Dogs!

Captain's Log, Stardate 09.30.2009

I couldn't resist posting these cute dog pictures that my Mom emailed to me!


"Pardon me, I just farted."

"You have a huge chunk of spinach in your teeth. Let me get it out for you..."
Canine of the Corn
A true photo hog
This amazes me. My dog would not have this kind of self control.
Nor this kind of self control, either!










Naturally, I couldn't resist posting some recent photos of our dog, Snickers!

Know why she's so focused? I am holding a piece of chicken and she is staring intently.We have a kotatsu coffee table, and for some reason (even in the heat of summer) she likes to lie under the cover. She will poke her head out and pant every so often, but she still won't come out. Dumb dog!

Excerpt - The Prayers of Agnes Sparrow by Joyce Magnin

This week, the
Christian Fiction Blog Alliance
is introducing
The Prayers of Agnes Sparrow
Abingdon Press (September 2009)
by
Joyce Magnin


ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

Joyce Magnin is the author of short fiction and personal experience articles. She co-authored the book, Linked to Someone in Pain. She has been published in such magazines as Relief Journal, Parents Express, Sunday Digest, and Highlights for Children.

Joyce attended Bryn Mawr College and is a member of the Greater Philadelphia Christian Writers Fellowship. She is a frequent workshop leader at various writer’s conferences and women’s church groups.

She has three children, Rebekah, Emily, and Adam; one grandson, Lemuel Earnest; one son-in-law, Joshua, and a neurotic parakeet who can’t seem to keep a name. Joyce leads a small fiction group called StoryCrafters. She enjoys baseball, football, cream soda, and needle arts but not elevators. She currently lives in Havertown, Pennsylvania.

The Prayers of Agnes Sparrow is her first published novel.


ABOUT THE BOOK

The Prayers of Agnes Sparrow is the story of an unusual woman, Agnes Sparrow. No longer able or willing to leave her home, where she is cared for by her long-suffering sister Griselda, Agnes has committed her life to the one thing she can do-besides eat. Agnes Sparrow prays and when Agnes prays things happen, including major miracles of the cancer, ulcer-healing variety along with various minor miracles not the least of which is the recovery of lost objects and a prize-winning pumpkin.

The rural residents of Bright's Pond are so enamored with Agnes they plan to have a sign erected on the interstate that reads, "Welcome to Bright's Pond, Home of Agnes Sparrow." This is something Agnes doesn't want and sends Griselda to fight city hall.

Griselda's petitions are shot down and the sign plans press forward until a stranger comes to town looking for his miracle from Agnes. The truth of Agnes's odd motivation comes out when the town reels after a shocking event. How could Agnes allow such evil in their midst? Didn't she know?

Well, the prayers of Agnes Sparrow have more to do with Agnes than God. Agnes has been praying to atone for a sin committed when she was a child. After some tense days, the townsfolk, Griselda, and Agnes decide they all need to find their way back to the true source of the miracles-God.

Excerpt of chapter one:

The Prayers of Agnes Sparrow
Abingdon Press (September 2009)


Chapter 1

Even a blind squirrel finds a nut once in a while. —Ruth Knickerbocker



If you get off the Pennsylvania Turnpike at the Jack Frost Ski Resort exit, turn left, and travel twenty-two and one quarter miles, you’ll see a sign that reads: Bright’s Pond, Home of the World’s Largest Blueberry Pie.

While it is true that in 1961 Mabel Sewicky and the Society of Angelic Philanthropy, which did secret charitable acts, baked the biggest blueberry pie ever in Pennsylvania, most folks will tell you that the sign should read: Bright’s Pond, Home of Agnes Sparrow.

October 12, 1965. That was the day my sister, Agnes Sparrow, made an incredible decision that changed history in our otherwise sleepy little mountain town and made her sign-worthy.

“I just can’t do it anymore, Griselda. I just can’t.” That’s what Agnes said to me right before she flopped down on our red, velvet sofa. “It ain’t worth it to go outside anymore. It’s just too much trouble for you—” she took a deep breath and sighed it out “—and heartache for me.”

Agnes’s weight had tipped a half pound over six hundred, and she decided that getting around was too painful and too much of a town spectacle. After all, it generally took two strong men to help me get Agnes from our porch to my truck and then about fifteen minutes to get her as comfy as possible in the back with pillows and blankets. People often gathered to watch like the circus had come to town, including children who snickered and called her names like “pig” or “lard butt.” Some taunted that if Agnes fell into the Grand Canyon she’d get stuck. It was devastating, although when I look back on it, I think the insults bothered me more than they did Agnes.

Her hips, which were wider than a refrigerator, spread out over the sofa leaving only enough room for Arthur, our marmalade cat, to snuggle next to her. “I think I’ll stay right here inside for the remainder of the days God has set aside for me.” She slumped back, closed her eyes, and then took a hard breath. It wiggled like Jell-O through her body. I held my breath for a second, afraid that Agnes’s heart had given out since she looked so pale and sweaty.

But it didn’t.

Agnes was always fat and always the subject of ridicule. But I never saw her get angry over it and I only saw her cry once—in church during Holy Communion.

She was fourteen. I was eleven. We always sat together, not because I wanted to sit with her, but because our father made us. He was usually somewhere else in the church fulfilling his elder’s responsibilities while our mother helped in the nursery. She always volunteered for nursery duty. I think it was because my mother never really had a deep conviction about Jesus one way or the other. Sitting in the pews made her nervous and she hated the way Pastor Spahr would yell at us about our sins, which, if you asked me, my mother never committed and so she felt unduly criticized.

Getting saddled with “fat Agnes” every Sunday wasn’t easy because it made me as much a target of ridicule as her. Ridicule by proximity. Agnes had to sit on a folding lawn chair in the aisle because she was too big to slip into the pew. And since she blocked the aisle we had to sit in the last row.

