July 16th, 2009
Thanks to all who entered our SpellQuizzer contest! Our winner is Melissa Waters who said:
This would definitely benefit our homeschooling. My daughter needs help in spelling and what a great way to get her to work on it without realizing it.
Congratulations! I’ll be sending your email address to SpellQuizzer to arrange for your free software!
July 16th, 2009
When we purchased our truck (used), it ahem – came with an air conditioner. However, it just didn’t put out cold air! It huffed and puffed and blew, and eventually developed a squeal and conked out. Now we use the old-fashioned 4 windows down technique, with adjustments according to velocity. When we’re in town it’s down with the windows, when we hit the highway it’s up with the windows! It’s been several years, and we’ve yet to replace it – maybe it just needs a new a/c compressor – I’m sure that my husband would be handy enough to install a new one! It would certainly be refreshing on the rare hot, muggy days we get every once in a while!
July 16th, 2009
A self-proclaimed black Pentecostal in all ways but one, a young Julie Lyons first discovered a tiny church filled with spirit-filled believers on her beat as a crime reporter in Dallas in 1990. Following a hunch for a new angle on the escalating drug crimes and violence, she was looking for drug addicts who’d been healed, delivered by God from their addictions. Working under the premise that where the spirit moves, freedom follows – Lyons trolled South Dallas until she found The Body of Christ Assembly, where God was working. Shabby in appearance yet full of God’s delivering presence, it was there that Lyons and her family would make their spiritual home for the next two decades.
In Holy Roller Lyons presents not only the establishment and history of The Body of Christ Assembly and her leaders, but intertwines her own spiritual growth and journey into the narrative. I expected Lyons’ memoirs to be filled with recounts of drug addicts being cleansed from addiction, prostitutes coming to Christ and the like. There is a certain amount of this present, but Lyons’ main thrust is towards giving outsiders a glimpse into the life of a black Pentecostal church.
With this in mind, there are times when Lyons becomes somewhat long-winded as she describes the distinctive of Pentecostalism, and indulges in a certain degree of, “My church is the best church because…” monologue. At times, the text reads almost like an elaborate recruiting brochure for the Charismatic movement, but Lyons doesn’t pull any punches when it comes to exposing the sin and ungodliness that is often present in mainline Charismatic churches.
I’ll admit to holding a certain degree of fascination with ‘holly roller’ churches; the exuberant worship, the loud, joyful song and dance, and of course the oft-related speaking in tongues, faith healings, and rolling in the aisles that visitors to Pentecostal churches report with certain degrees of awe and disdain after visiting for the first time. Holly Rollerboth explains the reasons behind such phenomenon, as well as delivering a number of first person narratives of casting out demons, prophesying, and churches where many are ‘slain in the spirit’. Lyons’ accounts proved both informative and intriguing, though I still don’t completely understand the worship practices of members of the denomination.
Throughout the book I felt like a spiritual voyeur, overlooking beliefs, practices, and even church structures that I don’t claim as my own. While I don’t feel called of God to a Charismatic fellowship, I did find Lyons’ descriptions of membership in one deeply enlightening. I also discovered that some of the terms Pentecostals use to describe the Christian life are also present in the lives of other born-again-Christians; it’s only the terminology and understanding of how certain processes take place that differ.
Holly Roller is sure to rattle the cages of those who believe that God no longer intervenes in the affairs of this world (a view far too commonly held in growing numbers of lifeless North American churches). My husband and I have often discussed the work that God is performing in India: healings, deliverance from demons, and drawing souls to Himself through these acts. We’ve often wondered why we don’t hear of such clear acts of God amongst His people here in North America, but Lyons has pointed out that He’s busy here as well – as I’ve long suspected. Her work will kindle a longing to be more deeply involved in God’s work and to delve deeply into all that He does amongst His people. Truly, the Holy Ghost is alive and well – transforming lives, delivering from sin, breaking the chains of bondage – as Lyons and her spiritual-kinfolk are well aware. Invite Him in.
