature, making the spiritual truths of this story both profound and compelling."

~Michael W. Smith, recording artist

"Like a close game and a score that just won’t turn around, Dewayne’s true fans and Hometown Favorite readers will appreciate the daunting odds fate doles out and this story’s hard-won outcome."

~Darnell Arnoult, author of Sufficient Grace

My Name is Russel Fink by Michael Snyder

It is time to play a Wild Card! Every now and then, a book that I have chosen to read is going to pop up as a FIRST Wild Card Tour. Get dealt into the game! (Just click the button!) Wild Card Tours feature an author and his/her book's FIRST chapter!

You never know when I might play a wild card on you!

Today's Wild Card author is:

Michael Snyder

and the book:

My Name Is Russell Fink

Zondervan (March 1, 2008)

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

Michael Snyder has spent the bulk of his professional career in sales, has fallen in love, and continues to struggle with the balance between art and vocation. He’s never investigated a murder, much less that of an allegedly clairvoyant dog.

His next book, a follow up novel to My Name is Russel Fink: Return Policy, hits stores in June of 2009!


Visit the author's website.

Product Details:

List Price: $12.99
Paperback: 368 pages
Publisher: Zondervan (March 1, 2008)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 0310277272
ISBN-13: 978-0310277279

AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:

Thursday





My conscience must be out of order.

Otherwise I’d feel at least a tinge of guilt as I consider making this call. Only two reasons exist for dialing this number: first, to inform Max Hengle, III that I’m about to land a big sale, and to say this is rare would be an understatement. It’s happened exactly twice. And neither transaction was the result of any Herculean effort on my part, more like fortuitous timing or dumb luck. But this did not prevent me from taking full credit. Sales is a tough business.

The second reason for dialing this number—the egregiously more common reason—is to call in sick. One could argue hypochondria, but I prefer preventive maintenance. Still, I contend that over the life of my career, these measures will have made me a happier and more productive employee. And who wouldn’t want a whole stable full of happy and productive employees?

I hear a click, followed by a habitual throat clearing, then the voice.
“Max Hengle speaking.”

“Good morning, sir.” I pause to adjust the timbre of my voice to a spot between grogginess and pain, careful not to overdo it. “It’s Russell here and I’m afraid I won’t be able to make it in this morning.”

“Uh-huh,” he says, fingers clacking on a keyboard in the background. Mr. Hengle prides himself on his ability to multi-task, but the reality is that he’s terrible at it. For all he knows, I just told him I saw his daughter on Springer. When his brain catches up he says, “Pardon?”

“That’s right, feeling pretty lousy, sir.” And this is not entirely untrue. Fact is, the more I talk, the worse I feel. The causes range from indigestion to pre-cancerous moles. I cough twice and add, “Pretty lousy.”

“Doesn’t this make your third absence this month?”

“March has never been my month, you know, health-wise.”

“Nor sales-wise. My patience is wearing thin, son.”

“As well it should, sir.”

Mr. Hengle sighs long and loud, purging himself of all things Russell.

I’ve always dreamed of making history, but I pray this isn’t it. In the sixty-year history of Hengle’s Supply, no one’s ever been fired. Although firing me would make Mr. Hengle’s life much easier, he’s convinced that doing so would create some bad mojo or throw his karma out of whack, mainly because he owes my dad a pretty big favor. Still, I feel bad. So I silently and solemnly swear to resign as soon as I can claw my way out of debt, come up with the security deposit and first-and-last month’s rent on my own apartment, and move out of my parents’ house.

“There’s going to be some changes around here, Russell. I just don’t see how we can continue on like this, do you?”

Since I’m hardwired to respond to rhetorical questions with sarcasm, I remain mute, save for the sound of my stubble scraping against the phone’s mouthpiece. It sounds like static.

“Tell you what, Russell.” His weary, patronizing whine is nothing new, though the trace of sincerity is. “Why don’t you take tomorrow off as well? Then you’ll have the whole weekend to recuperate.”

“That’s very generous, sir.”

“I was aiming for sarcastic and condescending.”

“Oh, well, thanks anyway, I guess.” I should just hang up and stop the bleeding, but pangs of self-preservation urge my vocal cords into action. “Did I mention to you that Tyler, Billingham, & Sneed is right on the cusp of issuing a huge purchase order?”

“About a week ago, as I recall. The last time you called in sick. I fully expect to see you at Monday morning’s staff meeting where, by the way, you’ll get to meet our new office manager.” He makes office manager sound ominous, as if Charles Manson will be handling payroll and implementing office policy. “Are we understood?”

Over the dial tone, I say, “Hardly ever, sir. Hardly ever.”


***


On the way to Dr. Kozinski’s office I decide to stop in to Tyler, Billingham, & Sneed and see Geri—typically my first call of the week. It’s a routine boon for my flagging confidence, but this is more of an emergency visit. If I’m going to hide behind my potentially career-defining order, I guess it makes some sense to check on its status. As usual, I bring along two giant vanilla lattes from the Bean Bag.

Geri’s on the phone when I get there so I set her coffee down in front of her and scan the pastry tray. I select a bloated éclair, take a bite, and wait. The reception area is done up in blocks of mahogany, with haughty magazines and rental plants. I suspect the pretension is piped in with the Muzak.

Geri’s voice has barely trailed off when I hear a loud slurping sound. I turn around and grin in expectation of a hearty thank you.

“Ack. I can taste the caffeine.”

“Is that a problem?”

“I’m temporarily off caffeine. Except for an occasional dark chocolate of course.” She pops the plastic lid off, uses her finger to spoon out a dollop of whipped cream, and pops it into her mouth. I watch her freckles dance as she talks, trying not to be too obvious. “So, what’re you doing here on your day off?”

“How did you know I was off today?”

“For starters, you’re in jeans.” Geri absently straightens a small framed photograph on her desk—a formalwear shot of Geri and some guy, presumably her former fiance. But he’s been scratched out. “Plus I called your office looking for you earlier and they told me you were out sick.”

“What if I said I came by here to check on the status of that big order?”

“What if I said that’s why I called your office this morning?” She motions me forward and glances around as if we’re being watched. “One of those new sales girls from Office Something-Or-Another called on us last week. And she really got Mr. Billingham’s attention.”

