Friday, March 28, 2008
He made 1
Are you using your talent?
Have you ever really wanted to do something but you did not have the talent? I have always wanted to sit down at a piano and play a wonderful melody and one day after many lessons by a patient teacher that dream may come true. It is not that I have not played an instrument in the past. During middle school and my first year of high school I played, well let me correct that, I held a saxophone during band class. A lot of my lack of ability is due to the fact that I did not practice and refused to lug the beast home.
I did not play my instrument with all my might and it was not a passion or a talent I had. God has given all of us gifts to use for His Glory. The church is often described as the body of Christ. Often we try to do things that really are not a talent we posses. The hand cannot do what is meant for the elbow to do. By using our talents God knows that we will be filled with contentment. Are you using the gifts God has given to you?
Review of Elvis Takes a Back Seat by Leanna Ellis
Elvis Takes a Back Seat by Leanna Ellis
In this delightful, inspired novel a young widow, determined to fulfill her husbands last request loads up a three foot bust of Elvis strapped in the backseat of a vintage Caddy and travels from Texas to Memphis to return it to the rightful owner. Along with her “bohemian” aunt who personally knew the King of Rock ‘n Roll and a moody teenager who is hiding her own secret, these three women run into detours and roadblocks as they uncover pieces of their past and discover new dreams along the way.
Do not be fooled by the quirky cover or the catchy title. While I laughed out loud, I also found tears leaking from my eyes in many places. Ellis deals with deep emotions and serious subjects in a fresh new way.. Ellis created a fascinating cast of multilayer characters that appear real and compelling. Her characters are colorful, hopelessly flawed and wonderfully crafted.
ELVIS TAKES A BACK SEAT delves into letting go of our past; the struggles between our human nature and our spiritual nature; and having faith. This is down to earth, page-turning fiction full of family secrets and life truths on hard issues revealed in a unique and convincing way. I loved the Elvis humor and every chapter was titled by an Elvis song. I look forward to many more books by Leanna Ellis.
Wednesday, March 26, 2008
A real princess
When we arrived at the practice Mitch ran off to join his team and the two younger one went to play on the slide and swings. At the end of practice as I was walking back to the car with my children, my daughter picked up a dandelion and blew on it to make a wish. I asked her what she wished and she said to be a real princess. She does not understand that she already is a princess because she is a child of God.
You created my inmost being; you knit me together in my mother's womb. I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made. Psalm 139:13-14
"I'm delighted that Mount Hermon honored Virginia with Writer of the Year," says Wendy Lawton. "Not only has she been successful with her own writing-- building a group of faithful readers-- but she continues to teach workshops, give to other writers and spearhead a new energy for CAN, Christian Authors Network."
In regard to being chosen for this honor, Smith says, "I'm still reeling. I am so honored to have my name added to the list of distinguished authors who have received this award in the past."
Smith left her job as a corporate director in the summer of 2005 to become a full time writer and speaker. Since then she has received contracts for ten novels. She writes humorous inspirational novels, including her debut Just As I Am, a cozy mystery entitled Murder by Mushroom, and her latest releases, Sincerely Mayla and Stuck in the Middle, book 1 in the Sister-to-Sister Series.
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
God's Plan Isaiah 55:9
I read this scripture today and it struck me that I am always questioning God just like my children always ask "Why?" when told to do something they don't really want to. We often get caught in this dialogue with God asking him constant questions when things do not go the way we want them to go. What we fail to realize is that God's wisdom is greater than ours. We only have a speck of understanding.
I could ask why for the rest of my life and I will not know the answer. Today we have knowledge at our fingertips with computers, media and books. I know on my cell phone I can see what time the movie is playing at the local theater or one in another state. All of my knowledge is just a tiny blip in God's grand plan. If we surrender our lives to him and follow him everything will work out for our good. Of course bad things are going to happen to us. We will lose people we love and sickness will still happen, but in the end we can rest assured that God has a happy ending for our lives if we have given it to him and follow his plan.
Thursday, March 20, 2008
Between Two Worlds:The Spiritual Journey of an Evangelical Catholic
Introducing the new blog alliance devoted to Non~Fiction books,
Non~FIRST, a component of Fiction in Rather Short
Takes (FIRST). (Join our alliance! Click the button!) This is our
very first blog tour. Normally, we will post every 15th day of every
month, featuring an author and his/her latest book's FIRST chapter!
NavPress (February 2008)
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Mike Timmis had it all.How does a kid from working-class Detroit become an international
ambassador for Christ? And what motivated an evangelical-based ministry to
choose this Catholic as its chairman? Mike Timmis’s inspiring life as a
Catholic and evangelical leader reveals how our unity in Christ
transcends the two worlds’ differences. From him, we learn how Catholics and
evangelicals can go into an alienated world together as ministers of
reconciliation and witnesses to God’s salvation and love.
Mike Timmis is a chairman of both Prison Fellowship in America and
Prison Fellowship International. He was also a practicing lawyer and
businessman. A Roman Catholic, Mike is deeply involved in ministry in his
hometown of Detroit as well as projects in Africa and Central and South
America. He and his wife, Nancey, are parents of two and grandparents of
four.
On January 18, 1991, I was flying in a small two-engine plane in
east-central Africa from Burundi to Kenya. Our party had just come from a
wonderful meeting with Burundi’s President Pierre Buyoya where we’d shared
the gospel with him and a number of cabinet ministers. Still, we were
somewhat anxious because the Persian Gulf War had started the previous
day. Right then, American fighters were in the air against Iraqi
positions.
My wife, Nancy, and my son, Michael Jr., were with me, as well as Gene
Dewey, the former second-in-command at the United Nations High
Commissioner for Refugees, and Sam Owen, a fellow believer then living in
Nairobi. This trip was part of the quiet diplomacy I had undertaken as a
member of a group called The Fellowship. We worked on behalf of the poor
by raising up Jesus with world leaders, one means of pursuing the
ministry of reconciliation that Christ entrusted to His followers.
As we flew over northern Tanzania, the pilot was suddenly issued an
order that we were to land immediately. I was sitting close enough to the
cockpit to hear the squawking instructions coming over the radio. I
quickly assured the pilot that we had the requisite permission to fly over
Tanzanian air space. The State Department had issued an order to
American citizens to stay clear of Tanzania, an Iraq ally, so I made sure—or
thought I had—that we had permission to fly over Tanzania en route to
Kenya. The pilot relayed my protest to the Tanzanians.
“No, you do not have permission!” came the reply. “You must land
immediately, or we will force you down.”
We landed at the small city airport of Mwanza. As we stepped down onto
the tarmac, a military jeep pulled up. A cadre of officials and police
officers met us and immediately arrested the pilot and impounded the
plane.
Their leader also demanded our passports. I was reluctant to give these
up, because no matter what alternative flight arrangements we might be
able to make, we would be stranded without passports. Because I had
requested—and been granted—permission to fly over Tanzania, our detention
was making me angry. (Later I found out that the flight service we
were using had previously flouted Tanzanian regulations and had again on
this occasion.) Because my family was with me, I restrained my temper.
My jaw clenched, I reluctantly handed over my passport.
We were allowed to find our own accommodations in Mwanza, and we found
a car that took us to the New Hotel Mwanza. I would hate to have seen
the old Hotel Mwanza. We were the hotel’s only guests, and for good
reason. The first thing I did was check under the bed for bugs and rats.
As we caught our breath in our hotel room, I asked Nancy if she was
afraid. “No, I’m not afraid,” she said. “You are with me, our son is with
us, and God is with us.”
Even though we were stranded in an African backwater, I felt the same.
I knew I was where God wanted us to be and felt—as I always have in my
travels to what are now 114 nations—that God was going before me. In my
many years of traveling on various missions, I’ve always felt
protected by the special anointing that comes with God’s commission. Lost
geographically, I was still at home spiritually, and for that reason at
peace.