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July 15th, 2009
When my first daughter was born I was firmly convinced that children learn basic colours, shapes, and counting skills through daily life. As my child grew and matured I realized that some of my assumptions were correct; my daughter learned to count verbally, most colours, and a few basic shapes through our daily interactions. As she turned six I realized that she hadn’t picked up any of the symbolic representations for numbers that she was familiar with – well, okay that’s a bit like learning phonics, so we’ll need some structured teaching there. I also found that she was missing out on the names of a few very simple shapes – mixing up rectangles and triangles, for example – oops. My previously held notions that children never needed to be formally taught shape names blew out the window, taking some of my pride along with it.
With the need for some remedial education becoming apparent, I was happy to find Rock ‘n Learn’s Colours, Shapes & Counting educational DVD a good fit for our family. Recommended for children between the ages of three and five, my oldest doesn’t find it babyish, my three-year-old is captivated, and even my one-year-old dances around the living room and points at the television when the disc is playing. Not only are the bright, simple animations and illustrations child friendly and the rock-inspired songs engaging, this disc also incorporates a true wealth of essential instruction for early education. We’ve found the learning value to be excellent with a very wide range of concepts introduced, reinforced and informally tested through fun games with built-in pauses for children to shout out their answers.
The DVD’s hosts – Rollie Roundman, Trollie Triangle, and Rockford Rectangle – introduce basic concepts before building into combinations of everything presented to date, and advanced levels within the topic areas. For example, basic colours, shapes, and numbers up to ten are introduced before children are asked questions that combine all three concepts: “How many purple circles do you see?” After mastering the basic shapes more advanced forms are introduced, as well as helpful tricks to differentiate between similar forms. The children progress all the way up to ellipses, trapezoids, polygons, and more. Intermediate colours are introduced after basic colours are familiar, and counting to 20 is practiced after the first ten numbers are well established.
Most of the songs on the DVD are rock-inspired, though Rollie often employs a rhythmic jazzy-swing instructional style. Some of the songs are catchy and easy to sing along with, such as the song in “Mixing Colors,” our family’s favourite segment hands-down. At other times the background music accompanies rhythmic counting or verbal instruction. The easy to use navigational menu makes it easy for parents to zero in on specific lessons for review if they don’t need their children to work through the entire 46-minute disc.
As an owner of a variety of educational DVDs, I’m impressed by the amount of information effectively conveyed in Colors, Shapes & Counting. The continuous integration of colours, shapes, and counting as the disc progresses, counting shapes, then asking for the colour, stating the colour then counting and asking for the shape name, and so on, provide thorough review and practice. Now my six-year-old can identify trapezoids with ease. She still needs a bit more practice with her triangles and rectangles (I think the similarity in suffix is confusing for her), but we’re well on our way.
A video sample can be viewed online at the Rock ‘n Learn website.
Lessons Included:
1. Meet Rollie
2. Colors All Around
3. Basic Colors
4. Color Practice
5. Learn Our Shapes
6. Shapes Are All Around Us
7. What Color Is It?
8. Name That Shape
9. Music Helps Us Count to 5
10. Zero
11. Mixing Colors
12. Counting Up to 10
13. How Many Shapes?
14. So Many Shapes
15. So Many Colors
16. The Ellipse
17. Diamonds and Squares
18. Four Cool Shapes
19. Polygons
20. Polygon Song
21. Let’s Count to 20
22. Fun Time Quiz
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July 15th, 2009
From the first time I heard the opening slide of slippery steel guitar strings of the title track, I realized that Ten Shekel Shirt serves up something that’s largely outside of typical praise and worship songs.
Introspective, and at times melancholy, Jubilee somehow captures a depth of reflective thought that is largely missing from the Christian music genre. True, there are upbeat tunes, catchy choruses, and personal reflections on the walk of faith – but there are also songs addressing slavery, recovery from abuse, and poverty.