“That’s no great feat.” Billingham is an ogler par excellence.

“I think the partners might be seriously considering her offer.”

My salesman’s smile remains intact while panic leaches into my bloodstream. Geri’s law firm plans to replace over a hundred thousand dollars worth of copiers, scanners, and swanky office furniture, and until this morning I had no competition. The commission check’s already been earmarked for a down payment on a new apartment and my two loudest creditors.

“Must be your imagination, Geri. What could one of those big box conglomerates possibly have to offer that I don’t?”

“The sales girl looks like a supermodel.”

“There’s always that.”

“And she brought the pastries this morning.”

So much for the éclair tasting better than normal. “I thought you said she came by last week.”

Geri uses the photograph as a shield. “She did. She dropped in and introduced herself last Friday. Then she came back yesterday, then again this morning. Now she’s in there meeting the other partners.”

I stare at Baxter Billingham’s office door, mushed éclair coating my tongue.

“Sorry to have to be the one to tell you. But I thought you at least ought to be aware. So you can plan your strategy.”

Even if I were capable of devising a strategy, I couldn’t compete with the image of a swimsuit model galvanizing a trio of salivating attorneys with a sultry Power Point presentation behind Billingham’s door. This is not an account that I prepare for. Rather, I perform routine maintenance, stroke egos and make small talk with the partners—the Braves and bad TV sitcoms with Tyler, UT football and sailboats with Billingham, the stock market with Sneed.

This account is mine. Or at least it always has been.

I take another spiteful bite of the éclair and a cool glop of Bavarian cream squirts out onto my chin. Geri laughs at me and hands me a Kleenex.

And then the supermodel emerges and makes some comment about the quarterback for the White Sox. The partners all guffaw and slap each other on the back. Suddenly, I feel like I’m on a bad sitcom, where she’s the starlet and I’m the hapless, beer-swilling cousin who lives over the garage.

Geri rolls her eyes and for a few brief moments, we’re bound together by mutual disgust. She has no patience for vacuous stick-women, even less for the men who do. My issues are less noble—plain old-fashioned fear and greed.


***


The waiting room at Nashville City Medical Clinic is much less pretentious but the magazines are several months out of date, with pages bent and crusted with all manner of bacteria. So I ignore them and steal glances at the other patients, making sketches of them on a legal pad. It’s an old habit, inventing imaginary ailments for complete strangers, then rendering their symptoms with flurried pen strokes. Normally, I show my work to Alyssa and see if she can accurately diagnose the afflictions. I draw the burly guy in coveralls with a puckered and humiliated look on his face, with cartoonish motion lines implying constant shifting as if he can’t quite get comfortable in his chair, and tiny flaming tendrils rising from his nether regions. When I can’t think of a way to portray itching, I move on to the young girl in the opposite corner.

She is staring up at the TV bolted to the wall, but it’s obvious her mind is viewing her own private soap opera. She’s pretty but mousy, and keeps telling herself she has the flu, but her brain is an adding machine counting the days since her last period. I’m darkening the wrinkles on her forehead when my phone erupts.

The patients all glance up at me, the observer observed. It rings again and I study the number.

Alyssa.

My greeting is polite but terse, a funeral whisper meant to convey urgent business. A tone that Alyssa completely misses. Or chooses to ignore.

“Hey babe.” Her voice is too loud, too happy. “Good day so far?”

“Not bad.” I get up, walk toward the door that opens into the hallway and narrowly dodge a zombie-like toddler with two streams of green goo on his upper lip. “I’m kind of in the middle of something here.”
“Well ex-cuse me. I guess you’re in some big meeting—selling what? Packing peanuts? Desk blotters?” My fiancée has reduced my livelihood to hawking trivial gadgets that fuel the corporate monoliths responsible for starving Third World kids, botching the environment, and exploiting generations of Asian laborers.

In the hallway now, I pitch my voice just above a whisper. “Do you need something? Or did you call just to make fun of my job?”

“Touchy, touchy.”

Someone’s calling my name through the closed door; it sounds like Cassandra, my favorite nurse. But the voice is garbled, like Charlie Brown’s teacher.

“Seriously,” I say. “What do you need?”

“Ooh, you sound so sexy when you’re mad.”

“Listen, Alyssa. I really do need to go. They’re waiting.” The implied subject of they is on the darker side of honesty.

The nurse calls my name again, louder and more clearly this time, definitely Cassandra. I silently count to ten before I push back through the door into the waiting room.

“Alright, I can tell when I’m not wanted. But I need you to knock off a little early tomorrow. I need some assistance setting things up for Saturday.”

It irks me the way she assumes that I’ll just blow off work whenever she asks. As if her whims automatically trump my responsibilities. Never mind that I am, in fact, blowing off work; one could argue that I’ve trained her to think that way. I guess I just resent her attitude about it.

“I’ll see what I can do. But I’ll have to call you later and let you know if I can break away.” Another half-truth, which I camouflage by changing the subject. “Are we still on for dinner…sometime?”

A spooky presence just over my left shoulder interrupts Alyssa’s answer. I turn to find Cassandra, six inches from my face and smiling.

“Oh, there you are,” she says. “Dr. Kozinski will see you now.”

I hear an angry intake of air in my left ear. Busted.

“What was that?” Alyssa yells. “Are you at the doctor again, you lying—”

I scrape stubble across the mouthpiece in a lame and desperate attempt to simulate static.

“Sorry, must be a bad cell.” I snap the phone shut.

After a moment’s deliberation I power it all the way off and follow the squeaky-shoed Cassandra into the bowels of modern medicine.


***


My bare feet are sticking to the cold tile floor as I strip down to my skivvies. The room (a glorified closet, really) reeks of antiseptic and is chilly enough to infringe upon my civil rights. Medical implements stand at attention; swabs, syringes, secret potions, and all manner of probes and invasive thingies meant to invoke fear and vulnerability in the paying customer—an insidious ploy unique to horror movies, amusement parks, and doctors’ offices. Sure, there’s the illusion of sovereignty when the nurse guides you to your lofty throne atop the padded, overly high examination table. But then it dawns on you that your feet are dangling like a toddler on the toilet. You’re in your underwear. And you had to use a stool to get up there in the first place. All this after sticking you with needles and making you pee in a plastic shot glass. No, you’ll do as instructed, as if you’re working for the doctor instead of the other way around.