Our party of five met for dinner in the hotel’s restaurant. My family
is Catholic, and Gene Dewey and Sam Owen were evangelicals, but the
unity we knew in the Lord sustained us, even when the dinner turned out to
be rancid.
After a little while, the hotel manager, having no other guests, joined
us at our table. This made way for the night’s entertainment. Four
strapping young men in red overalls—the kind gas station attendants used
to wear—came out, and with lamplight smiles launched into song:
My baaaaah-dy lies over the ocean,
My baaaaah-dy lies over the sea. . . .
Yes, they said “body” not “bonnie,” and since we all felt an ocean away
from home, the song struck us as hilarious. Then the quartet followed
with “Home on the Range,” and we nearly wept from laughing. We clapped
and cheered, showing our appreciation to the young men. They had done
us more good than they could possibly have known.
I spent the next day searching for transportation out of Mwanza. The
others paid special attention to BBC radio reports on the progress of the
war.
Within thirty-six hours, a plane flew in for us from Nairobi. We went
out to the airport to meet it, eager to hightail it out of there. But
when we arrived at the airport, no one seemed inclined to return our
passports. Thankfully, Gene Dewey was already anticipating this. Because of
his time with the United Nations, Gene had the most experience in
dealing with government officials. He had also been a colonel in Vietnam
and had a knack for being cool and fiercely determined at the same time.
I kept asking him when he thought we’d get our passports back—and how.
“Mike, don’t worry about it,” he’d say.
As we were walking out to the plane, bags in hand, with a couple of
Tanzanian officials to the rear in escort, I looked over at Gene and said
as forcefully as I could under my breath, “Gene, our passports!”
“Not now, Mike,” he replied quietly but just as forcefully. “Just don’t
worry about it. Keep walking.”
It wasn’t until we were in the air that Gene unbuttoned his shirt and
fished out all our passports.
“How did you get those?” I asked.
“I came out to the airport last night,” he said. “I broke into the
office and took them. If you had kept talking, they might have found out!”
Gene’s street smarts reminded me of how I’d grown up and made my way. I
asked myself, “How did I get here? How did a kid from the rough and
gritty streets of Detroit end up on a trip to see international
dignitaries? How could a guy born and raised Catholic go on a mission
representing a largely evangelical organization?”
I’ve had many amazing, frightening, and heart-rending experiences as
I’ve traveled the world in service to the King of kings. And one thing I
can say for certain: when you entrust yourself completely to God and
make yourself available to Him, you’re in for an adventure.
***
“Mike, the only way you can be ensured of success,” my father once told
me, “is if you take it into your own hands and go into the
professions.” I was an Irish Catholic kid from the battling West Side of Detroit,
the youngest of five children, keen on finding my own place in the
world.
My father remains the strongest man I think I’ve ever known, with
enormous hands, a powerful physique, and an energy that stayed with him into
his nineties. I saw him lift a car out of a ditch when he was in his
sixties, although he did injure his back. As young men, he and his
brother Brian went out to western Canada, where they took jobs as real-live
cowboys, breaking horses. Brian stayed, became a Mounty in Regina,
Saskatchewan, and played professional football there. My dad returned to
Ottawa and played wingback for the Ottawa Roughriders.1 There he met an
Irish girl who was both passionate and practical, and he had the good
sense to ask for her hand.
My parents emigrated from Canada to Detroit in 1930, at the beginning
of the Great Depression. My mother’s uncle had moved there earlier from
Ottawa and convinced my parents that the Motor City was one of the last
places in North America where a man could find regular employment. Our
relatives soon moved back to Ottawa, but my father and mother stayed,
and Dad hired on with the city as a bus driver. He eventually worked
his way up through the civil service system and retired as a bus station
manager.
Most of his working life turned out to be far different from the
spirited and reckless days as a cowboy and pro football player. I was the
last of five children, separated in age by twelve years from my eldest
sibling, Margaret Claire. My parents were well into their forties when I
was born in 1939, and so I never knew my father as a young man. Or a
particularly happy man—not at least until much later in his life when, in
retirement, he was able to live on a farm and keep horses.
While I was growing up, I remember my dad collapsing into his chair at
the end of his long days. He’d take up one of Luke Short’s westerns—he
probably read ten times every novel the man had ever written. I can’t
say for certain whether he ever graduated from high school. I know he
served in the Canadian forces in World War I, beginning in 1914 at
seventeen. And since he was born in 1897, so he might have left for the war
before graduating.
We were a serious family, always working or studying or going to St.
Brigid’s, our local Catholic parish. Our faith was a great comfort to
both my father and mother, but it was also a cause of concern as to the
children’s futures. My father felt that Irish Catholics were
discriminated against, so he insisted that my brothers and I become doctors.
At the time, all of Detroit was divided into ethnic neighborhoods of
Poles, Eastern European Jews, Irish, Germans, Italians, and so on. We
lived in an Irish Catholic enclave. The houses stood one against the other
on forty-foot lots, with bay windows to one side of half porches. The
weave of that community was very close-knit. As a ten year-old, I once
cursed on a playground a block from home and received a slap for it
when I came in ten minutes later for supper. A neighbor had heard what I
said and promptly telephoned my mother.
But such strictures helped keep the city a safe and open place where I
was free to roam. Not only did we not lock our front door, but I don’t
remember there being a key. From the age of eight or nine, I could walk
down to the local candy store and then hop busses down to Woodward
Avenue, where Hudson’s, the giant department store, mounted huge Christmas
window displays.
At the same time, the neighborhood had its own pugnacious code: You
stood up to a fight or you simply couldn’t live there. Taking a beating
was far better than being constantly harassed, so I did a lot of fighting
as a kid. I can remember coming home from school one winter day. My
sister had taken the bus home from college, and one of the neighborhood
bullies, whom I’ll call Larry, had thrown an “ice ball” that hit her in
the face.
My dad said to me, “Take care of him.”
Larry’s reputation as a bully was well earned, and I said, “Dad, this
guy is going to kill me!”
“I don’t care,” Dad replied sternly. “You go out and you take care of
him—now!”
Anger with my father for ordering this confrontation drove me out into
the streets. When I caught sight of Larry, I ran after him, yelling at
him vehemently. He hardly knew what hit him! I was so angry with Dad
that I beat the living daylights out of the kid. I had him down on his
back by the curb, where water was running from the snowmelt, and I whaled
on him.
My father may have been so concerned about prejudice against Catholics
because he’d had to overcome that obstacle when he started courting my
mother. My dad’s family was high-church Anglican. He converted when he
married my mother, which wasn’t much of a stretch, since high-church
Anglicans worship in a liturgical style as close to Catholicism as
Protestantism gets. Still, crossing to Rome was always an issue, especially
at a time when Help Wanted signs included the postscript “No Irish Need
Apply.”
My mother’s family, the O’Reillys, originally from County Clare, were
Irish Catholics to the core. My mother was a petite woman, not more than
five feet tall. In appearance, she was what they call dark Irish, with
mahogany and cherry wood strands in her hair and a flame in her
light-blue eyes. The O’Reillys, who owned brickyards, were far more
well-to-do than my dad’s family.
The pictures of my mother that I keep close by are candid shots; they
show her as a young woman with the new bob of short hair that came in
with the 1920s, striking a jaunty attitude. I can imagine this young
Irish lass losing her head over my powerful, handsome father.
She was told never to have children because of a weak heart, and then
she went and had five. Better educated than my dad, she had been to what
was called a “normal school,” or teacher’s college. I would guess that
many of our family’s intellectual and creative gifts came through my
mother. My brother Gerry, who the family called Sonny, would go on to be
a famous cardiologist; Hilary, an outstanding surgeon; and both my
sisters, Margaret Claire and Agnes Cecile, went to college and had
marriages and careers that took them well up the economic ladder.
Once married, my mother never worked outside the home but gave herself
completely and utterly to her husband and children. That didn’t keep
her from having a sharp tongue, or so my sisters claim; I never was cut
deeply enough to remember her that way. It was not so much that I was
the “baby” of the family, but that my mother’s health was in serious
decline by the time I reached early adolescence. She was too exhausted to
protest against much of anything by then.