Lamont Hiebert, the band’s lead vocalist and songwriter became radicalized in the late ‘90s after hearing reports of child trafficking and slavery. The founding of a charitable organization (Love146) to provide aftercare for rescued child slaves and to help prevent further child abductions, followed his trip to South East Asia in 2002. That passionate dedication to put feet on his faith flows as a theme throughout the album, with many of the songs dedicated to survivors of abuse, exploitation, and slavery.
However Hiebert’s lyrics are surprisingly understated considering his dedication. Far from repeatedly pounding listeners to get involved, the tracks on the CD are a blend of social action tunes, themes of personal redemption and deliverance, and even love songs. Ranging from punchy to breathy, Hiebert’s versatile tenor tackles the “la da da da da’s” in “Warmtime Lullaby” and plaintive wailings of “Higher Ground” with equal amounts of finesse.
Of the eleven tracks on the disc, “You Rescue” is perhaps the most blatant faith-based song with a chorus including the phrase “’Cause you rescue, you redeem, you save, you intervene.” Hiebert’s faith is certainly found in most of the songs, but it is often blended into the lyrics as part of his life and world view, rather than songs of straightforward praise and worship. This approach is somewhat different than many of my listening choices, but I found that the subtlety offered in many of the tracks led to a deeper appreciation of the message and context of each song.
Several musical styles are often juxtaposed and layered within the songs. “It’s Slavery” features a nearly abrasive, alternative sound with a very faint underlying melody – nearly indistinguishable, that tends towards the symphonic. “Jubilee” alternates between a very pared down, thoughtful guitar and drum accompaniment and an upbeat, hope-filled euro-rock sound.
Very few of the tracks on Jubillee are easy to digest. It’s impossible to gain any appreciation for Hiebert’s work without spending time immersed in the music and reflecting contemplatively upon it.
Don’t leave with the wrong impression; Ten Shekel Shirt doesn’t come off as pretentious. Jubileesimply doesn’t offer up instant appeal, quick up-lift, fast-food pop choruses that are immediately ‘sticky’, the disc invites digging in, settling down, and interacting with the music and message. I for one appreciate the difference and continue to slot in hours of playtime of the group’s music.
Track Listing:
1. Jubilee
2. Surprised
3. Fragile
4. Spark
5. Higher Ground
6. En Garde
7. Wartime Lullaby
8. Love From a Lesser God
9. You Rescue
10. Daylight
11. It’s Slavery
CLICK HERE TO BUY NOW AT CHRISTIANBOOK, AMAZON.COM, OR AMAZON.CA!
July 15th, 2009
This week, the
Christian Fiction Blog Alliance
is introducing
Pirate Hunter
Bethany House (July 1, 2009)
by
Tom Morrisey
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Tom Morrisey is a mountaineer, aviator, shipwreck diver, and explorer, who holds a Full Cave certification from the National Speleological Society – Cave Diving Section.
He has launched, edited or contributed to numerous national publications and is an award-winning adventure-travel writer. A popular speaker, he is also active in both evangelism and the arts. Morrisey earned an MFA in creative writing from Bowling Green State University, and his fiction has been featured in numerous anthologies and magazines.
His first novel, Yucatan Deep (Zondervan, 2002) was a finalist for the Christy award, and he is the author of six novels, including Wind River and In High Places. In addition Tom has also written two nonfiction books: 20 American Peaks & Crags (Contemporary Books, 1978) and Wild by Nature (Baker Books, 2001). He and his family live in Orlando, Florida.
ABOUT THE BOOK
High Seas Adventure Meets a High-Tech Quest for Pirate Gold West Indies, 18th century Young Ted Bascombe is rescued by notorious pirate Captain Henry Thatch, finding himself caught up in a world of crime, adventure, and a daily fight for freedom…. Key West, 21st century Marine archaeologist Greg Rhode embarks on a treasure-hunting expedition in the turquoise waters of the Florida Keys, but he’s as beguiled by a beautiful diver with different-colored eyes as by the lure of pirate gold…The Hunt Is On! Interweaving these two stories, pro deep-sea diver Tom Morrisey spins a multilayered tale of two young men’s quests to escape their past by losing themselves to adventure on the high seas. Romantic and thrilling, this unique novel explores the timeless truth that “where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.”