I climb up on the stool, perch myself on the crinkly deli paper, and absent-mindedly swing my feet. Cassandra was all business this morning when she escorted me to the examination room. Despite the enormous diamond on her finger, I think she has a crush on me, so I practice clenching my stomach muscles in case she pops in. The trick is to avoid looking intentional or vain about it: overdo it and you look hollowed out, creepy; not enough and a six-pack of abs can look like a jumbo pack of hairy dinner rolls. By the time she barges in ten minutes later to tell me that the doctor will be right with me, I’ve abandoned my posing to inspect various moles on my shoulders and back. At the sound of the opening door, I flex everything at once and try to smile nonchalantly. The effect is likely a cross between a deranged Chippendale and a serial killer with a toothache, but it happens so quick that I doubt she even got a decent look, thank God.

When Dr. Kozinski strides in moments later reviewing my chart, I hear the demoralizing sound of laughing nurses through the open door.

“Well, well. What’s it been, Russell? A whole week since your last visit?”

“A lot can happen in a week.”

Instructions are no longer necessary to get through this part of our routine. It’s been choreographed to the point where simple nudges or gestures are all that’s needed to have me blow deeper, look this way or that, lie back, sit up, turn my head and cough. In the old days he would even breathe warm air on the business end of his stethoscope before he slapped it on my chest. Now he seems to take pleasure—a little too much pleasure, if you ask me—from inflicting small discomforts. Like holding the tongue depressor down until I gag. Or giving the blood pressure pump a few extra squeezes. He flips the light switch off and jams his fancy pupil-dilating flashlight into my left eye.

“You using the high beams there, Doc?” I say this every time. He never laughs.

He turns the lights back on. “So, what brings us here today? Another mole, I presume?”

“Right here,” I say, turning my left shoulder toward him and pointing it out with my right hand. “I’m pretty sure it’s turning colors.”

“We’ll get to that in a moment.” Dr. K refuses to break routine. I’m not sure if it’s habit, or if his conscience won’t allow him to charge me for a full examination unless he performs his entire complement of invasions. He makes small talk while probing my ears, nose, and throat, then asks about my parents’ welfare while feeling for lumps or hernias. It tickles like mad and he knows it.

Finally, he leans in and shines his light on the mole in question. “Oh yeah, you’re right. It is changing colors, like a mood ring. Or maybe a disco ball.”

“Seriously. I think it looks different.”

“That’s because you’re stretching the skin.” He places both his thumbs on my forearm and applies outward pressure. “See, your skin turns white.”

“Ouch.” He’s pulling the hair on my arms, probably on purpose.

“Now back to pink,” he says, ignoring my outburst. “And if I keep doing this long enough, it will eventually turn an angry red.”

“So I guess I’m not dying then.”

“Don’t put words in my mouth.” He grins at the temporary panic in my eyes. “My professional opinion is that you’ve only got five or six decades left. Seven tops.”

“Your bedside manner could use some work.”

“You still selling copiers?”

“In theory. You need a new one?”

“No, Russell. I was just working on my bedside manner.”

“Because we’re running a killer special on HP models for—”

He turns me so I’m facing the wall while he runs his hands across my shoulders and spine.

“Have you given any thought to our last conversation? About looking for another line of work? Something you don’t hate?”

“There’s nothing else I really want to do. Nothing that pays benefits. And whether you admit it or not, you’d miss me.”

“I’m surprised Hengle doesn’t just fire you. As much as you hate that job, you couldn’t possibly be any good at it.”

“It’s a long story.”

His fingers return to a spot in the middle of my back. “Humor me.”

I should know better than to delve into all this, especially with him. But before I can change the subject I feel my body heave a protracted sigh followed by the sound of my own voice. “My old man healed his kid several years ago.”

“Bernie?”

“Nah, he’s beyond help. His other kid, the war hero.”

“Ray,” Dr. K says, clearly distracted. He mumbles something and scribbles in my chart. “Nice kid.”

And it’s true, at least as far as I can tell. Ray Hengle returned from the Persian Gulf with a leg full of shrapnel and migraines that seemed to last for weeks at a time. Too many metal fragments to operate, the doctors had said.

Finally Max brought Ray to my father, who had agreed to pray for the boy.

My father extended his hands toward Ray’s head, tentative at first, as if warming them over a fire. His prayers were whispered, calm and lilting, devoid of his usual histrionics. But it was intense, like a lover’s quarrel in a library. He worked his fingers into the man’s scalp, then began kneading the injured leg. When Ray roused and started moaning, I had to get out of there.

I thought the story would be bigger. The newspaper devoted a few hundred words about the local hero’s improved health, but no mention of Gary Fink. The CBS affiliate ran a feel-good piece, complete with before-and-after X-rays of the restored shrapnel-less leg. They even used the word miracle. But I’m not sure anyone believed it as much as Max Hengle, III.

“Something wrong?”

“No, just making some notes. You were saying? About your job?”

“Yeah, Dad healed his kid about ten years ago and Hengle’s been bugging him ever since to repay the favor. I guess tolerating me is like his penance or something.”

“You don’t really believe that your father actually heals people.”

“Technically, I think God gets credit for the actual healing.”
His amused look falters a bit. “Does God even want the credit? Just last week one of those 60 Minutes or Primetime shows did an expose on Christian miracle workers and the gullible followers they supposedly ‘heal.’”

“It was 48 Hours, actually.” I know this because the show spent the better part of ten minutes rehashing the decade-old shenanigans of Reverend Gary Fink—my father. In the weeks following his arrest, Reverend Fink became a punch line. Then a prison nickname.

“It’s obviously the power of suggestion. Either that or they’re scam artists bent on…” He remembers who he’s talking to.

“Trust me, Doc. I don’t want to believe it either. Dad and his cronies deserve all the bad press they get.” I pause, barely able to believe the words coming out of my mouth. I stopped defending my father in grade school. “But he’s actually healed people too. I’ve seen it.”

“Thought you said God did the actual healing.” If it’s possible to infuse a wink with sarcasm, the good doctor pulls it off.

“You know what I mean.”

I feel his fingers plying the now vulnerable skin in the middle of my back. He makes a small laughing sound through his nose and says, “You know, you could save us both some trouble.”