Both my father and my mother led our family in practicing our Catholic
faith. In fact, when I think of my religious formation, I remember the
faith as a distinctly family affair. Our devotions as a family made a
great impression on me. We devoted the month of May to praying with
Mary—not to Mary—to her son, Jesus.
Every Sunday night, my whole family knelt down at seven o’clock and
prayed for the conversion of Russia. My brothers Sonny and Hilary began to
protest against the practice when they became busy medical students,
but even then my parents insisted that the time be set aside.
On Tuesday evenings, we went to St. Brigid’s for devotions, praying the
rosary, making novenas, or listening as a “mission” was preached—what
evangelical Protestants know as a revival service. These devotions
largely disappeared from the Catholic Church after Vatican II in the early
sixties and only now are being reinstated. The piety they encouraged
came to be regarded as old-fashioned. Through these devotions, the
Catholics of my parents’ generation—and generations before them—experienced
the Catholic faith as intensely personal. The devotions also encouraged
them to recognize their faith as God’s work in their lives. I
experienced enough of this to clearly understand that my salvation was dependent
on the completed work of Christ—not on my own righteousness. There was
never a time when I was under the misimpression that my “works” would
get me into heaven.
I attended the local parish school, St. Brigid’s, where I was prepared
for First Communion and Confirmation by the sisters who taught us. My
first confession at the age of six saw me truly penitent, if confused.
There were no secrets in our Irish Catholic family, and everyone wanted
to know to what I had confessed. I told my brothers and sisters that I
had admitted to adultery about a hundred times.
“You did?” they asked. “What did you mean?”
“That I picked my nose!”
I’m sure the priest about fell off the chair as he smothered his
laughter.
Still, my First Communion was a memorable experience at which I
received a child’s prayer book—one that I only recently parted with when I
gave it to my granddaughter on the occasion of her First Communion. It
meant that much to me. Even as a young child, I took the privilege of
being invited into communion with God very seriously. I think most children
do, because they understand intuitively what it means to be God’s
child.
At St. Brigid’s, we were schooled in the Baltimore Catechism, so when I
was confirmed in the Catholic faith in fifth grade, I knew all the
right answers to the classic questions. Who made us? Who is God? Why did
God make us? In retrospect, I wish I had understood and experienced
these rites of passage more in terms of an evolving relationship with
Christ rather than as childhood milestones. Confirmation comes later now,
when a child is about twelve or thirteen, which I think is good; older
children are better equipped to understand Confirmation as a personal
commitment. At the same time, I’ve always been glad that the rudiments of
the faith were drilled into me. This provided me with certainty and
hope at many difficult times in my life, especially in the crises that
crouched around the next corner.
***
My peaceful, happy childhood was disturbed by illness when I was about
twelve years old. I returned home from a Boy Scout retreat with
pneumonia and what the doctors suspected was rheumatic fever. I was sicker
than I probably knew for a number of months and missed virtually all of
eighth grade. After I regained my strength the first time, I had a
relapse, and our doctor became worried about the condition of my heart. He
ordered that I not participate in any sports. When I entered U of D High
(University of Detroit High School, now called University of Detroit
Jesuit High School and Academy), I was allowed to climb the stairs to the
freshman and sophomore classrooms only once a day.
This was especially frustrating because I’d always had amazing stamina;
I really didn’t pay much attention to the doctors’ orders except when
under the direct supervision of my parents or the school. Still, the
inactivity led to weight gain, and I became a pudgy kid, which I hated.
What’s more, the physical isolation my illness brought with it became an
emotional isolation. Like my father, I took refuge in books, becoming
a voracious reader. I liked history and novels especially, and, as I
often had trouble sleeping, I would grab a book and read long into the
night.
My mother worried over me because of my health, of course, and that
added to my brothers’ and sisters’ complaints that I was being spoiled.
One time, Hilary was especially upset with me. We were arguing, and my
mother admonished him to lay off me.
“He’s turning into a spoiled jerk,” Hilary insisted.
“Look at me,” she replied. “You’ve had a mother. He’s not going to have
a mother. Leave him alone.”
Anyone could see by her pallor that her health was in decline. Indeed,
her heart condition was growing rapidly worse. I vividly remember the
night she died, April 11, 1955. It was Easter night. Sonny, a senior,
and Hilary, a junior in medical school, were attending to her. They were
talking on the phone to her doctor, their voices rising and becoming
more strained as they followed his instructions with little effect. I
came into her room while this was going on and heard Sonny yell into the
phone, “I’ve already given her a shot of adrenaline and it’s not
working!”
I looked at her, propped up on two pillows. I asked her, “Mama, what’s
wrong?”
She was always a very prayerful woman, and she chose to answer in the
only way she could. She took out her rosary from between the pillows and
with her thumb held up the crucifix to me. That was the last thing she
did. I was fifteen years old.
My father had always revered and worshiped my mother. He mourned her
loss terribly. It so happened, as well, that her death came as the nest
was about to empty. Long before my mother’s final illness, Margaret
Claire and Sonny each had been planning their weddings. Both were married
and gone within two months of my mother’s death. Hilary left for the
University of Pennsylvania to begin his residency in surgery. The
following year, Agnes Cecile, married as well.
My father never had many friends. He didn’t go out with the boys, and
he drank hardly at all. For many years, he had lived a life of heroic,
if quiet, sacrifice as he devoted himself to his wife and children. Our
at-home family of seven had quickly dwindled to two.
Within a year after my mother’s death, my father and I fell into a grim
Sunday regimen. We would go to Mass at ten o’clock, then drive to the
cemetery, where my father would weep so uncontrollably that I would
have to drive us home.
I was very lonely, but also very religious. We had Mass every day at U
of D High, and that was important to me. I thought long and hard about
becoming a priest.
Every day, when school let out at 2:35, I would stop by the chapel once
more. I’d sit there and talk to my mother and pray, then hitchhike or
take the bus home to an empty house, which was difficult.
I was fortunate to have my sisters and brothers and good friends to
lean on. They made up much of what was lacking at home. Margaret Claire
became like a second mom; as the eldest she had always nurtured me. When
she married two months after my mother died, she and her husband, Russ
Hastings, rented a small apartment only two or three miles from where
we lived. She was extremely good to me, providing a desperately needed
last dose of mothering.
I would often ride over to their apartment on my bike. Margaret Claire
taught me manners, particularly how to behave around young women—a
subject of increasing interest. She also taught me how to dance. She would
put “Peg of My Heart” and the other romantic ballads of the mid-fifties
on her old phonograph and show me how to glide with my partner around
the dance floor. She’d let me cadge a cigarette from her pack now and
again, but “only one,” she’d say, keeping to a motherly moderation.
Margaret Claire had worked as an executive secretary before marriage
and would later raise seven children of her own. Russ was a CPA and
became comptroller of Dodge Truck. They were the first among my family
members to enter a whole new socioeconomic class.
Within eighteen months of my mother’s death, I underwent a
transformation that was partly physical, certainly emotional, and had unexpected
spiritual extensions. I began to realize that my brothers and sisters
were off making their own lives. I felt that I was completely on my own
and that I would rise or fall on my own strength. My father’s admonition
that I take my success into my own hands became an implacable
necessity. At the deepest level, I decided that I was going to live my life and
not be a victim. I wasn’t going to feel sorry for myself. I was going
to carve out my own life, whatever it took. I began hardening myself and
maturing swiftly.
Between my junior and senior years of high school, I determined not to
be fat anymore. I fasted, eating sparingly, all summer while working as
a house painter in the sticky Detroit heat. My last growth spurt hit
at the same time, taking me over the six-foot mark. I lost thirty pounds
and grew about four inches. When I came back to school for my senior
year, people hardly recognized me. The following summer, when I was
working as a scaffold painter with a crew of older men, they took to
calling me “Six O’clock,” because I was as thin and straight as clock hands
at six o’clock.