If you would like to read the first chapter of Pirate Hunter, go HERE
July 15th, 2009
And I don’t make any bones about it. A big, blue 3/4 ton with a full back-seat named “Betty-Lou”, she’s been pretty good to us over the years. We bought her when my oldest was a baby, and though we’ve had a few major breakdowns and overhauls, my husband has been able to do most of her maintenance and repairs. Built in 1993, everything is still pretty simple – easier to fix than those new-fangled computer loaded vehicles.
However, as time goes on, and fuel prices keep going up, and our family gets bigger (only one empty seat left!), we’re looking for a more fuel efficient model; used of course. We’re thinking of a big van of some sort. If we lived in Utah, we might drop by Utah county auto dealers and take a peek at their pre-owned selection. As it is, I think we’re going to try to get our hand-me-down mini-van running if we can ever figure out what’s wrong! (It’s completely computerized, so hard to say without running it through a diagnostic machine.)
Either way, I’m thankful to God that we do have a pretty reliable vehicle. Thanks Mom and Shane for bringing us a part last time we had a breakdown!
July 15th, 2009
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!
and the book:
Refuge: A True Story of Faith and Civil War
Bruce Beakley (March 1, 2009) (WinePress Publishing)
Bruce Beakley is not your typical author. As an engineer by trade, the possibility of writing a book wasn’t even on his radar. “Truthfully, I’ve never even been what you would call an avid reader. An engineer that reads; that’s an oxymoron,” he laughs. “To me, reading a book is making a serious commitment. What if you get to the end and find out the book wasn’t all that good?” A divine encounter in an airport terminal changed everything. Beakley and his wife, Debra, have been married for 32 years. The couple has one grown son and resides in Houston, Texas. Beakley’s penchant for adventure is expressed in his love of international prison missions in Central and South America. He enjoys tennis, hiking mountains and volcanoes, and trying out his Belgian-imported hip on the ski slopes.
The Gonlehs currently reside in Montgomery, Alabama, where the membership of First Baptist Church has embraced them and helped to meet their needs. Bessie works at the church daycare, while John, an ordained Baptist minister, is a groundskeeper at Tuskegee University. After several years of waiting, John Jr. and Miracle were recently able to join their parents in the United States.
Visit the authors’ website.
Product Details:
List Price: $14.95
Paperback: 262 pages
Publisher: Bruce Beakley (March 1, 2009) (WinePress Publishing)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 1579219306
ISBN-13: 978-1579219307
AND NOW…THE FIRST CHAPTER:
#72 Soldiers’ Barrack
John
July 11, 1990
Putrid aromas from sweat, urine, blood, and infected sores mingled to rouse me from a fitful night. Moans and curses in the dimly lit room let me know the others were awake.
“You should pray with me, because only God can save us now.” I spoke softly but deliberately to the group of eleven men huddled into the cramped, muggy cell. So, as the early-morning sun peeked through the palm trees, I prayed one last time. Our captors had told us today was the final investigation.
“Father, here we are, committing ourselves into your hands. We have no one else but you. Save our lives from these wicked people. And let these men know you are God. In Jesus’ name I pray. Amen.”
I didn’t actually lead the men in prayer. It was just that no one raised any objection. No one had any energy left for theological arguments. Mine was a prayer of unyielding stubbornness. After all God had done for me, I refused to give up on him, like the others.
Our cell was one of ten. Several weeks earlier these had been the living quarters for Liberian army soldiers. The rebels had turned them into a makeshift prison.
About a hundred men were being held in the ten cells. Some were wealthy—government officials or prominent businessmen. I had been Assistant Prayer Leader with a volunteer group at the executive mansion chapel. That was my crime. I was a collaborator with the Liberian government of President Samuel Doe.
After the war began six months ago, I spent many mornings at the chapel with my group. We prayed for soldiers and government employees. Sometimes I delivered the message at the midday service. In the afternoons, I worked at my construction block business. I never saw President Doe.