“How’s that?”

“You could quit your job and find something you love to do. That should solve most of your problems…” He allows this last line to trail off, a set up for the punch line he’s been waiting for. “Then maybe your father can work his hocus pocus on the rest of your phantom maladies.”

“Won’t work.”

“Please,” he says. “Do tell.”

“Because I think I don’t believe anymore.”

“You just said you saw it with your own eyes. Now you say you don’t believe it? Which is it?”

“It’s complicated.”

He shakes his head and hands me the form he’s been scribbling on.

“What’s this?” I say.

“Looks like you finally got your wish.”

“How’s that?” I scan the tiny form in my hand. One word leaps out from the page—biopsy. The translation in my head: cancer.

“I’m sure it’s nothing,” he says, “but we’re going to need to remove that mole there in the small of your back. Quick procedure. You’ll be in and out in an hour or so.”

Then he leaves me in my underwear, alone with my darkest thoughts.


***

My first trip on an airplane was to New York City. The plan was to visit the NYU campus, complete all the registration hoopla, then hang around long enough to watch the big New Year’s ball drop in Time Square. I loved looking down on the clouds, wondering if Katie ever got her wish—to wake up every morning on a pink fluffy bed of cotton candy. I wasn’t crazy about the turbulence or the salted peanuts or the way the air inside the cabin smelled like the bottom of a stranger’s closet. The pilot’s voice crackled over the PA system and told us all to stay in our seats, that we would begin our initial descent into JFK as soon as we were cleared for landing. After circling the airport twice, the tipsy know-it-all in the seat behind me began floating unsolicited theories about iced-over runways, terrorist threats, and running out of fuel before smashing into the Hudson River. Finally the grizzled businessman in the seat next to me turned around and told him to shut up. I peered through the tiny window as several other jets emerged and disappeared in the gray mist. For some reason, I really wanted to see the look on the other pilots’ faces.

We kept circling the city. No one slept. Our captain chimed in periodically to reassure us. But the know-it-all had predicted we’d be out of fuel in forty-five minutes. That was nearly an hour ago. Conversations dried up, except for an occasional nervous whisper. I closed my eyes and tried to remember how to pray.

But my thoughts drifted. It dawned on me that since Katie’s funeral my whole life had been just like this, a holding pattern. I’d spent the last decade-and-a-half going in circles, hovering, marking time, waiting for tragedy to strike. All the while, life happened on the other side of the clouds. I jolted awake when the plane’s tires thumped onto the tarmac. Somehow I’d managed to stave off my date with destiny by nodding off.

So I wasn’t shocked when Dr. K told me about the mole. Nor was I surprised that he didn’t mention cancer. I knew this was coming. I’ve been expecting it.

But I’m going to need to talk to Sonny about it.


***


After making me sign a stack of insurance documents and scanning my credit card for the $30 co-pay, Dr. K’s office manager hands me a folded note. “Someone called and left you message. Sounds like she has anger management issues.”

The handwriting is foreign to me, but the tone is pure Alyssa: “Our relationship is like a geometry proof. IF you ever want to see this engagement ring again, THEN you better show up in the parking lot of …As A Jaybird. Saturday morning. 9:00 sharp.”

I tell myself that this is it, that I will not succumb to another of her ridiculous demands. But of course, my resolve will disintegrate and I’ll show up. I always have. It’s what I do.

Finding Father Christmas & Engaging Father Christmas by Robin Jones Gunn

It is time to play a Wild Card! And this time I'm doubling the score; you can preview not one, but two books by this amazing author. Every now and then, a book that I have chosen to read is going to pop up as a FIRST Wild Card Tour. Get dealt into the game! (Just click the button!) Wild Card Tours feature an author and his/her book's FIRST chapter!

You never know when I might play a wild card on you!

Today's Wild Card author is:

Robin Jones Gunn

and the book:

Finding Father Christmas

FaithWords (October 11, 2007)

Engaging Father Christmas

FaithWords (October 30, 2008)

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

Robin Jones Gunn is the bestselling author of sixty books, representing 3.5 million copies sold. A dozen of her novels have appeared on the top of the CBA bestseller list, including her wildly successful Sisterchicks series. Thousands of teens from around the world have written letters to Robin sharing how God used the Christy Miller and Sierra Jensen series to bring them to Christ as well as lead them to make life changing decisions regarding purity. Robin and her husband of thirty years live near Portland, OR, where they are members of Imago Dei Community along with other Christian authors.
Visit the author's website.

Product Details for Finding Father Christmas:

List Price: $13.99
Hardcover: 176 pages
Publisher: FaithWords (October 11, 2007)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 0446526290
ISBN-13: 978-0446526296

Product Details for Engaging Father Christmas:

List Price: $
Hardcover: 176 pages
Publisher: FaithWords (October 30, 2008)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 0446179469
ISBN-13: 978-0446179461

AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:

A string of merry silver bells jumped and jingled as the north wind shook the evergreen wreath on the heavy wooden door. Overhead a painted shingle swung from two metal arms, declaring this place of business to be the Tea Cosy.

As I peered inside through the thick-paned window, I could see a cheerful amber fire in the hearth. Tables were set for two with china cups neatly positioned on crimson tablecloths. Swags of green foliage trimmed the mantel. Dotted across the room, on the tables and on shelves, were a dozen red votive candles. Each tiny light flickered, sending out promises of warmth and cheer, inviting me to step inside.

Another more determined gust made a swoop down the lane, this time taking my breath with it into the darkness of the December night.

This trip was a mistake. A huge mistake. What was I thinking?

I knew the answer as it rode off on the mocking wind. The answer was, I wasn’t thinking. I was feeling.

Pure emotion last Friday nudged me to book the round-trip ticket to London. Blind passion convinced me that the answer to my twenty-year question would be revealed once I reached the Carlton Photography Studio on Bexley Lane.

Sadly, I was wrong. I had come all this way only to hit a dead end.

I took another look inside the teahouse and told myself to keep walking, back to the train station, back to the hotel in London where I had left my luggage. This exercise in futility was over. I might as well change my ticket and fly back to San Francisco in the morning.