Our father served Communion, a duty he took much too seriously. The poor man looked like a walking cadaver in his dark suit, white shirt, and striped tie as he moved stiffly down the aisle passing the trays back and forth with the other serious men. But the look fit him, what with Daddy being the town’s only funeral director and owner of the Sparrow Funeral Home where we lived.

On that day, the day Agnes cried, Daddy passed us the tray with his customary deadpan look. I took my piece of cracker and held it in my palm. Agnes took hers and we waited for the signal to eat, supposedly mulling over the joy of our salvation and our absolute unworthiness. Once the entire congregation, which wasn’t large, had been served, Pastor Spahr took an unbroken cracker, held it out toward the congregation, and said, “Take. Eat, for this is my body broken for you.” Then he snapped the cracker. I always winced at that part because it made me think about broken Jesus bones getting passed around on a silver platter.

I swallowed and glanced at Agnes. She was crying as she chewed the cracker—her fat, round face with the tiny mouth chewing and chewing while tears streamed down her heavy, pink cheeks, her eyes squinted shut as though she was trying to swallow a Ping-Pong ball. Even while the elders served the juice, she couldn’t swallow the cracker for the tears. It was such an overwhelmingly sad sight that I couldn’t finish the ritual myself and left my tiny cup of purple juice, full, on the pew. I ran out of the church and crouched behind a large boulder at the edge of the parking lot, jammed my finger down my throat and threw up the cracker I had just swallowed. I swore to Jesus right then and there that I would never let him or anyone hurt my sister again.

Which is probably why I took the whole Agnes Sparrow sign issue to heart. I knew if the town went through with their plan it would bring nothing but embarrassment to Agnes. I imagined multitudes pulling off the turnpike aimed for Jack Frost and winding up in Bright’s Pond looking for her. They’d surely think it was her tremendous girth that made her a tourist attraction.

But it wasn’t. It was the miracles.

At least that’s what folks called them. All manner of amazements happened when Agnes took to her bed and started praying. It made everyone think Agnes had somehow opened a pipeline to heaven and because of that she deserved a sign— a sign that would only give people the wrong idea.

You see, when my sister prayed, things happened; but Agnes never counted any answer to prayer, yes or no, a miracle. “I just do what I do,” she said, “and then it’s up to the Almighty’s discretion.”

The so-called Bright’s Pond miracles included three healings— an ulcer and two incidents of cancer—four incidents of lost objects being located miles from where they should have been, an occurrence of glass shattering, and one exorcism, although no one called it that because no one really believed Jack Cooper was possessed—simply crazy. Agnes prayed and he stopped running around town all naked and chasing dogs. Pastor Spahr hired him the next day as the church janitor. He did a good job keeping the church clean, except every once in a while someone reported seeing him howling at the moon. When questioned about it, Pastor Spahr said, “Yeah, but the toilets are clean.”

Pastor Rankin Spahr was a solid preacher man. Strong, firm. He never wavered from his beliefs no matter how rotten he made you feel. He retired on August 1, 1968, at the ripe old age of eighty-eight and young Milton Speedwell took his place.

Milton and his wife, Darcy, were fresh from the big city, if you can call Scranton a big city. I suppose he was all of twenty-nine when he came to us. Darcy was a mite younger. She claimed to be twenty-five but if you saw her back then, you’d agree she was barely eighteen.

Milton eventually became enamored with Agnes just like the rest of the town and often sent people to her for prayer and counsel.

But it wasn’t until 1972 when Studebaker Kowalski, the recipient of miracle number two—the cancer healing—that Agnes’s notoriety took front seat to practically everything in town. Studebaker had a petition drawn up, citing all the miracles along with a dozen or more miscellaneous wonders that had occurred throughout the years.

“Heck, the Vatican only requires three miracles to make a saint,” he said. “Agnes did seven. Count ’em, seven.”

Just about everyone in town—except Agnes, Milton Speedwell, a cranky old curmudgeon named Eugene Shrapnel, and me—added their signatures to the petition making it the most-signed document ever in Bright’s Pond. Studebaker planned to present it to Boris Lender, First Selectman, at the January town meeting.

Town meetings started at around 7:15 once Dot Handy arrived with her steno pad. She took the minutes in shorthand, typed them up at home on her IBM Selectric, punched three holes in the sheet of paper, and secured it in a large blue binder that she kept under lock and key like she was safekeeping the secret formula for Pepsi Cola.

That evening I settled Agnes in for the night and made sure she had her TV remote, prayer book, and pens. You see, Agnes began writing down all of the town’s requests when it became so overwhelming she started mixing up the prayers.

“It’s all become prayer stew,” she said. “I can’t keep nothing straight. I was praying for Stella Hughes’s gallbladder when all the time it was Nate Kincaid’s gallbladder I should have asked a favor for.”

Nate ended up with Stella’s prize-winning pumpkin and had to have his gallbladder removed anyway. Stella had apparently entered the same contest as Nate and asked Agnes for God’s blessing on her pumpkin. Stella forgave Agnes for the oversight, and Nate agreed to share the blue ribbon with her. But, as Agnes said, God blessed her blunder because Nate and Stella got married six months later. They’ve been raising prize-winning pumpkins ever since.

After the pumpkin debacle, Agnes wrote down all the requests in spiral notebooks. She color-coded the names and petitions, reserving black ink for the most severe cases, red for less dire but still serious needs (marriage troubles and minor illnesses like warts and bunions) and blue ink for the folks with smaller troubles like broken fuel pumps and ornery kids—that sort of thing.

“I got to get going now, Agnes,” I told her a few minutes before seven. “The meeting’s about to start and I don’t want to be late.”