Years before, I met President Doe once, though I doubt he would remember me. I wasn’t one of his wealthy friends, his generals, or his political enemies. I was merely a volunteer Christian. Inconsequential.
I don’t think the rebels expected to get much information from me. I was a collaborator and my wife was one-half Krahn. These crimes justified the beatings and torture. I could only hope justice would prevail during the final investigation today. Perhaps, afterward, I would finally be free from the terrible mistake that had brought me here.
We were being held in the #72 Soldiers’ Barrack outside Paynesville, an upscale suburb on the outskirts of Monrovia, the capital city of Liberia. My house was close by. It was so near, and yet I struggled to remember details I’d never paid attention to before. I had carelessly placed my house and neighborhood in the background scenery. Now I longed to remember the color of the flowers Bessie planted in our yard. After a brief failed effort, I gave up.
My mind kept going over the events of the past week, the moment when the rebels came for me. I tried to logically process what had happened, but nothing fit together.
Where are you, God? Why are you allowing this to happen?
I alternated between faith and doubt.
Of course he was in control and could save me. But that didn’t mean that I, Bessie, or the children would survive.
The rebels had entered Paynesville nine days ago. We heard automatic gunfire in nearby neighborhoods. Three weeks before, we had heard their long-range artillery shells hitting the city center. Everyone knew the rebels were coming, slowly but steadily advancing.
The first two days, we escaped the bullets coming straight down through our roof. Victorious over the government troops, the rebels celebrated by firing their weapons into the air. Bullets fell from the sky like tiny meteors. Our family was lucky. A neighbor’s child three doors down was struck and wounded by one of these projectiles.
Bessie and I took the precaution of packing all our important papers into one of the children’s book satchels. We included our marriage certificate, the children’s birth certificates, school report cards, our deeds, and cash. That was all. There wasn’t room for anything else.
Then, on the morning of the third day of the attack, I happened to be looking out my living room window when an army jeep drove right onto our front lawn. Rebels started piling out.
Wide-eyed, I screamed, “Bessie, get the children and hide.” A frantic commotion ensued for a few seconds. Small bodies ran past me as Bessie yelled her orders. In just seconds, it was quiet again. I stood alone, watching.
Four rebels stood on our lawn. Each carried an automatic rifle, a Kalashnikov. They fired their weapons into the sky. They looked crazed and terrifying.
The AK-47 was the favorite among revolutionaries. Firing up to thirty bullets per trigger pull, and outfitted with a wicked-looking and effective bayonet, it was simple and cheap. At only twenty dollars each, it was light enough for a small child to handle.
A month earlier, I had nearly been killed by an AK-47.
I had taken a taxi to the open market to purchase a hundred-pound bag of rice. Food had gotten scarce as the rebel offensive drew near the city, so the rice cost triple its normal price. I placed the heavy bag of rice in a little wagon and turned to pay the merchant. When I turned back, I saw a man walking away, pulling the wagon and taking my rice. I yelled for him to stop and ran toward him. He abruptly halted and slowly turned around.
His face was streaked with white clay, his long hair matted in clumps, and his clothes were filthy. A rebel! Fear suddenly gripped me. Bessie and I had heard from neighbors that rebel excursions into the city were becoming common as their army approached. He had come to the market to get food by any means he could.
He was big, almost a foot taller than I and heavier by thirty pounds. His AK-47 was slung over his right shoulder. Ignoring my fear, I ran up to him and told him the rice belonged to me—as though he didn’t already know. He didn’t speak but calmly reached into his flak-jacket pocket with his right hand and started to unsling his rifle with his left.
Blinking and dumbfounded, I realized the bullet clip wasn’t in the rifle, and he was retrieving it. I didn’t know what to do. Should I run? Try to reason with him?
Just then, the clip snapped into the rifle.
Inside my head I heard, Are you just going to stand there and let him kill you? Startled by the unexpected voice, I snapped out of my stupor. I mouthed, “Help me, Lord!” Before I knew it, I had grabbed hold of the rifle with both hands.