My chilled and weary feet refused to obey. They wanted to go inside and be warmed by the fire. I couldn’t deny that my poor legs did deserve a little kindness after all I had put them through when I folded them into the last seat in coach class. The middle seat, by the lavatories, in the row that didn’t recline. A cup of tea at a moment like this might be the only blissful memory I would take with me from this fiasco.

Reaching for the oddly shaped metal latch on the door, I stepped inside and set the silver bells jingling again.

“Come in, come in, and know me better, friend!” The unexpected greeting came from a kilt-wearing man with a valiant face. His profoundly wide sideburns had the look of white lamb’s wool and softened the resoluteness in his jaw. “Have you brought the snowflakes with you, then?”

“The snowflakes?” I repeated.

“Aye! The snowflakes. It’s cold enough for snow, wouldn’t you say?”

I nodded my reluctant agreement, feeling my nose and cheeks going rosy in the small room’s warmth. I assumed the gentleman who opened the door was the proprietor. Looking around, I asked, “Is it okay if I take the table by the fire? All I’d like is a cup of tea.”

“I don’t see why not. Katharine!” He waited for a response and then tried again. “Katharine!”

No answer came.

“She must have gone upstairs. She’ll be back around.” His grin was engaging, his eyes clear. “I would put the kettle on for you myself, if it weren’t for the case of my being on my way out at the moment.”

“That’s okay. I don’t mind waiting.”

“Of course you don’t mind waiting. A young woman such as yourself has the time to wait, do you not? Whereas, for a person such as myself . . .” He leaned closer and with a wink confided in me, “I’m Christmas Present, you see. I can’t wait.”

What sort of “present” he supposed himself to be and to whom, I wasn’t sure.

With a nod, the man drew back the heavy door and strode into the frosty air.

From a set of narrow stairs a striking woman descended. She looked as surprised at my appearance as I was at hers. She wore a stunning red, floor-length evening dress. Around her neck hung a sparkling silver necklace, and dangling from under her dark hair were matching silver earrings. She stood tall with careful posture and tilted her head, waiting for me to speak.

“I wasn’t sure if you were still open.”

“Yes, on an ordinary day we would be open for another little while, until five thirty. . . .” Her voice drifted off.

“Five thirty,” I repeated, checking my watch. The time read 11:58. The exact time I’d adjusted it to when I had deplaned at Heathrow Airport late that morning. I tapped on the face of my watch as if that would make it run again. “I can see you have plans for the evening and that you’re ready to close. I’ll just—”

“Che-che-che.” The sound that came from her was the sort used to call a squirrel to come find the peanuts left for it on a park bench. It wasn’t a real word from a real language, but I understood the meaning. I was being invited to stay and not to run off.

“Take any seat you want. Would you like a scone with your tea or perhaps some rum cake?”

“Just the tea, thank you.”

I moved toward the fire and realized that a scone sounded pretty good. I hadn’t eaten anything since the undercooked breakfast omelet served on the plane.

“Actually, I would like to have a scone, too. If it’s not too much trouble.”

“No trouble at all.”

Her smile was tender, motherly. I guessed her to be in her midfifties or maybe older. She turned without any corners or edges to her motions. I soon heard the clinking of dishes as she prepared the necessary items in the kitchen.

Making my way to a steady looking table by the fire, I tried to tuck my large shoulder bag under the spindle leg of the chair. The stones along the front of the hearth were permanently blackened from what I imagined to be centuries of soot. The charm of the room increased as I sat down and felt the coziness of the close quarters. This was a place of serenity. A place where trust between friends had been established and kept for many years.

A sense of safety and comfort called to the deepest part of my spirit and begged me to set free a fountain of tears. But I capped them off. It was that same wellspring of emotion that had instigated this journey.

Settling back, I blinked and let the steady heat from the fire warm me. Katharine returned carrying a tray. The steaming pot of tea took center stage, wearing a chintzquilted dressing gown, gathered at the top.

Even the china teapots are treated to coziness here.

“I’ve warmed two scones for you, and this, of course, is your clotted cream. I’ve given you raspberry jam, but if you would prefer strawberry, I do have some.”

“No, this is fine. Perfect. Thank you.”

Katharine lifted the festooned teapot and poured the steaming liquid into my waiting china cup. I felt for a moment as if I had stumbled into an odd sort of parallel world to Narnia.

As a young child I had read C. S. Lewis’s Narnia tales a number of times. In the many hours alone, I had played out the fairy tales in my imagination, pretending I was Lucy, stepping through the wardrobe into an imaginary world.

Here, in the real country of Narnia’s author, I considered how similar my surroundings were to Lewis’s descriptions of that imaginary world. A warming fire welcomed me in from the cold. But instead of a fawn inviting me to tea, it had been a kilted clansman. Instead of Mrs. Beaver pouring a cup of cheer for me by the fire, it was a tall, unhurried woman in a red evening gown.

An unwelcome thought came and settled on me as clearly as if I had heard a whisper. Miranda, how much longer will you believe it is “always winter and never Christmas”?

Copyright © 2007 by Robin’s Ink, LLC

This article is used with the permission of Hachette Book Group and Robin Jones Gunn. All rights reserved.

Read My review of Finding Father Christmas here.

Around me swarms of Londoners rushed by, intent on their destinations and sure of their plans. My destination was the small town of Carlton Heath, and my plans revolved around a certain Scotsman who was now officially late.

I tried to call Ian again. His voice mail picked up for the third time. “It’s me again,” I said to the phone. “I’m here at Paddington station and —”

Before I finished the message, my phone beeped, and the screen showed me it was Ian.

“Hi! I was just leaving you another message.” I brushed back my shoulder-length brown hair and stood a little straighter, just as I would have if Ian were standing in front of me.

“You made it to the station, then?”

“Yes. Although I was about to put on a pair of red rain boots and a tag on my coat that read, ‘Please look after this bear.’ ” I was pretty sure Ian would catch my reference to the original Paddington Bear in the floppy hat since that was what he had given to my niece, Julia, for Christmas last year.

“Don’t go hangin’ any tags on your coat,” Ian said with an unmistakable grin in his voice. “I’m nearly there. The shops were crammed this morning, and traffic is awful. I should have taken the tube, but I’m in a taxi now. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes tops. Maybe less if I get out and run the last few blocks.”