“Could you fetch me a drink of juice and maybe a couple tuna sandwiches before you go? And how about a couple of those cherry Danishes left over from last Sunday?”

“I’ll be late, Agnes, and you already had your dinner.”

“It won’t take but a minute, Griselda, please.”

I spread tuna salad onto white bread and poured a glass of golden apple juice into a tall tumbler with strawberry vines. I was standing at the kitchen sink rinsing my fingers when I heard rain start—hesitant at first. It was the kind of rain that started with large, heavy drops and only a hint of ice in them but would soon turn to all snow. Most of the time foul weather meant a smaller crowd for town meetings, but with the Agnes Sparrow sign debate on the agenda I doubted the weather could keep folks away.

“I better go,” I said. “I want a seat in front on account of the sign situation.”

“Phooey,” Agnes said. “I told you I don’t want a sign with my name on it. I don’t want the glory.”

“I know.” I took a deep breath and blew it out. “I told you I’d take care of it.”

Agnes took another bite of her sandwich and turned on the TV while I buttoned my coat and slipped into yellow galoshes. I was just about to step outside when Agnes spoke up. Her high voice made her sound like a little girl.

“The Lord just gave me an idea,” she said, swallowing. “Tell that town council of ours that the sign should read, Bright’s Pond. Soli Deo Gloria. That’s Latin. It means—”

“I know what it means. I’ll be back as soon as I can.” That was when all the trouble started. And I don’t just mean over the silly sign. I thought the town’s enthusiasm to advertise Agnes’s prayers got something loosed in the heavens and trouble came to Bright’s Pond after that—trouble no one could have ever imagined.

Book giveaway - Three Weddings and a Bar Mitzvah by Melody Carlson

Captain's Log, Stardate 09.28.2009

The winner of You Were Born For This
by
Bruce Wilkinson
is
kmkuka
Congratulations!

Didn’t win the book but want to read it?
Buy from Christianbook.com
Buy from Amazon

Blog book giveaway:

Please click here to read new giveaway rules and why I had to change them.

To enter to win today’s book, leave a comment on this blog post, giving your name and US state. Sorry, no international entrants (see post above for why).

Please also leave an email address or website where I can contact you (please use this format--you [at] yourmail.com--or something like that to prevent spammers from trolling for your email address). It is the winner’s responsibility to check to see if you won and to email me if you haven’t yet heard from me.

I always email the winner and give them a week to reply, but if I don’t receive an answer, I will pull another person to win the book. I am not responsible for a lost opportunity if you are on vacation or leave an email address you don’t check frequently.

Only one entry per person. The winner can expect their free book in 4-6 weeks.

You have a week to comment--I'll pick a name out of a hat on Monday, October 5th. (BTW, you can post a comment and NOT enter, too.)

Today I’m giving away:

Three Weddings and a Bar Mitzvah
by
Melody Carlson

Beloved author Melody Carlson offers readers her final installment in the 86 Bloomberg Place series, Three Weddings and a Bar Mitzvah (David C Cook, September 2009). Written in her well-known conversational, colloquial style, Carlson's latest novel continues to follow four diverse young women, with varying levels of faith, differing interests, and unique personal issues, through the high dramas of their romantic lives.

The four-book 86 Bloomberg Place series offers an emotionally engaging look at the individual dilemmas of four unlikely female friends—Kendall, Lelani, Anna, and Megan—who share a small bungalow while launching their careers and maturing through difficult family situations and romantic relationships. Carlson's unique ability to capture young women's attitudes, voices, and heartfelt desires with meaningful storytelling keeps pace with the lives of her readers as she weaves varying perspectives and voices together with both humorous and poignant threads.

In Three Weddings and a Bar Mitzvah, Lelani has returned from Maui to Bloomberg Place with her toddler Emma and is trying to book her wedding date. Unfortunately, there are scheduling conflicts for that same weekend. For starters, Megan and Marcus have a family wedding commitment. Anna and Edmond have promised to attend his stepbrother's Bar Mitzvah and, to everyone's surprise, Kendall has just accepted her "Maui Man's" proposal of marriage and also wants to be wed on that same weekend in June. Let the games begin!

To complicate matters, Lelani wants to keep her wedding simple, but Gil (the groom) has a Latina mama with other ideas. Meanwhile Kendall (the pregnant bride) wants to pull out all the stops on her wedding—and suddenly her absentee parents are on the scene. A crazed competition for bridesmaids, wedding locations, showers, attention, and a little peace and quiet takes over 86 Bloomberg Place. Yet at the same time, friendships are being forged that will last a lifetime.

Excerpt of chapter one:

Megan Abernathy





“Okay, then, how does the second Saturday in June look?” Anna asked her housemates.





Megan frowned down at her date book spread open on the dining room table. She and Anna had been trying to nail a date for Lelani and Gil's wedding. Megan had already been the spoiler of the first weekend of June, but she'd already promised her mom that she'd go to a family reunion in Washington. Now it seemed she was about to mess things up again. “I'm sorry,” she said, “but I promised Marcus I'd go to his sister's wedding. It's been scheduled for almost a year now, and it's the second Saturday too. But maybe I can get out of it.”





Lelani just shook her head as she quietly rocked Emma in her arms, pacing back and forth between the living room and dining room. The baby was teething and fussy and overdue for her afternoon nap. Megan wasn't sure if Lelani's frustrated expression was a result of wedding planning or her baby's mood.





“Is it possible you could do both weddings in one day?” Anna asked Megan.





“That might work.” Megan picked up her datebook and followed Lelani into the living room, where she continued to rock Emma.





“Or we could look at the third weekend in June,” Anna called from the dining room.