Now, the rebel was the startled one. We both gripped the gun tightly. We wrestled back and forth, each trying to gain control without success. As large as he was, he couldn’t shake me or twist the gun free. After a few moments, a Monrovia policeman saw our struggle and rushed in. He yelled for the crowd of gaping merchants and customers to grab us and pull us apart.
Once we were apart, the policeman quickly ascertained the situation. He yelled at me, “Get your rice and go. Just go!” The merchants released me on his command. I ran, snatched my bag of rice out of the wagon, jumped in a taxi, and sped off. All the way home I trembled.
Whereas that incident had been a chance encounter, the rebels on my front lawn now were not there by accident. After shooting their guns into the sky, they walked across my yard toward the front door. I saw bandoliers of ammunition draped over their shoulders and around their waists.
I’ve never owned a gun and never handled one other than in the market. I did know, however, those weapons in the hands of the teenagers standing in my front yard had defeated Liberia’s national army. The sight of the rebels paralyzed me with fear.
At least when I first saw them, I had the presence of mind to yell to Bessie to get in the back bedroom with the kids.
“Thank you, Lord, for letting me see them,” I prayed.
I breathed in deeply and slowly exhaled, trying to control my emotions and thinking of what else I could do.
“Nothing. There is nothing I can do,” I told myself.
So, alone in my living room, I sat down in my favorite comfortable armchair. I waited. I watched the rebels through the large front window as they walked toward the door. One wore a uniform. His face and arms were streaked with white clay. I recognized the clay as Juju, witchcraft, designed to make its wearer impervious to bullets. Another wore a crimson church choir robe with an ammunition belt cinched around his waist.
What an odd spoil of war, I thought, looting a choir robe.
Choirboy’s hair was wild, almost like spikes coming out of his head. It wasn’t clear if this was his hairstyle or just happenstance from living months in the bush. Strange, the details we notice in a crisis.
With each step the rebels took toward my house, I grew more frightened. I couldn’t move, still paralyzed by fear. At that moment, it wasn’t an expression or figure of speech. I was truly paralyzed. My muscles were so constricted, it seemed as if each possessed its own little mind and instinctively knew what to do in a moment such as this. I was a fawn hiding in the Liberian savannah grass and being stalked by a leopard.
There was no chance of escaping. All I felt was stark terror, not breathing, everything shutting down. I couldn’t even form a prayer. “Jesus, Jesus, Jesus,” was all I whispered. Did those words reach my lips or were they just in my mind? I couldn’t tell.
The rebels were at the front door. Suddenly one called out, “Come out and bring your Krahn wife. Bring out the bank money and tell us where President Doe is. Otherwise, we’re going to kill you and burn your house down.”
I didn’t move or speak. I couldn’t. I was paralyzed. The rebels didn’t ask twice. With a swift boot to the front door, the door jamb splintered and the door swung open. With bloodshot eyes from drugs or sleep deprivation, their eyes locked on mine as they approached. Oddly, my eyes apparently were the only part of my body not frozen. As time slowed down, they followed each movement as the two converged on the helpless creature staring back at them.
It was as if my body floated. I was weightless. They jerked me hard up and out of the armchair. The force must have torn my shirt because I heard a rip. I felt my feet bouncing across the floor, through the front door, across the porch, and down the steps.
My short weightless journey abruptly ended. Once in the front yard, they dropped me. I tried to use my arms to break the fall, but they wouldn’t respond. I remembered the saying about dropping something like a sack of potatoes. Now I knew what that meant.
I fell face forward straight down onto my chest and tasted grass as my head bounced. My eyes saw the bottom half of a small figure approaching. The two larger rebels who dragged me were walking away. The approaching figure had small skinny legs and mismatched oversized boots.
I guessed the child to be about twelve years old. As I started to lift my head, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a sudden blur. The concussion from the butt end of the assault rifle snapped my head back to the ground. My right temple started to throb.