“Don’t run. I’ll wait. It’s only been, what? Seven weeks and three days since we were last together? What’s another fifteen minutes?”

“I’ll tell you what another fifteen minutes is. It’s just about the longest fifteen minutes of my life.”

“Mine too.” I felt my face warming.

“You’re at track five, then, as we planned?”

“Yes. Track five.”

“Good. No troubles coming in from the airport?”

“No. Everything went fine at Heathrow. The fog delayed my flight when we left San Francisco, but the pilot somehow managed to make up time in the air. We landed on schedule.”

“Let’s hope my cabbie can find the same tailwind your pilot did and deliver me to the station on schedule.”

I looked up at the large electronic schedule board overhead, just to make sure my watch was in sync with local time. “We have about twenty minutes before the 1:37 train leaves for Carlton Heath. I think we can still make it.”

“I have no doubt. Looks like we have a break in the traffic jam at the moment. Don’t go anywhere, Miranda. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

“I’ll be here.”

I closed my phone and smiled. Whenever Ian said my name, with a rolling of the r, he promptly melted my heart. Every single time. His native Scottish accent had become distilled during the past decade as a result of his two years of grad school in Canada and working in an architect office with coworkers from around the world. But Ian knew how to put on the “heather in the highlands” lilt whenever he wanted. And I loved it, just as I loved everything about this indomitable man.

I looked around the landing between the train tracks for an open seat on one of the benches. Since none were available, I moved closer to the nearest bench just in case someone decided to leave.

Balancing my large, wheeled suitcase against a pole so it wouldn’t tip over, I carefully leaned my second bag next to the beast. This was my third trip to England since my visit last Christmas and the first time I had come with two suitcases. This time I needed an extra bag for all the gifts I had with me, wrapped and ready to go under the Christmas tree at the Whitcombe manor.

Last Christmas and for many Christmases before that, the only gift I bought and gave was the one expected for the exchange at the accounting office where I worked in downtown San Francisco. Up until last Christmas I had no family to speak of — no parents, no siblings, no roommate. I didn’t even have a cat. My life had fallen into a steady, predictable rhythm of work and weekends alone, which is probably why I found the courage to make that first trip to Carlton Heath last December. In those brief, snow-kissed, extraordinary few days, I was gifted with blood relatives, new friends, and sweetest of all, Ian.

Christmas shopping this year had been a new experience. While my coworkers complained about the crowds and hassle, I quietly reveled in the thought that I actually had someone — many someones — in my life to go gift hunting for.

I had a feeling some last-minute shopping was the reason Ian was late. He told me yesterday he had a final gift to pick up this morning on his way to the station. He hadn’t explained what the gift was or whom it was for. His silence on the matter led me to wonder as I wandered along a familiar path in my imagination. That path led straight to my heart, and along that path I saw nothing but hope for our future together — hope and maybe a little something shiny that came in a small box and fit on a certain rather available finger on my left hand.

Before my mind could sufficiently detour to the happy land of “What’s next?”, I heard someone call my name. It was a familiar male voice, but not Ian’s.

I looked into the passing stream of travelers, and there he stood, only a few feet away. Josh. The last person I ever expected to see again. Especially in England.

“Miranda, I thought that was you! Hey, how are you?” With a large travel bag strapped over his shoulder, Josh gave me an awkward, clunking and bumping sort of hug. His glasses smashed against the side of my head. He quickly introduced me as his “old girlfriend” to the three guys with him.

“What are you doing here?” He unstrapped the bag and dropped it at his feet.

One of the guys tagged his shoulder and said, “We’ll be at the sandwich stand over there.”

“Okay. I’ll be there in a few minutes.” Josh turned back to me. “You look great. What’s been happening with you?”

“I’m good,” I said. “What about you? What are you doing here?” I was still too flustered at the unexpected encounter to jump right into a catch-up sort of conversation after the almost three-year gap.

“Just returned from a ski trip to Austria with a group from work. Incredible trip. I’m in a counseling practice now. Child psychologist. I don’t know if you knew that.”

“No. That’s great, Josh. I know that’s what you wanted to do.”

“Yes, it’s going well so far.” He seemed at ease. None of the stiltedness that had been there right after I broke up with him came across in his voice or demeanor.

“And what about you? What are you doing in England?”

Before I could put together an answer, Josh snapped his fingers. “Wait! Are you here because you’re looking for your birth father?”

“You remembered.” Once again he surprised me.

“Of course I remembered. You had that picture of some guy dressed as Father Christmas, and it had the name of the photography studio on the back. That was your only clue.”

I nodded.

“So? What happened?”

“I followed the clue last Christmas, and it led me here, to my birth father, just like you thought it would.”

“No way! Did it really?”

I nodded, knowing Josh would appreciate this next part of the story. “The man in the photo dressed like Father Christmas was my father. And the boy on his lap is my brother, or I guess I should say my half brother, Edward.”

“Incredible,” Josh said with a satisfied, Sherlock Holmes expression on his unshaven face. “What happened when you met him?”

I hesitated. Having not repeated this story to anyone since it all unfolded a year ago, I didn’t realize how much the answer to Josh’s question would catch in my spirit and feel sharply painful when it was spoken aloud.

“I didn’t meet him. He passed away a few years ago.”

“Oh.” Josh’s expression softened.

“You know, Josh, I always wanted to thank you for the way you urged me to follow that one small clue. I’ve wished more than once that I would have come to England when you first suggested it four years ago. He was still alive then. That’s what I should have done.”

“And I should have gone with you,” he said in a low voice.

“Why do you say that?”

Josh’s eyebrows furrowed, his counselor mode kicking in. “I felt you needed that piece in your life. By that I mean the paternal piece of your life puzzle. I didn’t like you being so alone in the world. I wish you could have met him.”

“I do, too, but I actually think things turned out better this way. It’s less complicated that I didn’t meet him while he was still alive.”

“Why do you say that?” Josh asked.

I hesitated before giving Josh the next piece of information. In an odd way, it felt as if he needed the final piece of the puzzle the same way I had.

“It’s less complicated this way because my father was . . .” I lowered my voice and looked at him so he could read the truth in my clear blue eyes. “My father was Sir James Whitcombe.”


Copyright © 2008 by Robin’s Ink, LLC.

This article is used with the permission of Hachette Book Group and Robin Jones Gunn. All rights reserved.