Losing so much weight renewed my confidence and helped me reconnect
with the tremendous stamina and energy I’d known as a child. I felt
powerful and ready to meet life’s demands—on my own terms.
Monday, March 17, 2008
Horton Hears a Who
Sunday, March 16, 2008
My son's decision
You look back at the milestones in your child's life. First tooth, first steps, riding the bike without training wheels, going to kindergarten, going to middle school.... Nothing compares to seeing your son begin his journey to grow closer to God. I caught myself filling with pride at his decision but really the pride is not for me to claim. It is a loving God who created my son and who will continue to be his heavenly Father. It really was an extraordinary day.
Friday, March 14, 2008
Camy Tang's Only Uni
It is March 15th,
but no need to worry about the Ides of
March when we have a special blog tour for one of our FIRST
members! (Join our alliance! Click the button!) Normally, on the FIRST day of
every month we feature an author and his/her latest book's FIRST
chapter! As this is a special tour, we are featuring it on a special day!
and her book:
Only Uni
Zondervan (March 2008)
AUTHOR:
Camy Tang is a member of FIRST and isa loud Asian chick who writes loud Asian chick-lit. She grew up in
Hawaii, but now lives in San Jose, California, with her engineer husband
and rambunctious poi-dog. In a previous life she was a biologist
researcher, but these days she is surgically attached to her computer, writing
full-time. In her spare time, she is a staff worker for her church
youth group, and she leads one of the worship teams for Sunday service.
Sushi for
One? (Sushi Series, Book One) was her first novel. Her second, Only Uni
(Sushi Series, Book Two) is now available. The next book in the series,
Single
Sashimi (Sushi Series, Book Three) will be coming out in September
2008!
Visit her at her website.
AND
NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:
Chapter OneTrish Sakai walked through the door and the entire room hushed.
Well, not exactly pin-drop hushed. More like a handful of the several
dozen people in her aunty’s enormous living room paused their
conversations to glance her way. Maybe Trish had simply expected them to laugh
and point.
She shouldn’t have worn white. She’d chosen the Bebe dress from her
closet in a rebellious mood, which abandoned her at her aunt’s doorstep.
Maybe because the explosion of red, orange, or gold outfits made her
head swim.
At least the expert cut of her dress made her rather average figure
curvier and more slender at the same time. She loved how well-tailored
clothes ensured she didn’t have to work as hard to look good.
Trish kicked off her sandals, and they promptly disappeared in the sea
of shoes filling the foyer. She swatted away a flimsy paper dragon
drooping from the doorframe and smoothed down her skirt. She snatched her
hand back and wrung her fingers behind her.
No, that’ll make your hips look huge.
She clenched her hands in front.
Sure, show all the relatives that you’re nervous.
She clasped them loosely at her waist and tried to adopt a regal
expression.
“Trish, you okay? You look constipated.”
Her cousin Bobby snickered while she sneered at him. “Oh, you’re so
funny I could puke.”
“May as well do it now before Grandma gets here.”
“She’s not here yet?” Oops, that came out sounding a little too
relieved. She cleared her throat and modulated her voice to less-than-ecstatic
levels. “When’s she coming?”
“Uncle picked her up, but he called Aunty and said Grandma forgot
something, so he had to go back.”
Thank goodness for little favors. “Is Lex here?”
“By the food.”
Where else would she be? Last week, her cousin Lex had mentioned that
her knee surgeon let her go back to playing volleyball three nights a
week and coaching the other two nights, so her metabolism had revved up
again. She would be eating like a horse.
Sometimes Trish could just kill her.
She tugged at her skirt—a little tight tonight. She should’ve had more
self-control than to eat that birthday cake at work. She’d have to run
an extra day this week … maybe.
She bounced like a pinball between relatives. The sharp scent of ginger
grew more pungent as she headed toward the large airy kitchen. Aunty
Sue must have made cold ginger chicken again. Mmmm. The smell mixed with
the tang of black bean sauce (Aunty Rachel’s shrimp?), stir-fried
garlic (any dish Uncle Barry made contained at least two bulbs), and fishy
scallions (probably her cousin Linda’s Chinese-style sea bass).
A three-foot-tall red streak slammed into her and squashed her big toe.
“Ow!” Good thing the kid hadn’t been wearing shoes or she might have
broken her foot. Trish hopped backward and her hand fumbled with a low
side table. Waxed paper and cornstarch slid under her fingers before the
little table fell, dropping the kagami mochi decoration. The sheet of
printed paper, the tangerine, and rubbery-hard mochi dumplings dropped
to the cream-colored carpet. Well, at least the cornstarch covering the
mochi blended in.
The other relatives continued milling around her, oblivious to the
minor desecration to the New Year’s decoration. Thank goodness for small—
A childish gasp made her turn. The human bullet who caused the whole
mess, her little cousin Allison, stood with a hand up to her round lips
that were stained cherry-red, probably from the sherbet punch. Allison
lifted wide brown eyes up to
Trish—hanaokolele-you’re-in-trouble—while the other hand pointed to the mochi on the floor.
Trish didn’t buy it for a second. “Want to help?” She tried to infuse
some leftover Christmas cheer into her voice.
Allison’s disdainful look could have come from a teenager rather than a
seven-year-old. “You made the mess.”
Trish sighed as she bent to pick up the mochi rice dumplings—one large
like a hockey puck, the other slightly smaller—and the shihobeni
paper they’d been sitting on. She wondered if the shihobeni
wouldn’t protect the house from fires this next year since she’d dropped
it.
“Aunty spent so long putting those together.”
Yeah, right. “Is that so?” She laid the paper on the table so it
draped off the edge, then stuck the waxed paper on top. She anchored
them with the larger mochi.
“Since you busted it, does it mean that Aunty won’t have any good luck
this year?”
“It’s just a tradition. The mochi doesn’t really bring prosperity, and
the tangerine only symbolizes the family generations.” Trish tried to
artfully stack the smaller mochi on top of the bottom one, but it
wouldn’t balance and kept dropping back onto the table.
“That’s not what Aunty said.”
“She’s trying to pass on a New Year’s tradition.” The smaller mochi
dropped to the floor again. “One day you’ll have one of these in your own
house.” Trish picked up the mochi. Stupid Japanese New Year tradition.
Last year, she’d glued hers together until Mom found out and brought a
new set to her apartment, sans-glue. Trish wasn’t even Shinto. Neither
was anyone else in her family—most of them were Buddhists—but it was
something they did because their family had always done it.
“No, I’m going to live at home and take care of Mommy.”
Thank goodness, the kid finally switched topics. “That’s wonderful.”
Trish tried to smash the tangerine on top of the teetering stack of
mochi. Nope, not going to fly. “You’re such a good daughter.”
Allison sighed happily. “I am.”
Your ego’s going to be too big for this living room, toots. “Um
… let’s go to the kitchen.” She crammed the tangerine on the mochi
stack, then turned to hustle Allison away before she saw them fall back
down onto the floor.
“Uh, Triiiish?”
She almost ran over the kid, who had whirled around and halted in her
path like a guardian lion. Preventing Trish’s entry into the kitchen.
And blocking the way to the food. She tried to sidestep, but the
other relatives in their conversational clusters, oblivious to her,
hemmed her in on each side.
Allison sidled closer. “Happy New Year!”
“Uh … Happy New Year.” What was she up to? Trish wouldn’t put anything
past her devious little brain.
“We get red envelopes at New Year’s.” Her smile took on a predatory
gleam.
“Yes, we do.” One tradition she totally didn’t mind. Even the older
cousins like Trish and Lex got some money from the older relatives,
because they weren’t married yet.
Allison beamed. “So did you bring me a red envelope?”
What? Wait a minute. Was she supposed to bring red envelopes for
the younger kids? No, that couldn’t be. “No, only the married people
do that.” And only for the great-cousins, not their first cousins,
right? Or was that great-cousins, too? She couldn’t remember.