“Shhh.” Megan held a forefinger over her lips to signal Anna that Emma was finally about to nod off. Megan waited and watched as Emma's eyes fluttered closed and Lelani gently eased the limp baby down into the playpen set up in a corner of the living room. Lelani pushed a dark lock of hair away from Emma's forehead, tucked a fuzzy pink blanket over her, then finally stood up straight and sighed.





“Looks like she's down for the count,” Megan whispered.





Lelani nodded. “Now, where were we with dates?”





“If you still want to go with the second Saturday,” Megan spoke quietly, “Anna just suggested that it might be possible for me to attend two weddings in one day.”





“That's a lot to ask of you,” Lelani said as they returned to the dining room, where Anna and Kendall were waiting expectantly with the calendar in the middle of the table and opened to June.





Megan shrugged as she pulled out a chair. “It's your wedding, Lelani. You should have it the way you want it. I just want to help.”





Anna pointed to the second Saturday. “Okay, this is the date in question. Is it doable or not?”





Lelani sat down and sighed. “I'm willing to schedule my wedding so that it's not a conflict with the other one. I mean, if it can even be done. Mostly I just wanted to wait until I finished spring term.”





“What time is Marcus's sister's wedding?” asked Anna.





“I'm not positive, but I think he said it was in the evening.” She reached for her phone.





“And you want a sunset wedding,” Kendall reminded Lelani.





“That's true.” Anna nodded.





“But I also want Megan to be there,” Lelani pointed out.





“That would be helpful, since she's your maid of honor,” said Anna.





Megan tried not to bristle at the tone of Anna's voice. She knew that Anna had been put a little out of sorts by Lelani's choice--especially considering that Anna was the sister of the groom--but to be fair, Megan was a lot closer to Lelani than Anna was. And at least they were all going to be in the wedding.





“Let me ask Marcus about the time,” Megan said as she pressed his speed-dial number and waited. “Hey, Marcus,” she said when he finally answered. “We're having a scheduling problem here. Do you know what time Hannah's wedding is going to be?”





“In the evening, I think,” Marcus said. “Do you need the exact time?”





“No, that's good enough.” Megan gave Lelani a disappointed look. “I'll talk to you later, okay?”





“You're not thinking of bailing on me, are you?” He sounded genuinely worried.





“No, but we're trying to pin down a time and date for Lelani.”





“It's just that I really want my family to meet you, Megan. I mean all of my family. And I want you to meet them too.”





“I know, and I plan to go with you.”





“Thanks. So, I'll see you around six thirty tonight?”





“That's right.” Megan told him good-bye, then turned to Lelani with a sigh. “I'm sorry,” she told her. “That wedding's at night too. Maybe I should blow off my family reunion so that you--”





“No.” Anna pointed to the calendar. “I just realized that the first Saturday in June is also my mother's birthday.”





“So?” Kendall shrugged. “What's wrong with that?”





Megan laughed. “Think about it, Kendall, how would you like to share your wedding anniversary with your mother-in-law's birthday?”





Kendall grinned. “Oh, yeah. Maybe not.”





“How about a Sunday wedding?” suggested Megan.





“Sunday?” Lelani's brow creased slightly as she weighed this.





“Sunday might make it easier to book the location,” Kendall said. “I mean, since most weddings are usually on Saturdays, and June is a pretty busy wedding month.”





“That's true,” agreed Megan.





“And you gotta admit that this is short notice for planning a wedding,” added Kendall. “Some people say you should start planning your wedding a whole year ahead of time.”





“Marcus's sister has been planning her wedding for more than a year,” Megan admitted. “Marcus says that Hannah is going to be a candidate for the Bridezillas show if she doesn't lighten up.”





They all laughed.





“Well, there's no way Gil and I are going to spend a year planning a wedding.” Lelani shook her head. “That's fine for some people, but we're more interested in our marriage than we are in our wedding.”





“I hear you.” Kendall laughed and patted her slightly rounded belly. She was in her fifth month of the pregnancy. They all knew that she and her Maui man, Killiki, were corresponding regularly, but despite Kendall's high hopes there'd been no proposal.





“I really don't see why it should take a year to plan a wedding,” Megan admitted. “I think that's just the wedding industry's way of lining their pockets.”





“So how much planning time do you have now anyway?” Kendall asked Lelani. “Like three months?”





“Not even.” Lelani flipped the calendar pages back. “It's barely two now.”





“Which is why we need to nail this date today,” Megan said. “Even though it's a small wedding--”





“And that remains to be seen,” Anna reminded her. “My mother's list keeps growing and growing and growing.”





“I still think it might be easier to just elope,” Lelani reminded them. “I told Gil that I wouldn't have a problem with that at all.”





“Yes, that would be brilliant.” Anna firmly shook her head. “You can just imagine how absolutely thrilled Mom would be about that little idea.”





Lelani smiled. “I actually thought she'd be relieved.”





“That might've been true a few months ago. But Mom's changing.” Anna poked Lelani in the arm. “In fact, I'm starting to feel jealous. I think she likes you better than me now.”





Lelani giggled. “In your dreams, Anna. Your mother just puts up with me so she can have access to Emma.”





They all laughed about that. Everyone knew that Mrs. Mendez was crazy about her soon-to-be granddaughter. Already she'd bought Emma all kinds of clothes and toys and seemed totally intent on spoiling the child rotten.





“Speaking of Emma”--Kendall shook her finger--“Mrs. Mendez is certain that she's supposed to have her on Monday. But I thought it was my day.”





“I'm not sure,” Lelani admitted. “But I'll call and find out.”





“And while you've got Granny on the line,” continued Kendall, “tell her that I do know how to change diapers properly. One more diaper lecture and I might just tape a Pamper over that big mouth of hers. Sheesh!”