Read my review of Engaging Father Christmas here.

Leave me a comment telling what intrigues you most about these two books. I will put your name in the hat to win a set of the books. Be sure to leave a way for me to contact you if you are the winner. I will draw a winner Wed. Oct. 22nd.

contest ended thanks to all that entered. We have a winner.




Goes to Brimful Curiosities who won the book set.

Runaway by Dandi Daley Mackall

It is time to play a Wild Card! Every now and then, a book that I have chosen to read is going to pop up as a FIRST Wild Card Tour. Get dealt into the game! (Just click the button!) Wild Card Tours feature an author and his/her book's FIRST chapter!

You never know when I might play a wild card on you!

Today's Wild Card author is:

Dandi Daley Mackall

and the book:

Runaway (Book #1 in the Starlight Animal Rescue Series)

Tyndale Kids (August 4, 2008)

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

Dandi Daley Mackall has published more than 400 books for children and adults, with more than 3 million combined copies sold. She is the author of WaterBrook’s two other delightful Dandilion Rhymes books, A Gaggle of Geese & A Clutter of Cats and The Blanket Show. A popular keynote speaker at conferences and Young Author events, Mackall lives in rural Ohio with her husband, three children, and a menagerie of horses, dogs, and cats.

Visit the author's website.

Product Details:

List Price: $5.99
Reading level: Ages 9-12
Mass Market Paperback: 224 pages
Publisher: Tyndale Kids (August 4, 2008)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 1414312687
ISBN-13: 978-1414312682

My Review:
Oh this was such a delight to read. Dakota Brown, age 16, is an orphan going on her 8th foster home, 7 of which she's runaway from. Running away is all she knows how to do. Her motto is run 'away' never 'to' something. Run like crazy and never look back. However, she finds herself learning for the first time what - love, family & forgiveness really is. God's love can calm a runaway and she really does have something to celebrate. I will probably pass the book on to my niece, who loves horses. But my daughter wants to read it first. I loved this book and can't wait for the next Animal Rescue. It's a five star in my book. Way to go. Go ahead read the first chapter I'm sure you'll be hooked.

AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:

Wherever we’re going, I won’t be staying. That much I can promise. I’ve run away seven times—never once to anything, just away from. Maybe that’s why they call me a “runaway” and not a “run-to.”

The way I figure it, these “ideal placements” by Chicago’s social services never add up to much. And anyway, so far, my life has been subtraction. Two parents and a brother and me. Take away one brother, and that leaves two parents and me. Take away one parent, and that leaves one parent and me. Take away another parent, and that leaves me, Dakota Brown, age almost 16, trying not to wonder what it will be like when I’m the one taken away.

Bouncing in the backseat of the social worker’s car—the front seat has too many papers and folders about me to fit the real me in it—I decide it’s time for a list. I love lists. You can take a mess like Ms. Social Worker has going for her in the front seat and, in a few minutes, turn it into a list that fits on a single sheet of paper. Lists bring things under control. My control.

I take my list-book out of my backpack and turn to a clean page. Glancing in the rearview mirror, I catch the frown of concentration on the social worker’s face. She’s too busy trying to get us out of Chicago traffic to worry about what I’m doing in the backseat.

I know her name is Ms. Bean, but in my head I keep thinking of her as “the social worker” because things are easier that way. She’s not a bad person, and I’m not trying to get her into trouble or anything. But because I’m so good at what I do—running away—I’m bound to make her look pretty lousy at what she does. She thinks she’s driving me to my new foster family, where I’ll live happily ever after and forever be a pleasant anecdote for her to share with friends and family and future fosters everywhere.

Poor Ms. Social Worker. She is doomed to fail. The State of Illinois has not invented a foster family from which I, Dakota Brown, cannot escape.

In my list-book, I form an action plan.

The Plan:

A. Pay attention to the route leading to my new location. It is also my route out.

B. Control reaction to new setting. It’s important that the social worker believes I like my new digs.

C. Headache. This will be my medical weapon of choice, the only complaint I’ll voice, my one excuse to get out of whatever needs getting out of.

D. Observe. Knowledge is power.

E. Never cry. At least, never let them see you cry.

F. Never get angry. (Yeah, right.) Don’t let them see the anger.

G. Never “confide,” as the social worker likes to call it.

H. Be friendly, but do not make friends.

“Dakota, what are you writing?” Ms. Bean asks.

“Sorry.” I close my list-book and flash a smile to the rearview mirror.

“Don’t be sorry,” she says, smiling back at the mirror. This action makes her come up too fast on the little sports car in front of us.

“Ms. Bean!” I shout.

She slams on the brakes, forcing the car behind us do the same. Horns honk. “I hate traffic,” she admits.

I wonder how she ended up in Chicago when she hates traffic so much. But I don’t ask. My mind reaffixes the Ms. Social Worker label, and I stare out the window.

Ms. Bean is not the clichéd social worker. She’s a stylish, 24-year-old college graduate with light red hair, funky earrings, and clothes I wouldn’t mind wearing myself. I know she’s engaged. But other than the fact that she’s a lousy driver, I don’t know much else about her. That’s the way I like it.

I lean back and close my eyes, hoping she’ll drop the subject of my writing notebook, her driving, and everything else. After a minute, I open my eyes and stare out the window again. Cars whiz by all around us. Every car window is closed. Heat rises from the pavement between the lanes. Even with the air-conditioning blasting, I can smell Chicago, a mixture of tar, exhaust fumes, and metal.

The social worker slams on her brakes again, but I can’t see any reason for it this time.

“Sorry about that,” she mutters. Maybe to me. Maybe to the guy behind her, who rolls down his window long enough to scream at her.

“Don’t stop writing on my account, Dakota,” she says. “Unless it makes you carsick. It always makes me carsick.”

I’m thinking that if I get carsick, it will have more to do with her driving style than it does with my writing style. But Rule #11 on my “How to Handle Social Workers” list is “Don’t criticize. It puts them on the defensive.”

I say, “You’re right, Ms. Bean. I really shouldn’t write while I’m in the car.”

“My sister is a journalist,” Ms. Bean tells me.

It’s more information than I care to know. I don’t want to picture her as a person, with a newspaper-writing sister.