Allison’s face darkened to purple. “That’s not true. Aunty gives me a
red envelope and she’s not married.”
“She used to be married. Uncle died.”
“She’s not married now. So you’re supposed to give me a red envelope,
too.”
Yeah, right. “If I gave out a red envelope to every cousin and
great-cousin, I’d go bankrupt.”
“You’re lying. I’m going to tell Mommy.” Allison pouted, but her sly
eyes gave her away.
A slow, steady burn crept through her body. This little extortionist
wasn’t going to threaten her, not tonight of all nights.
She crouched down to meet Allison at eye level and forced a smile.
“That’s not very nice. That’s spreading lies.”
Allison bared her teeth in something faintly like a grin.
“It’s not good to be a liar.” Trish smoothed the girl’s red velvet
dress, trimmed in white lace.
“You’re the liar. You said you’re not supposed to give me a red
envelope, and that’s a lie.”
The brat had a one-track mind. “It’s not a lie.”
“Then I’ll ask Mommy.” The grin turned sickeningly sweet.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” Trish tweaked one of Allison’s
curling-iron-manufactured corkscrews, standing out amongst the rest of her
straight hair.
“I can do whatever I want.” An ugly streak marred the angelic mask.
“Of course you can.”
Allison blinked.
“But if you do, I’ll tell Grandma that I found her missing jade
bracelet in your bedroom.” Gotcha.
“What were you doing in my bedroom?” Allison’s face matched her dress.
Trish widened her eyes. “Well, you left it open when your mom hosted
the family Christmas party …”
Allison’s lips disappeared in her face, and her nostrils flared.
“You’re lying—”
“And you know Grandma will ask your mommy to search your room.”
Her face whitened.
“So why don’t we forget about this little red envelope thing, hmm?”
Trish straightened the gold heart pendant on Allison’s necklace and gave
her a bland smile.
A long, loud inhale filled Allison’s lungs. For a second, Trish
panicked, worried that she’d scream or something, but the air left her
noiselessly.
Trish stood. “See ya.” She muscled her way past the human traffic cone.
She zeroed in on the kitchen counters like a heat-seeking missile.
“Hey, guys.”
Her cousins Venus, Lex, and Jenn turned to greet her.
“You’re even later than Lex.” Venus leaned her
sexy-enough-to-make-Trish-sick curves against a countertop as she crunched on a celery stick.
“Hey!” Lex nudged her with a bony elbow, then spoke to Trish.
“Grandma’s not here yet, but your mom—”
“Trish, there you are.” Mom flittered up. “Did you eat yet? Let me fill
you a plate. Make sure you eat the kuromame for good luck. I
know you don’t like chestnuts and black beans, but just eat one. Did you
want any konbu? Seaweed is very good for you.”
“No, Mom—”
“How about Aunty Eileen’s soup? I’m not sure what’s in it this year,
but it doesn’t look like tripe this time—”
“Mom, I can get my own food.”
“Of course you can, dear.” Mom handed her a mondo-sized plate.
Trish grabbed it, then eyed Venus’s miniscule plate filled sparingly
with meat, fish, and veggies. Aw, phooey. Why did Venus have to always be
watching her hourglass figure—with inhuman self-control over her
calorie intake—making Trish feel dumpy just for eating a potsticker? She
replaced her plate with a smaller one.
Lex had a platter loaded with chicken and lo mein, which she shoveled
into her mouth. “The noodles are good.”
“Why are you eating so much today?”
“Aiden’s got me in intensive training for the volleyball tournament
coming up.”
Trish turned toward the groaning sideboard to hide the pang in her gut
at mention of Lex’s boyfriend. Who had been Trish’s physical therapist.
Aiden hadn’t met Lex yet when Trish had hit on him, but he’d rebuffed
her—rather harshly, she thought—then became Christian and now was
living a happily-ever-after with Lex.
Trish wasn’t jealous at all.
Why did she always seem to chase away the good ones and keep the bad
ones? Story of her life. Her taste in men matched Lex’s horrendous taste
in clothes—Lex wore nothing but ugly, loose workout clothes, while
Trish dated nothing but ugly (well, in character, at least) losers.
Next to her, Jennifer inhaled as if she were in pain. “Grandma’s here.”
“No, not now. This is so not fair. I haven’t eaten yet.”
“It’ll still be here.” Venus’s caustic tone cut through the air at the
same time her hand grabbed Trish’s plate. “Besides, you’re eating too
much fat.”
Trish glared. “I am not fat—”
Venus gave a long-suffering sigh. “I didn’t say you were fat. I said
you’re eating unhealthily.”
“You wouldn’t say that to Lex.” She stabbed a finger at her athletic
cousin, who was shoveling chicken long rice into her mouth.
Lex paused. “She already did.” She slurped up a rice noodle.
Venus rolled her eyes toward the ceiling. “All of you eat terribly. You
need to stop putting so much junk into your bodies.”
“I will when Jenn stops giving us to-die-for homemade chocolate
truffles.” Trish traded a high-five with Jenn, their resident culinary genius.
“Besides, chocolate’s good for you.” Lex spoke through a mouthful of
black bean shrimp.
Venus, who seemed to know she was losing the battle, brandished a
celery stick. “You all should eat more fiber—”
Trish snatched at a deep-fried chicken wing and made a face at her.
“It’s low carb.” Although she’d love to indulge in just a little of those
Chinese noodles later when Venus wasn’t looking …
She only had time to take a couple bites before she had to drop the
chicken in a napkin and wipe her fingers. She skirted the edge of the
crowd of relatives who collected around Grandma, wishing her Happy New
Year.
Grandma picked up one of Trish’s cousin’s babies and somehow managed to
keep the sticky red film coating his hands from her expensive Chanel
suit. How did Grandma do that? It must be a gift. The same way her
elegant salt-and-pepper ’do never had a hair out of place.
Then Grandma grabbed someone who had been hovering at her shoulder and
thrust him forward.
No. Way.
What was Kazuo doing here?
With Grandma?
Her breath caught as the familiar fluttering started in her ribcage.
No, no, no, no, no. She couldn’t react this way to him again. That’s what
got her in trouble the last time.
Trish grabbed Jenn’s arm and pulled her back toward the kitchen. “I
have to hide.”
Jenn’s brow wrinkled. “Why?”
“That’s Kazuo.”
Jenn’s eyes popped bigger than the moon cakes on the sideboard.
“Really? I never met him.” She twisted her head.
“Don’t look. Hide me.”
Jenn sighed. “Isn’t that a little silly? He’s here for the New Year’s
party.”
Trish darted her gaze around the kitchen, through the doorway to the
smaller TV room. “There are over a hundred people here. There’s a good
chance I can avoid him.”
“He probably came to see you.” A dreamy smile lit Jenn’s lips. “How
romantic …”
A mochi-pounding mallet thumped in the pit of Trish’s stomach. Romantic
this was not.
“What’s wrong?” Venus and Lex separated from the crowd to circle around
her.
“That’s Kazuo.”
“Really?” Lex whirled around and started to peer through the doorway
into the front room. “We never met him—”
“Don’t look now! Hide me!”
Venus lifted a sculpted eyebrow. “Oh, come on.”
“How does Grandma know him?” Jennifer’s soothing voice fizzled Venus’s
sarcasm.
“She met him when we were dating.”
“Grandma loves Kazuo.” Lex tossed the comment over her shoulder as she
stood at the doorway and strained to see Kazuo past the milling
relatives.
Venus’s brow wrinkled. “Loves him? Why?”
Trish threw her hands up in the air. “He’s a Japanese national. He
spoke Japanese to her. Of course she’d love him.”
Jennifer chewed her lip. “Grandma’s not racist—”
Venus snorted. “Of course she’s not racist, but she’s certainly
biased.”
“That’s not a good enough reason. Don’t you think there’s something
fishy about why she wants Trish to get back together with him?”
Venus opened her mouth, but nothing came out. After a moment, she
closed it. “Maybe you’re right.”