They all laughed again. Since coming home from Maui, Kendall had been complaining about how Mrs. Mendez always seemed to find fault with Kendall's childcare abilities. In fact, Mrs. Mendez had spent the first week “teaching” Kendall the “proper” way to do almost everything.





To be fair, Megan didn't blame the older woman. Megan had been a little worried about Kendall too. But to everyone's surprise, Kendall turned out to be rather maternal. Whether it had to do with her own pregnancy or a hidden talent, Megan couldn't decide, but Kendall's skill had been a huge relief.





“Now, back to the wedding date,” said Lelani.





“Yes,” agreed Megan. “What about earlier on Saturday?”





“Oh, no,” Anna said. “I just remembered that I promised Edmond I'd go to his brother's bar mitzvah on that same day--I think it's in the morning.”





Lelani groaned.





“Edmond's brother?” Megan frowned. “I thought he was an only child. And since when is he Jewish?”





“Remember, his mom remarried,” Anna told her. “And Philip Goldstein, her new husband, is Jewish, and he has a son named Ben whose bar mitzvah is that Saturday.” She sighed. “I'm sorry, Lelani.”





“So Saturday morning is kaput,” Megan said.





“And Lelani wanted a sunset wedding anyway,” Anna repeated.





“So why can't you have a sunset wedding on Sunday?” Kendall suggested.





“That's an idea.” Megan turned back to Lelani. “What do you think?”





Lelani nodded. “I think that could work.”





“And here's another idea!” Anna exclaimed. “If the wedding was on Sunday night, you could probably have the reception in the restaurant afterward. I'm guessing it would be late by the time the wedding was over, and Sunday's not exactly a busy night.”





Lelani looked hopeful. “Do you think your parents would mind?”





“Mind? Are you kidding? That's what my mother lives for.”





“But we still don't have a place picked for the wedding,” Megan said.





“I have several outdoor locations in mind. I'll start checking on them tomorrow.”





“We'll have to pray that it doesn't rain.” Megan penned 'Lelani and Gil's Wedding' in her date book, then closed it.





“Should there be a backup plan?” asked Anna. “I'm sure my parents could have the wedding at their house.”





“Or here,” suggested Kendall. “You can use this house if you want.”





Anna frowned. “It's kind of small, don't you think?”





“I think it's sweet of Kendall to offer.” Lelani smiled at Kendall.





“I can imagine a bride coming down those stairs,” Kendall nodded toward the staircase. “I mean, if it was a small wedding.”





“I'll keep it in mind,” Lelani told her. “And your parents' house too.”





“It might be tricky getting a church reserved on a Sunday night,” Megan looked at the clock. “And speaking of that, I better get ready. Marcus is picking me up for the evening service in about fifteen minutes.” She turned back to Lelani. “Don't worry. I've got my to-do list and I'll start checking on some of this stuff tomorrow. My mom will want to help with the flowers.”





“And my aunt wants to make the cake,” Anna reminded them.





“Sounds like you're in good hands,” Kendall sad a bit wistfully. “I wonder how it would go if I was planning my wedding.”





“You'd be in good hands too,” Lelani assured her.





“Now, let's start going over that guest list,” Anna said as Megan stood up. “The sooner we get it finished, the less chance my mother will have of adding to it.” Megan was relieved that Anna had offered to handle the invitations. She could have them printed at the publishing company for a fraction of the price that a regular printer would charge, and hopefully she'd get them sent out in the next couple of weeks.





As Megan changed from her weekend sweats into something presentable, she wondered what would happen with Lelani's parents when it was time for the big event. Although her dad had promised to come and was already committed to paying Lelani's tuition to finish med school, Lelani's mom was still giving Lelani the cold shoulder. Make that the ice shoulder. For a woman who lived in the tropics, Mrs. Porter was about as chilly as they come. Still, Lelani had friends to lean on. Maybe that was better than family at times.





“Your prince is here,” Kendall called into Megan's room.





“Thanks.” Megan was looking for her other loafer and thinking it was time to organize her closet again. “Tell him I'm coming.”





When Megan came out, Marcus was in the dining room, chatting with her housemates like one of the family. He was teasing Anna for having her hair in curlers, then joking with Kendall about whether her Maui man had called her today.





“Not yet,” Kendall told him with a little frown. “But don't forget the time-zone thing. It's earlier there.”





“Speaking of time zones,” Lelani said to Marcus. “Did I hear you're actually thinking about going to Africa?”





Marcus grinned and nodded. “Yeah, Greg Mercer, this guy at our church, is trying to put together a mission trip to Zambia. I might go too.”





“Wow, that's a long ways away.” Kendall turned to Megan. “How do you feel about that?”





Megan shrugged as she pulled on her denim jacket. “I think it's cool.”





“Are you coming with us to church tonight, Kendall?” Marcus asked. “Greg is going to show a video about Zambia.”





“Sorry to miss that,” Kendall told him. “But Killiki is supposed to call.”





“Ready to roll?” Megan nodded up to the clock.





He grinned at her. “Yep.” But before they went out, he turned around. “That is, unless anyone else wants to come tonight.”





Lelani and Anna thanked him but said they had plans. Even so, Megan was glad he'd asked. It was nice when Kendall came with them occasionally. And Lelani had come once too. Really, it seemed that God was at work at 86 Bloomberg Place. Things had changed a lot since last fall.





“So are you nervous?” Marcus asked as he drove toward the city.





“Nervous?” Megan frowned. “About church?”





“No. The big interview.”





Megan slapped her forehead. “Wow, I temporarily forgot. We were so obsessed with Lelani's wedding today, trying to make lists, plan everything, and settle the date … I put the interview totally out of my mind.”





“Hopefully, it won't be out of your mind by Monday.”





“No, of course not.”





“So … are you nervous?”