“Charlotte has a mini recorder she carries with her everywhere,” the social worker continues. “Instead of writing notes, she talks into that recorder, even when she’s driving. My dad keeps telling her not to record and drive, but she won’t listen.”

She hits her horn when someone changes lanes right in front of her without signaling.

“How far out of Chicago is this place?” I ask.

“Nice?”

I know this is the name of the town they’re dragging me to, but it takes a second to register. “Yeah. Nice,” I say. “Only are you sure they don’t pronounce it ‘Niece,’ like that city in France?” Both cities are spelled the same, but I’m guessing the similarities end there.

“That would make sense,” she admits. “But no. You’ll be living in Nice, Illinois.” She giggles. “And going to Nice High. And I’m sure you’ll be a nice resident of Nice.”

I manage to smile, although I can only imagine how old this play on names must get. I’m already feeling not so nice about it. “So, are we getting close?”

“It’s still a good ways,” Ms. Bean answers. “The board thought a rural home might be a nice change for you.” She smiles, then lets the “nice” thing fade without comment.

Neither of us says anything, so her last words bang around in my head. The board thought a rural home would be a nice change? The board doesn’t know me well enough to know how ridiculous it is to think a rural home would be just the ticket for Dakota Brown. The “ticket” for me is a one-way ticket out of there.

“Are you writing a book?” Ms. Bean asks.

“No,” I answer, hoping she’ll leave it alone.

“No? A letter, maybe?”

Those files scattered all over the front seat have enough information on me that she should know there’s nobody in the world I’d write a letter to. “It’s just lists,” I say to get her off my case.

“Like a shopping list?”

“Just a list,” I answer, trying not to let her see that this conversation is getting to me.

“Like what, for example?” Ms. Bean can turn into a little kid sometimes. She reminds me of this girl, Melody, who was in a foster home in Cicero with me for two months. Melody would grab on to a question and not let it go until she shook an answer out of you.

“Read me one, will you, Dakota?” she begs.

I’m pretty sure Ms. Bean will keep asking me about lists until I either read her one or get so angry I won’t be able to keep up my cheerful act. That, I don’t want.

I open my list-book and flip through dozens of lists until I come to a social worker–friendly list. “Okay . . . here’s a list of five cities I want to visit one day.” This is a real list I’ve made, but I have a hundred cities on it. Not five.

“That’s awesome!” she exclaims. “Which cities, Dakota?”

“Paris, Vienna, Rome, Moscow, and Fargo.” I stop and close the notebook before she can peek in the rearview mirror at the next list, because it looks like this:

Top 8 Cities I Never Want to See Again

1. Elgin, IL

2. Evanston, IL

3. Aurora, IL

4. Glen Ellyn, IL

5. Kankakee, IL

6. Cicero, IL

7. Chicago, IL

8.

Ms. Bean was my social worker in only the last two cities, but she’s got files on me from the other five. So she’d pick up on this list right away and make a big deal of it if she saw it.

I wait until she’s totally confused and trying to study her map while avoiding crashing into trucks. Then I open my list-book and fill in that blank by #8 of the cities I never want to see again.

When I’m sure she’s not looking, I write in big letters:

Nice, IL

Copyright © 2008 by Dandi Daley Mackall. All rights reserved.

Chasing Diana by Jack and Robin Firestone

I requested to review this book not having too much to go on and what a no no. It was a private e-mail sent to me not through the First family book tours or CFBA tours. Oh, boy. Well, needless to say I'm not finishing it 15 pages was way too much. My copy will go in the trash as that is exactly what it is. I'm sorry. In the first three pages there were 8 swear words. There was reference to Booze and then even where drugs are referred to and used within the first 15 pages. And that is where I stopped. with 3 more curse words I was done for that was 11 obscene words in 15 pages. The book closed. I thought this would be a good book it is supposedly a true account, their story. I'm not giving it praise what so ever. It is not a good book. Enough said. The book is closed and in the trash.

A Constant Heart by Siri Mitchell

This week, the
Christian Fiction Blog Alliance
is introducing
A Constant Heart
(Bethany House October 1, 2008)
by
Siri Mitchell


ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

Siri Mitchell graduated from the University of Washington with a business degree and worked in various levels of government. As a military spouse, she has lived all over the world, including in Paris and Tokyo. Siri enjoys observing and learning from different cultures. She is fluent in French and loves sushi.

But she is also a member of a strange breed of people called novelists. When they’re listening to a sermon and taking notes, chances are, they’ve just had a great idea for a plot or a dialogue. If they nod in response to a really profound statement, they’re probably thinking, “Yes. Right. That’s exactly what my character needs to hear.” When they edit their manuscripts, they laugh at the funny parts. And cry at the sad parts. Sometimes they even talk to their characters.

Siri wrote 4 books and accumulated 153 rejections before signing with a publisher. In the process, she saw the bottoms of more pints of Ben & Jerry’s than she cares to admit. At various times she has vowed never to write another word again. Ever. She has gone on writing strikes and even stooped to threatening her manuscripts with the shredder.

A Constant Heart is her sixth novel. Two of her novels, Chateau of Echoes and The Cubicle Next Door were Christy Award finalists. She has been called one of the clearest, most original voices in the CBA.



ABOUT THE BOOK

In a world of wealth, power, and privilege...love is the only forbidden luxury.

“Trust was a valuable commodity at court. Traded by everyone, but possessed by no one. Its rarity was surpassed only by love. Love implied commitment and how could any of us commit ourselves to any but the Queen? Love implied singularity and how could any of us benefit another if our affections were bound to one in exclusivity? Love was never looked for and rarely found. When it was, it always ended badly.”

In Queen Elizabeth’s court where men and women willingly trade virtue for power, is it possible for Marget to obtain her heart’s desire or is the promise of love only an illusion?

A riveting glimpse into Queen Elizabeth's Court...

Born with the face of an angel, Marget Barnardsen is blessed. Her father is a knight, and now she is to be married to the Earl of Lytham. Her destiny is guaranteed ... at least, it would seem so. But when her introduction to court goes awry and Queen Elizabeth despises her, Marget fears she's lost her husband forever. Desperate to win him back, she'll do whatever it takes to discover how she failed and capture again the love of a man bound to the queen.

If you would like to read the first chapter of A Constant Heart, go HERE