Trish flung her arms out. “But I have no idea what that reason is.”
“So is she matchmaking? Now?”
“What better place?” Trish pointed to the piles of food. “Fatten me up
and serve me back to him on a platter.”
Venus rolled her eyes. “Trish—”
“I’m serious. No way am I going to let her do that. Not with
him.” The last man on earth she wanted to see. Well, that wasn’t exactly
true. Her carnal body certainly wanted to see him, even though her brain
and spirit screamed, Run away! Run away!
“Was it that bad a breakup?” Lex looked over her shoulder at them.
Trish squirmed. “I, uh … I don’t think he thinks we’re broken up.”
“What do you mean? It happened six months ago.” Venus’s gaze seemed to
slice right through her.
“Well … I saw him a couple days ago.”
Venus’s eyes flattened. “And …?”
Trish blinked rapidly. “We … got along really well.”
Venus crossed her arms and glared.
How did Venus do that? Trish barely had to open her mouth and Venus
knew when she was lying. “We, um … got along really well.”
Jennifer figured it out first. She gasped so hard, Trish worried she’d
pass out from lack of oxygen.
Venus cast a sharp look at her, then back at Trish. Her mouth sprang
open. “You didn’t.”
“Didn’t what?” Lex rejoined the circle and the drama unfolding. She
peered at Jenn and Venus—one frozen in shock, the other white with anger.
Trish’s heart shrank in her chest. She bit her lip and tasted blood.
She couldn’t look at her cousins. She couldn’t even say it.
Venus said it for her. “You slept with him again.”
Lex’s jaw dropped. “Tell me you didn’t.” The hurt in her eyes stabbed
at Trish’s heart like Norman Bates in Psycho.
Well, it was true that Trish’s obsessive relationship with Kazuo had
made her sort of completely and utterly abandon Lex last year when
she tore her ACL. Lex probably felt like Trish was priming to betray
her again. “It was only once. I couldn’t help myself—”
“After everything you told me last year about how you never asked God
about your relationship with Kazuo and now you were free.” Lex’s
eyes grew dark and heavy, and Trish remembered the night Lex had first
torn her ACL. Trish had been too selfish, wanting to spend time with
Kazuo instead of helping Lex home from one of the most devastating things
that had ever happened to her.
“I just couldn’t help myself—” Trish couldn’t seem to say anything
else.
“So is Kazuo more important to you than me, after all?” Lex’s face had
turned into cold, pale marble, making her eyes stand out in their
intensity.
A sickening ache gnawed in Trish’s stomach. She hunched her shoulders,
feeling the muscles tighten and knot.
Her cousins had always been compassionate whenever she hurt them,
betrayed them, or caused them hassle and stress by the things she did. She
knew she had a tendency to be thoughtless, but she had always counted on
their instant hugs and “That’s okay, Trish, we’ll fix it for you.” But
now she realized—although they forgave her, they were still hurt each
and every time. Maybe this was the straw that broke the camel’s back.
“Where’s Trish?” Grandma’s refined voice managed to carry above the
conversations. “I’m sure she wants to see you.” She was coming closer to
the kitchen.
“I can’t face him.” Trish barely recognized her own voice, as thready
as old cobwebs. “I can’t face Grandma, either.” A tremor rippled through
her body.
Venus’s eyes softened in understanding. “I’ll stall them for you.”
Trish bolted.
Out the other doorway into the living room. She dodged around a few
relatives who were watching sports highlights on the big-screen TV. She
spied the short hallway to Aunty’s bedroom. She could hide. Recoup. Or
panic.
She slipped down the hallway and saw the closed door at the end. A
narrow beam of faint light from under it cast a glow over the carpet. Her
heart started to slow.
Maybe she could lie down, pretend she was sick? No, Grandma might
suggest Kazuo take her home.
She could pretend she got a phone call, an emergency at work. Would
Grandma know there weren’t many emergencies with cell biology research on
New Year’s Eve?
The worst part was, Trish hadn’t even gotten to eat yet.
She turned the doorknob, but it stuck. Must be the damp weather. She
applied her shoulder and nudged. The door clicked open. She slipped into
the bedroom.
A couple stood in the dim lamplight, locked in a passionate embrace
straight out of Star magazine. Trish’s heart lodged in her throat.
Doh! Leave now! She whirled.
Wait a minute.
She turned.
The man had dark wavy hair, full and thick. His back was turned to her,
but something about his stance …
The couple sprang apart. Looked at her.
Dad.
Kissing a woman who wasn’t her mother.
Taken from Only Uni, Copyright © 2008 by
Camy Tang. Used by permission of Zondervan.
Saturday, March 8, 2008
Wendy Lawton, Artist and Author, Celebrates Release of Her Seventh Novel With Fabulous April Fools Day Contest
(THE WOODLANDS, TX) What do porcelain, Pocahontas, and prizes have in common? Wendy Lawton, author, sculptor and literary agent is on a mission to find the next Daughter of the Faith for her highly successful middle grade series. In celebration of the release of The Captive Princess: A Story Based on the Life of Young Pocahontas, her seventh novel in the series, Lawton is offering a plethora of prizes for contestants who are chosen from among those who post suggestions on Crystal Miller's When I Was Just a Kid blog (http://wheniwasjustakid.blogspot.com/).
One lucky winner will receive all seven Daughters of the Faith novels ($49 value), while another will get all four books in the Real TV series ($44 value).The grand prize--an autographed Courage to Run doll and book, (value $695.00) will be awarded if more than twenty people comment before April 1, 2008, with suggested Daughters of the Faith characters.
Keep in mind that each character in this series is a real girl from the pages of history who took a stand for her faith (usually at great cost) while she was still a girl. Nominees should not be someone who grew up to do great things or who married a great man, bur rather a girl like Pocahontas, the Captive Princess, who stepped out in faith.
The Captive Princess: A Story Based on the Life of Young Pocahontas
Is there an American student who doesn't know some version of the story of Pocahontas-- whether the fabricated Disney version or the equally fictitious but oft-told love story between Pocahontas and John Smith? Wendy Lawton digs into the history and tells it entirely through the eyes of the young Pocahontas. And though the romantic accounts are the stuff of legend and lore, Pocahontas' faith story remains one of the most beautiful love stories in history.
What others are saying:
"Pocahontas has long been a favorite character of mine, and Wendy Lawton brings her to glorious life in The Captive Princess. Through Lawton's excellent research and vivid writing, walked out of the dense forest and into my heart. This book is a treasure!"
Angela Hunt, author of Uncharted
"I jumped at the chance to read Wendy Lawton's latest book, The Captive Princess, because of her previous stories. Again, she wove her literary magic. Always true to historical facts and able to infuse spiritual truths naturally, Wendy Lawton is a master storyteller."
Donita K. Paul author of popular Christian fantasy including The DragonKeeper Chronicles
____________________
WENDY LAWTON feels equally comfortable on a computer, at a writer's conference or with a cool lump of clay in her hand. She's been an artist, a writer and now, a literary agent with the respected literary agency, Books & Such.
No stranger to the literary market, Lawton has written seven books in her middle grade Daughters of the Faith series. These books were followed by a series of teen books The Real TV series and her nonfiction book, Impressions in Clay (Moody).
______________________
The Captive Princess: A Story Based on the Life of Young Pocahontas
Wendy Lawton
Moody Publishers
March 1, 2008
ISBN: 978-0802476401
__________
Thursday, March 6, 2008
Review of Your Chariot Awaits by Lorena McCourtney
"In the course of one week Andi McConnell turns sixty, loses her job, breaks up with her boyfriend and receives an unexpected inheritance from an eccentric rich uncle-a sleek black stretch limousine with bulletproof windows. She knows it's totally impractical-yet the lime has an allure that Andi can hardly resist. The allure is considerably dampened, however, with the discovery of a dead body in the truck. So Andi joins forces with a nosy but charming former TV private eye in a bumbling and often hilarious attempt to find the killer" excert taken from back cover.