Megan considered this. It would be her first interview for a teaching job. And it was a little unsettling. “The truth is, I don't think I have a chance at the job,” she admitted. “And, yes, I'm nervous. Thanks for reminding me.”





“Sorry. Why don't you think you'll get the job?”





“Because I don't have any actual teaching experience.” She wanted to add duh, but thought it sounded a little juvenile.





“Everyone has to start somewhere.”





“But starting in middle school, just a couple of months before the school year ends? Don't you think they'll want someone who knows what they're doing?”





“Unless they want someone who's enthusiastic and energetic and smart and creative and who likes kids and had lots of great new ideas and--”





“Wow, any chance you could do the interview in my place?”





“Cross-dress and pretend I'm you?”





She laughed. “Funny.”





“Just have confidence, Megan. Believe in yourself and make them believe too. You'd be great as a middle-school teacher.”





“What makes you so sure?”





“Because I remember middle school.”





“And?”





“And most of my teachers were old and dull and boring.”





“That's sad.”





“And I would've loved having someone like you for a teacher.”





“Really?”





He chuckled. “Yeah. If I was thirteen, I'd probably sit right in the front row and think about how hot you were, and then I'd start fantasizing about--”





“Marcus Barrett, you're pathetic.” Just the same, she laughed.





“What can I say? I'm just a normal, warm-blooded, American kid.”





“Give me a break!” She punched him in the arm.





“Is that your phone?” he asked as he was parking outside of the church.





“Oh, yeah, a good reminder to turn it off.” She pulled it out to see it was Kendall. Megan hoped nothing was wrong. “Hey, Kendall,” she said as Marcus set the parking brake. “What's up?”





“Guess what?” shrieked Kendall.





“I have no idea what, but it sounds like good news.” She stepped out of the car.





“Killiki just called.”





“That's nice.”





“And he asked me to marry him!”





Megan raised her eyebrows and looked at Marcus as he came around to meet her. “And you said yes?”





“Of course! Do you think I'm crazy?”





“No. Not at all. Congratulations, Kendall. I mean, I guess that's what you say.”





“So now we have two weddings to plan.”





Megan blinked. She walked with Marcus toward the church entry. “Oh, yeah, I guess we do.”





“And I'm getting married in June too!”





“That's great, Kendall. I'm really, really happy for you. And Killiki seems like a great guy.”





“He is! Anyway, we just looked at the calendar again. And we finally figured that I should just get married the same day as Lelani, only I'll get married in the morning. That way we'll all be able to go to both weddings.”





“Wow, the same day?”





“Otherwise, you'll be at your reunion or Marcus's sister's wedding. Or Anna will be at the bar mitzvah. Or Lelani and Gil will be on their honeymoon.”





“Oh, that's right.”





“And I want all of you there!”





“Yes, I suppose that makes sense.”





“It'll be busy, but fun.”





“Definitely.” Then Megan thanked Kendall for telling her, and they said good-bye. Megan closed her phone and just shook her head. “Wow.”





“Kendall's getting married?” asked Marcus as he held the church door open for her.





“Yes. Can you believe it?”





“Good for her.”





“And her wedding will be the same weekend as your sister's and the same day as Lelani's.”





Marcus held up three fingers and wore a perplexed expression. “Three weddings in one weekend? That's crazy.”





“Yep.” Megan nodded. “Three weddings and a bar mitzvah.”





“Huh?” Marcus looked confused, but they were in the sanctuary, and Megan knew she'd have to explain later.





©2009 Cook Communications Ministries. Three Weddings and a Bar Mitzvah by Melody Carlson. Used with permission. May not be further reproduced. All rights reserved.

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Excerpt - FINAL EXPOSURE by Roxanne Rustand

I am a total fan of Roxanne's books (she probably thinks I'm a cyber stalker) ever since I read her first Love Inspired Suspense novel, Hard Evidence (although the second book in that trilogy, Vendetta, is my favorite so far). She writes characters that are strong, real, and likable, and her suspense is heart-poundingly fantastic! (Like how i made up that word?)

Final Exposure
by
Roxanne Rustand

FOUR STARS RT Book Reviews Magazine.

Safety. Serenity. That’s what Jack Matthews wants, and what he seeks in Lost Falls, Montana. A quiet retreat is just what Jack and his orphaned nephew, Max, need—especially with gentle, beautiful Erin Cole as their host. But when sirens in the night leave Max screaming, Jack’s faced with the harsh truth. They’re not safe—not him, not Max and especially not Erin. What is she hiding? What does the shadowy figure stalking her want? And how much will Jack have to risk to keep her safe?

Excerpt of chapter one:

Erin Cole shivered away an uneasy feeling as she unlocked the door of Millie's Provisions and stepped into her new life. The cold. Surely it was only the cold that raised goose bumps on her arms and sent an eerie premonition racing through her mind.

A silly, city-girl reaction to the loneliness of the mountains after being away for so long.

Nothing ever happened in Lost Falls, so there was no reason to be afraid. The peaceful little village, with its few dozen touristy businesses trailing along the shore of Bear Island Lake, swelled with vacationers and bumper-to-propeller traffic during the summer, then slept quietly with only a handful of year-round residents to brave the long winters.

She'd come back to put old ghosts to rest once and for all. She was past all that, and didn't plan to give in to the old fears that had dogged her for so many years.

Inside the little general store, the crisp scent of northern Montana pine and the gentle sound of waves sloshing along the shore of Bear Island Lake gave way to the faint smells of leather and cinnamon and the steady tick of the old Coca Cola clock above the cash register.

It all brought back a rush of sepia-toned images from a childhood spent at this lake. Of all the times she and her cousins Laura and Megan, and their best friend, Kris, had sat on the wooden steps just outside, licking melting ice-cream cones as they decided on their next adventure. They'd been inseparable, back then.