Taking aim a second time, the child struck once more with the ease of someone possessing supreme confidence in his ability to perform this most basic of warfare skills: Stand over your subject. Hold the barrel in the left hand near the muzzle, the right hand holding the stock just above the trigger guard. Now while keeping a firm grip arc downward like you’re planting a flagpole in the ground. You should hear a good solid crack as you make contact. That’s correct. Now try it again.
At once, their leader demanded again, “Where is your Krahn wife? Where is the bank money? Tell us where President Doe is.”
Jarred to my senses, my head now reeling and throbbing from pain, but shocked out of my frozen, paralyzing fear, I once again was able to think.
“I…I’m alone in the house. We have no bank money. It stays at the bank. I don’t have anything to do with President Doe. I have no idea where he is.” The pain loosened my frozen arms and they now hurried to protect my head, but the damage had already been done.
These particular rebels were so ignorant they thought Bessie, a bank teller, brought the bank’s money home at night and took it back the next day. While they certainly needed it, they weren’t asking for a lesson on the Liberian banking system. They just wanted the money.
I blurted out these answers as fast as I could. If I thought immediate compliance to their demands would preserve me from another head blow, I was wrong. The efficient and skillful assistant found an open spot and replicated his technique. Once a skill is perfected, it is only a natural human tendency to want to show off to your superiors. The child was rewarded by their grinning approval. Rising weightless once more, I was dragged to the jeep and thrown in the back.
The teenage leader was the passenger, of course, as was befitting his rank. He should naturally be chauffeured during these roundup excursions. In the back with me were the skillful assistant and the cherub choirboy. They had successfully bagged their prey, and now it was time to take it home, victorious once more.
Knots were already forming, slowly rising off my skull, and I felt blood trickle down one cheek. The warm liquid mingled in my mouth with dirt and the grass I’d planted when we first built our house. Silently through the pain, I breathed a sigh of relief. As odd as it seems, I also shared in their victory.
Driving away from the house, my prayer and those of Bessie and the children were answered. The rebel soldiers forgot all about searching the house. Bessie and the kids weren’t discovered. They certainly would have been found if the search had taken place. In a closet and under the bed aren’t exactly unique hiding places. My basic house just wasn’t constructed for such a clandestine purpose. It was such a simple mistake really and yet one that would affect everything to follow.
“Thank you, Jesus. Thank you, Lord,” I silently prayed as we drove away. I glanced up and noticed the sky. The sun was just starting its climb. It would be another typical summer day in Liberia, hot and humid.
CLICK HERE TO BUY NOW AT CHRISTIANBOOK, AMAZON.COM, OR AMAZON.CA!
July 10th, 2009
Christian historical fiction tends to come in a few selected flavours: life as a Christian in the early New Testament church, life as a Christian in prominent historical periods in Western Europe and America, and the lives of prominent Bible personages regardless of testament period. Of course, there are a handful of exceptions to the standard categories, but I’ve never come across Christian historical fiction like T.L. Higley’s Seven Wonders series.
Higley’s series is set in pre-New Testament times, each tale intertwined with one of the Seven Wonders of the World; the first installment—Shadow of Colossus—takes place on the Greek island of Rhodes in 227 B.C. Into this pre-Christ setting Higley drops a fiery, wounded ice-princess of a heroine. Trapped in chains that seem inescapable and serving out a sentence as tenacious as that of any prison, Tessa of Delos has been in bondage for a decade. Held in high regard for her beauty, cutting wit, and political acumen, her services as courtesan are promised to the highest bidder in a process beyond her control. When her master dies unexpectedly, she glimpses an opportunity for freedom; with the help of a new servant Nikos, a man with a hidden past, she maneuvers treacherous waters in search of a way out.
Blending suspense, romance, political intrigue, and a healthy dose of drama, Higley brings the struggles, class differences, and pagan culture of ancient Greece to vivid life. Her attention to detail in recreating the historical and political climate is commendable, but what fascinates me most about this novel is the offer of freedom through salvation that is woven throughout a story that takes place in a pre-Christian culture. Tessa’s physical bondage only serves to underscore her deeper need for spiritual freedom. Her encounters with the dispersed Jewish population of Rhodes throw the unrest of the city’s pagan population into sharp contrast with the peace and joy experienced by those who know God. This marker alone sets Higley’s novel apart from the majority of historicals. Pre-Christian history outside of the Middle East intertwined with the promise of hope and freedom for those looking towards the coming of their Messiah is entirely unique and enjoyable.