I have never read anything by Lorena McCourtney but I will be reading more after reading Your Chariot Awaits. Lorena McCourtney creates fun and endearing characters who pull you right into their topsy turvy world. Andi who turns sixty never fits the stereo-type of a lady on the verge of collecting social security. She is adventurous, fun and ready to take on the world. You find yourself rooting for her to overcome all of the adversity thrown at her. My favorite character is Fritz the former TV private eye; he was humorous and charming with all of his quirks. The book took three very unlikely characters and wove them together to create a wonderful cozy suspense perfect for reading while wrapped in a blanket with hot chocolate on the couch. This novel reminds us that our age is just a number and fun, adventure and romance is not limited to the young. I would recommend this novel to anyone who enjoys a cozy and fun suspense novel.
Wednesday, March 5, 2008
A wonderful marriage!
I am married to a wonderful man and today we celebrated our 14Th anniversary. I met Jerry my senior year of high school at an orientation for the YMCA. We went out on our first date that night but I didn't know he would be the one. In fact, I wasn't really sure I would go out with him but he was older and he was in college. Two points greatly in his favor. I am so blessed that we did go out that night. Because of Jerry, I have grown closer to God, have three beautiful children and know without a doubt that I am loved and cherished by my husband.
Jerry really is my better half. He has the patience of Job which is necessary when you are dealing with me. I tend to be volatile like a bad chemical reaction.
Jerry has shown me what selflessness really is. He works an amazing amount of hours to provide for our family and this sacrifice allows me to stay at home with our children. Jerry gives of his time to help others and with this example, our children are learning what having a servants heart is.
Jerry, I love you and since I can't shout it from the mountain top since none can be found in central Texas I will shout it on the information highway. I am proud to be your wife! You are loved and respected.
Saturday, March 1, 2008
It is March FIRST,
time for the FIRST Day Blog Tour! (Join our alliance! Click the
button!) The FIRST day of every month we will feature an author and his/her
latest book's FIRST chapter!
and her book:
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: 
Sharon Hinck holds a BA in education, and she earned
an MA in communication from Regent University in 1986. She spent ten
years as the artistic director of a Christian performing arts group,
CrossCurrent. That ministry included three short-term mission trips to Hong
Kong. She has been a church youth worker, a choreographer and ballet
teacher, a homeschool mom, a church organist, and a bookstore clerk. One
day she’ll figure out what to be when she grows up, but in the
meantime, she’s pouring her imagination into writing. Her stories focus on
characters who confront the challenges of a life of faith. She’s published
dozens of articles in magazines and book compilations, and released her
first novel, The Secret Life of
Becky Miller (Bethany House), in 2006. In April 2007, she was named
“Writer of the Year” at the Mount Hermon Christian Writers Conference.
When she isn’t wrestling with words, Sharon enjoys speaking at
conferences and retreats. She and her family make their home in Minnesota. She
loves to hear from readers, so send a message through the portal into
her writing attic on the “Contact Sharon” page of her website, http://www.sharonhinck.com/. She is
also an avid blogger...visit Stories for the Hero in All of Us.
The first and second books
in The Sword of Lyric series are The Restorer and
The
Restorer’s Son. The FIRST chapter shown here is from the third book, The Restorer's
Journey. Enjoy!
AND
NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER: 
Chapter One - JAKE
My mom was freaking out.
She stared out the dining room window as if major-league monsters were
hiding in the darkness beyond the glass. Give me a break. Our
neighborhood was as boring as they came. Ridgeview Drive’s square lawns and
generic houses held nothing more menacing than basketball hoops and tire
swings. Still, Mom’s back was tight, and in the shadowed reflection on
the pane, I could see her biting her lip. I didn’t know what to say to
make her feel better.
I ducked back into the kitchen and used a wet rag to wipe off the
counters. Clumps of flour turned to paste and smeared in gunky white arcs
across the surface. I shook the rag over the garbage can, the mess
raining down on the other debris we’d swept up. Broken jars of pasta and rice
filled the bag. I stomped it down, twist-tied the bag and jogged it
out to the trashcan by the garage. Usually, I hated the chore of taking
out the trash. Not tonight. Maybe if I erased the signs of our
intruders, Mom would relax a little.
So Cameron and Medea dropped a few things when they were looking for
supplies. No biggie. Why did my folks have such a problem with those two
anyway? They’d been great to me. I trudged back into the house, rubbing
my forehead. Wait. That wasn’t right. A shiver snaked through my
spine. Never mind. They were probably long gone by now.
“Kitchen’s done.” I carried the broom into the dining room, hoping Mom
had finished in there. But she was still hugging her arms and staring
out the window.
She turned and looked at the china cabinet, then squeezed her eyes shut
as if they were hurting. “Why?” she whispered.
Glass shards jutted from one cabinet door, and the other hung crooked
with wood splinters poking out. Broken china covered the floor. Mom and
Dad had been collecting those goofy teacups ever since they got
married.
I pushed the broom against the edge of the fragments, but the chinking
sound made her wince, so I stopped.
Dad strode past with an empty garbage bag from the hall closet and
stopped to give my mom a squeeze. He nodded toward me. “Honey, Jake’s
alive. Nothing else matters. We all got back safe.” He leaned his head
against hers, and I edged toward the kitchen in case they started kissing.
For an old married couple, they were a little too free with their public
displays of affection. No guy wants to watch his parents act mushy.
But my mom didn’t look like she was in a kissing mood. She pressed her
lips together. I had a sneaking suspicion that she was more freaked out
about what had happened to my hand than our house. Like when I had
cancer as a kid. She’d gotten really stressed about the details of a
church fundraiser and cranky about everything that went wrong—stuff that
wasn’t even important. It gave her a place to be angry when she was trying
to be brave about a bigger problem.
“It’s only a piece of furniture.” Dad was doing his soothing voice.
When would he catch on that only made things worse?
“Only a piece of furniture we bought as a wedding gift to each other.”
She swiped at some wet spots on her face. “Only twenty years’ worth of
poking around garage sales and thrift stores together. Don’t tell me
what it’s only! Okay?”
“Okay.” Dad backed away from her prickles.
I made another ineffectual push with the broom. My folks didn’t argue
much, but when they did, it grated like a clutch struggling to find
third gear. Typical over-responsible firstborn, I wanted to fix it but
didn’t know how.
Mom picked up a Delft saucer, smashed beyond repair, and laid the
pieces gently into the garbage bag. Dad folded his arms and leaned against
the high back of one of the chairs. “I can fix the cabinet. That
splintered door will need to be replaced, but the other one just needs new
hinges. I can put in new glass.” His eyes always lit up when he talked
about a woodworking project. The man loved his tools.
Mom smiled at him. Her tension faded, and she got all moony-eyed, so I
ducked into the kitchen just as the doorbell rang. Thank heaven.
“Pizza’s here!” I yelled.
Dad paid the delivery guy, and I carried the cartons into the living
room. Flopping onto one end of the couch, I pried open the lid. “Hey, who
ordered green peppers? Mom, you’ve gotta quit ruining good pizza with
veggies.”
That made her laugh. “We’d better save a few pieces for the other
kids.” She cleared the Legos off the coffee table and handed me a napkin.
I gladly surrendered the top pizza box, along with its green pepper,
and dove into the pepperoni below. “Where is everyone?”
“Karen’s spending the night at Amanda’s—trying out her new driver’s
license. Jon and Anne are at Grandma’s. But if they see the pizza boxes
when they get home tomorrow . . . ”
I nodded. “Yep. Pure outrage. I can hear it now. ‘It’s not fair. Jake
always gets to have extra fun.’” I did a pretty good impression of the
rug rats. What would the kids think if they found out what else they had
missed? This had been the strangest Saturday the Mitchell family had
ever seen.
I popped open a can of Dr. Pepper. My third. Hey, I’d earned some extra
caffeine. “So, what do we tell the kids?”