The good memories helped settle her nerves. The bad ones she still tried to forget.

Owned by her grandparents, Millie's had always reminded her of a magician's hat. Small as it was, it still held everything from bait to books, from groceries to camping gear and tourist supplies.

Her favorite part had always been the little café set up in the front window, with six wrought-iron, icecream tables and an old-fashioned soda fountain complete with eight brass stools that could spin.

And now, this place was her future. Who would've thought? Brimming with emotion, she locked the door behind her and started across the pine-planked floor.

A shadow moved across a beam of moonlight at the back of the store.

She froze, the nape of her neck prickling.

The ticking of the clock slowed.

The glass-fronted pop-and-beer-cooler compressor hummed louder as she strained to listen. A sixth sense told her that the shadow had not been her imagination.

Holding her breath, she edged backward toward the front door, her heart pounding against her ribs and her palms damp.

Ten feet to go.

Five.

She reached blindly behind her for the dead bolt, not daring to turn around.

Had the intruder heard her come in? How fast could she escape? But what then?

The surrounding campgrounds and rustic cabin resorts were empty, now that the tourist season was over. The closest year-round business was a sporting-goods store at least a half mile away that wouldn't open until midmorning.

And with her bad ankle, the chances of outrunning anyone over the age of six weren't good. God—I need some help here.

From the back room came the sound of something scraping against the floor…and was that the rasp of a harsh, indrawn breath?

Fear washed through her, turning her knees weak, as she fumbled with her car keys.

The back door squeaked.

Closed with a soft snick of the latch.

Which meant the intruder had left. Or did it? If she ran to her car, he could be out there. Waiting.

But if he was still inside, lying in wait for her, it could be hours before anyone noticed signs of a struggle.

Even if some early morning coffee drinkers peered through the front window, they wouldn't be able to see the back of the store. And no one would even think to stop by until the store opened at seven, anyway.

Tell me what to do, Lord—go, or stay?

Her gaze fell on the old-fashioned desk telephone on the counter behind the cash register, then to the locked cabinet beneath, where she'd stored her grandfather's Korean War-era pistol.

A sense of calm settled over her.

The old keepsake had been like a security blanket, given the iffy Denver neighborhood she'd lived in before sharing a condo with her friend Ashley, but she'd only brought it to this sleepy little town as a memento.

She crept to the register. Quietly she snagged the phone and pulled it down into her lap to dial 911. While whispering to the operator, she fingered through her ring of keys to unlock the cupboard and retrieve the gun.

And then, she moved into the shadows behind a display of fishing tackle and began to pray.

* * *

For the past three months Jack Matthews had slept fitfully at best. He'd greeted the dawn bleary-eyed too many times to count.

But last night he must have finally fallen asleep, because when Max screamed just before dawn, he'd launched out of bed and spun around, disoriented, sure this scream was just one of the many that filled his nightmares.

Then Max had cried out again.

Jack's brain cleared, and he'd stumbled down the dark, unfamiliar hall to the other bedroom of the rental house, where his five-year-old nephew was sitting bolt upright in bed, the blankets twisted around him, his eyes wide and frightened and streaming tears.

No wonder, given the crimson wash of patrol-car lights spinning across his bedroom walls and the male voices drifting up from the road.

Despite Jack's best efforts at trying to comfort him, Max had been awake since then, shell-shocked and subdued after his sobs finally subsided.

It had been a long trip up here from Lawrence, Texas, with too little sleep and three days on the road. Especially while he was still trying to learn how to be a daddy to an emotionally damaged child, who often withdrew from the gentlest hug.

A child who'd rarely smiled since the night he'd watched his parents die.

If he'd still been on speaking terms with God, Jack would have been praying. But if God hadn't chosen to spare the lives of two of the sweetest, kindest people on the planet, why would He care about their grieving, traumatized son?

By all rights Jack, not Janie and her husband, Allen, should've been driving his vintage Mercedes to the gala fundraiser in downtown Dallas.

And it should've been Jack lying in that pretty little cemetery up in the foothills.

Shelving his melancholy thoughts, Jack wearily settled across the kitchen table from Max with a strong cup of coffee in his hand and smiled. "More Cheerios?"

The little boy pushed a piece of cereal across the lake of milk in his bowl, then poked it with the spoon and shook his head.

"I thought you liked Cheerios."

Silence.

Could a five-year-old live on three bites of cereal and one nibble of toast? Despite coaxing and attempts at bribery, he'd only accepted Cheerios and cheeseburgers since they'd left Texas, and even then he'd only take a few bites.

Evidence of just how wrong a choice Jack was for the child's guardian, but there was no one else left— and certainly no one else who loved him more.

"If you aren't hungry, let's go next door to meet our landlord."

Darting an uneasy, sideways glance at him, Max slid off his chair and focused on the buttons of his Sponge Bob pajamas.

"We'll look for something interesting in the store. Some new storybooks, maybe?"

With an almost imperceptible nod, the little boy shied away from the offer of Jack's hand, but dutifully pulled on his clothes and followed him out onto the broad front porch, down the flagstone walk to the road and over to the rustic, one-and-a-half-story log building next door. Millie's Provisions appeared to be a small general store, and the aroma of fresh-baked rolls wafted through the front screen door.

Incredible rolls, from the rich caramel-and-cinnamon scent of them.

Seeing the guarded, hopeful look Max darted at him, Jack felt his heart lift. If it took caramel rolls to see the worry and fear ease in the little boy's eyes, they'd be here with bells on every single day.

"Are you hungry now?" he teased, waggling one eyebrow—a move that had once made the child giggle.