Also impressive is Higley’s careful planning which allows readers a deeply personal glimpse into Tessa’s life and heart, while entirely avoiding scenes which explicitly detail her lot in life. Though there’s no doubt that her role in Grecian society is sinful, yet socially accepted, and even expected in the upper echelons of her world, Higley manages to present an entirely chaste period of Tessa’s life.
Shadow of Colossus opens by diving directly into the crux of Tessa’s struggle, but the pace slows throughout the bulk of the novel. Her introspection, along with the web of political entanglements and maneuvering, prove a tempering influence to an otherwise tight timeline. Toward the book’s end, the pace builds exponentially into a pounding crescendo.
Strong characterization combined with rich historical detail have wonShadow of Colossus a home on my shelves of keepers. Though I rarely read a novel twice, Tessa’s story is one that I want to keep on hand for future plumbing. Higley’s work has certainly caught my eye, and I look forward to reading the stories she weaves around the remaining six Wonders of the World.
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July 9th, 2009
Most children’s picture books that are set in Quebec or depict Quebecois culture are written in French. While searching for a children’s picture book written in English to introduce my children to Quebec through literature, I kept coming up empty. Textbook style works describing Quebec’s culture, geography, economy etc. are widely available, but a living, breathing experience of Quebec as found in story was nigh impossible to find. That’s one reason why The Sugaring-Off Party by Jonathan London is such a treasure.
As Paul and his grandmother reflect upon the upcoming sugaring-off party, they snuggle together in front of the fireplace as she shares her reminiscences of the first such party – a cabane a sucre – that she attended as a small girl.
”Every March for many, many years, the family has driven out to a maple sugaring in the country. But tomorrow will be Paul’s very first time.”
London brings the party to life with interspersed French phrases, snippets of song, and the exquisite anticipation of a newly experienced family tradition. The child-like delight found in each new aspect of the party, from the horse drawn journey to the sugar shack, the gathering of the syrup, and the resulting celebration held my little ones enthralled throughout the book.
A sense of anticipation grows with each passing page as Paul’s grandmother, her siblings, cousins and other children eagerly await the grand finale of the party. Once la tire (a sweet taffy that is the result of pouring, thick, sticky maple syrup onto fresh snow) is served in a delicious climax, the eager mood is replaced with the satisfaction, security, and belonging that are birthed from the participation in a time-honored tradition.
A helpful reference page at the book’s end includes a glossary that defines the commonly sprinkled French words found throughout the text, the origins of the phrase ‘sugar moon’, and the French and English lyrics for the first verse of “Alouette”.
My children were equally surprised and intrigued to find the loving grandmother referring to her grandson as “mon petit chou”, my little cabbage. My husband and I were both surprised to find that this traditional song – which many commit to memory in childhood without understanding its meaning – details the rather explicit, and somewhat taunting plucking of a lark.
Illustrated by Gilles Pelletier, the bold, saturated colours are reminiscent of folk-art. Executed in dense, opaque oils in a warmly inviting palette, each picture breathes anticipation and excitement. Simple forms, figures and shapes fill each page to the brim, creating riotous scenes filled with activity, life and joy. Each painted scene is broad, capturing landscape, central and peripheral characters, and all manners of detail in the surroundings.
The inclusion of such detail in each illustration draws readers into the pictures. The Sugaring-Off Party is best read slowly, each page lingered over in order to allow the necessary time to visually gather in the many events that are taking place within each page.
Serving up timeless Quebecois culture and traditions, a hands-on perspective of simple maple syrup/sugar production, and a glimpse into Canada’s past The Sugaring-Off Party will engage and delight all who peruse it.
CLICK HERE TO BUY NOW AT AMAZON.COM, OR AMAZON.CA!
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