Mom smiled and looked me up and down, probably thinking I was one of
the kids. When would it sink in that I was an adult now? I guzzled a
third of my pop and set it down with a thump. “We could tell them there was
a burglar, but then they’d want to help the police solve the case, and
they’d never stop asking questions.”
“Good point.” Mom licked sauce from her finger. “Jon and Anne would
break out the detective kit you gave them for Christmas.”
Dad tore a piece of crust from his slice of pepperoni. “If we finish
cleaning everything, I don’t think they’ll pay much attention. The
cabinet is the only obvious damage. If they ask, we’ll just say it got bumped
and fell.”
Dad wanted us to lie? So not like him. Then again, when Kieran told me
Dad wasn’t originally from our world, I realized there were a lot of
things he’d never been honest about. Now I was part of the family secret,
too.
He rested his piece of pizza on the cardboard box and looked at Mom.
“Do we need to warn them?”
“Warn them?” She mumbled around a mouth full of melted cheese.
“In case Cameron and Medea come back.” His voice was calm, but I
suddenly had a hard time swallowing. Something cold twisted in me when he
said their names. The same cold that had numbed my bones when I’d woken up
in the attic. Why? They’d taken care of me. No, they’d threatened me.
Confusing images warred inside my brain.
“You think they’ll come back?” My baritone went up in pitch, and I
quickly took another sip of pop.
Dad didn’t answer for a moment. “It depends on why they came. If they
plan to stay in our world, we need to find them—stop them. But my guess
is that Cameron wants to return to Lyric with something from our world
that he can use there. That means they’ll be back to go through the
portal.”
Mom sank deeper into the couch and looked out the living room windows.
At the curb, our family van shimmered beneath a streetlight.
They might be out there, too. They could be watching us right this
second.
“Maybe we should call the police.” Mom’s voice sounded thin. I’d
suggested that earlier. After all, someone had broken in—well, broken out.
Dad snorted. “And tell them what?”
He had a point, but it’s not like there was a rulebook for dealing with
visitors from other universes. Unless you attended Star Trek
conventions. “So what’s your plan?” I asked.
“I’ll get extra locks tomorrow. Maybe look into an alarm system.” Dad
believed every problem could be solved with his Home Depot credit card.
He turned to me. “Can you remember more about your conversations with
Cameron? What did he ask you about? What did he seem interested in?”
A shudder moved through me, and pain began pulsing behind my eyes.
Mom gave Dad a worried glance, then rested a hand on my arm. “It’s
okay, honey. We don’t have to talk about it right now.” She smoothed my
hair back from my face.
“No problem.” I brushed her hand away, sprawled back on the couch, and
studied the ceiling. “It just seems like it was all a dream.”
“What’s the last thing you remember clearly?” Dad pulled his chair
closer and watched me.
“Braide Wood.” I closed my eyes and smiled. “It reminded me of summer
camp. And I was so tired of running and hiding in caves. I finally felt
safe. Tara fussed over me, and I taught Dustin and Aubrey how to play
soccer. It felt like home.”
I struggled to remember the rest. For some reason my memories were
tangled up, like the time I had a major fever and took too much Nyquil. Mom
and Dad waited.
“I went to see Morsal Plains with Tara. Brutal. The grain was all black
and it smelled weird. Tara told me about the attack. How Hazor
poisoned it on purpose and how Susan the Restorer led the army to protect
Braide Wood.” I squinted my eyes open and looked sideways at my mom. They’d
told me she had ridden into battle with a sword. “Unbelievable.”
Even though she was watching me with a worried pinch to her eyes, she
smiled. “I know. I lived it, and it’s hard for me to believe.”
“Anyway, I hiked back to Tara’s house, and some guys came to take me to
Cameron. He made a big fuss over me. Said it was his job to welcome
guests to the clans. Said I’d run into bad company but he’d make it up to
me. He gave me something to drink, and there was this lady. She was
amazing.” No matter how fuzzy my memories were, Medea was easy to
remember. The long curly hair, the sparkling eyes, the dress that clung to all
the right places. My cheeks heated. “I can’t remember everything we
talked about. She made me feel important, like I wasn’t just some teenage
kid. It was . . . ” I sat taller and angled away from my parents, my
jaw tightening. “She helped me realize that no one else had ever really
understood me. I wanted to become a guardian. I had an important job to
do.”
“Jake.” Dad’s voice was sharp, and I flinched. “The woman you met was a
Rhusican. They poison minds. Don’t trust everything you’re feeling
right now.”
A pulsing ache grabbed the base of my neck. I pressed the heels of my
hands against my eyes. Mom’s hand settled on my shoulder, and I
stiffened. Weird static was messing with my head.
“Jake, they used you to find the portal. She doesn’t really understand
you.” Mom’s voice was quiet and sounded far away. I felt like I was
falling away inside myself. She squeezed my shoulder. “Remember my
favorite psalm?”
I managed a tight smile. “How could I forget? You made us learn the
whole thing one summer. ‘O Lord, you have searched me and you know me…’
blah, blah, blah.”
Despite my smart aleck tone, the words took hold and some of the static
in my brain quieted.
“What’s the rest?” Dad pressed me.
What was he trying to prove? That I couldn’t think straight? I could
have told him that. I struggled to form the words.
“‘You know when I sit and when I rise; you perceive my thoughts from
afar. You discern my going out and my lying down; you are familiar with
all my ways.’” Once I got started, I rattled off the verses by rote. In
some strange way, the words actually stopped the sensation of falling
away inside myself.
“Sounds like there’s someone who understands you a lot better than
Cameron and Medea. Remember that.” Dad stood up and tousled my hair. Then
he yawned. “Let’s get some sleep.”
Mom didn’t move. She was still watching me. “How’s the hand?”
I rubbed my palm. “Still fine. Weird, huh?” I held it out.
A scar, faint as a white thread, marked the skin where broken glass had
cut a deep gash an hour earlier. My lungs tightened. What did it mean?
Dad shook his head. “Come on. Bedtime.”
Mom hesitated, but then stood and gave me a quick kiss on the forehead.
“Good night, Jake. We’ll talk more tomorrow.”
Oh, great. She sure loved talking. I looked at Dad. His mouth twitched.
“I’ll get us signed up for some practice space at the fencing club.”
Good. He hadn’t forgotten his promise. I couldn’t make sense of my trip
through the portal, or the sudden-healing thing, but I knew I wanted
to learn to use a sword.
My parents gathered up the pizza stuff and carried it to the kitchen,
out of sight, but not out of earshot.
“If we hide the portal stones Cameron and Medea won’t be able to go
back,” Dad said over the crinkling of a sheet of aluminum foil.
Someone slammed the fridge door shut hard enough to make the salad
dressing bottles rattle. “We don’t want them running around our world. They
don’t belong here.” Mom sounded tense.
“I know. We have to send them back. But on our terms. Without anything
that would hurt the People of the Verses. And what about Jake?”
Silence crackled, and I leaned forward from my spot on the couch.
When Mom refused to answer, Dad spoke again, so quiet I almost couldn’t
hear. “We need to keep the portal available in case he’s needed there.
But how will we know?”
Needed there? Did he really think . . .?
I waited for them to head back to their bedroom, then slipped down the
steps from the kitchen to the basement. Most of the basement was still
unfinished – except for my corner bedroom and Dad’s workbench.
I hurried into my room and shut out the world behind me. Tonight
everything looked different. The movie posters, the bookshelves, the soccer
team trophy. Smaller, foreign, unfamiliar.
I pulled a thumbtack from my bulletin board and scratched it across my
thumb. A line of blood appeared, but in a microsecond the tiny scrape
healed completely. I had assumed the healing power was some
heebie-jeebie thing that Medea had given me, or that had transferred over from my
interactions with Kieran.
But now that my head had stopped throbbing, I could put the pieces
together. Excitement stronger than caffeine zipped around my nerve endings.
My folks thought this was more than a weird effect left over from my
travels through the portal. They thought I might be the next Restorer.