Max regarded him with somber eyes, but he did start up the broad wooden steps to the covered boardwalk running across the front of the building. The effect was straight out of a 1940s Western movie, with pine benches and wooden rockers lining the full length of the storefront, perfect for old folks to gather.

But instead of Montana-cowboy memorabilia, crossed fishing poles had been hammered to the outside wall, along with an immense fish carved out of wood.

Max stared at the gaping jaws of the fish and stumbled backward, reaching for Jack's hand. "He's big."

"That's Edgar." The soft, sympathetic voice came from inside the building. "He scared me until I started fifth grade. But he's really only a big ol' piece of wood."

Jack followed the sound of the voice to a hazy silhouette on the other side of the screen door.

A second later the woman pushed the door open and bent down to smile at Max. "Once I named him Edgar, he didn't seem so scary."

She'd appeared to be of ample size when viewed through the screen, but now he realized that she was about as substantial as Tinkerbell—just a delicate little thing, swathed in a voluminous apron.

In her late twenties or early thirties at most, with long, dark blond hair braided and pulled through the back of a red Millie's Provisions ball cap, she had a smudge of flour on one cheek.

Her light blue eyes sparkled with amusement when she looked up at Jack, and he realized he'd been staring.

"I'm Erin, the owner. I'm running behind in the kitchen, but just give a holler when you finish shopping and I'll zip over to the register."

He'd researched long-term vacation lodging on the Internet, and the place he'd found here, just a single rental house set in the mountains of western Montana, sounded perfect as a quiet getaway. He'd immediately arranged a lease on the phone.

He'd had to supply multiple references—which he knew she'd verified—and he'd had to pay two months' rent with a certified check before she agreed to a three-month lease and mailed him a key.

Given all that, he'd guessed that his temporary landlady would be tough to deal with should anything go awry, but now his preconceptions melted away.

Once upon a time, he might have felt an instant flash of attraction. He might have even flirted a little, just to see where things led.

But not anymore.

Romance and the responsibilities of single parenting—especially in his case—were mutually exclusive. His ex-fiancée's resentment and abrupt defection after Max's arrival into his life had made that crystal clear.

Worse, Max had inadvertently overheard part of Elana's declaration about not wanting to raise someone else's child. He'd become even more withdrawn after that, and Jack would never risk that kind of harm again.

He offered his hand. "I'm Jack, and this is Max, my nephew."

"I saw the lights go on at the house late last night and went out to check the license plate on your car to be sure it was you, but figured I'd wait until today to come over. And then, well, things got a little busy over here."

Her cheerful smile wavered as she dusted her hand against her apron and accepted a brief handshake, then playfully shook Max's hand, as well. "I'm so sorry I didn't make it over to greet you, too."

Surprised that the child didn't shy away from her touch, Jack nodded toward an immense calico cat curled up on a chair at the end of the porch. "Will she let Max pet her?"

Erin laughed. "Pet her. Lug her around. She came with the store and she's definitely not very energetic."

After Max headed for the cat, Jack lowered his voice. "You had some trouble over here early this morning."

The woman's cheerful facade slipped for a second before she retrieved another bright smile. "Nothing major."

This was a subject he didn't want to discuss with Max at his side, and the child could be back any second. Jack curbed his impatience. "There was a squad car parked in front of this store, with at least two officers and several onlookers. Sounds sort of major to me."

Erin bit her lower lip. "I came into the store to start baking and thought I heard an intruder leaving. I didn't actually see anyone."

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Something new for Roxanne is her blog: ”All Creatures Great and Small Place.”

The name came from the lyrics of “All Things Bright and Beautiful,” a Cecil Alexander hymn written in 1848. If you love animals, this is the place to visit–where authors and writers can share stories (both poignant and fun) about their pets. I live on an acreage in Iowa and have horses, dogs, cats, and welcome strays too often!

You’ll also find periodic additions to “The Old Horse Trader Tales”–true stories about the adventures (and misadventures!) of a horse trader during the 1930’s -1980’s. I wrote them as feature articles for a magazine about fifteen years ago, and look forward to sharing all of the nostalgic stories about this charming old man.

I’ll also occasionally be featuring some cool new releases by my favorite authors on this blog, too…so take a look!

When you finish there, please also check out www.shoutlife.com/roxannerustand where I have a variety of other blogs running, and some fun contests now and then. Come over for a visit!

Excerpt - FIELDS OF GRACE by Kim Sawyer

Kim is a wonderful person with a humble, gentle heart. I just saw her at the ACFW conference last week, where her novel, My Heart Remembers, won the Book of the Year Contest!

This week, the
Christian Fiction Blog Alliance
is introducing
Fields Of Grace
Bethany House (October 2009)
by
Kim Vogel Sawyer


ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

Best-selling, award-winning author Kim Vogel Sawyer is a wife, mother, grandmother, author, speaker, singer of songs and lover of chocolate... but most importantly, she's a born-again child of the King!

A former elementary school teacher, Kim closed her classroom door in 2005 to follow God's call on her heart to write and speak. Now blessed with multiple writing contracts with Bethany House, Barbour, and Zondervan Publishing, Kim enjoys sharing her journey to publication as well as the miraculous story of her healing from a life-long burden of pain and shame.

Kim's gentle yet forthright testimony lends credence to the promise of Ps. 117:2--"Great is his love toward us, and the faithfulness of the Lord endures forever."


ABOUT THE BOOK

Will their Mennonite faith be shaken or strengthened by the journey to a new land?

With their eldest son nearly to the age when he will be drafted into military service, Reinhardt and Lillian Vogt decide to immigrate to America, the land of liberty, with their three sons and Reinhardt's adopted brother, Eli. But when tragedy strikes during the voyage, Lillian and Eli are forced into an agreement neither desires.

Determined to fulfill his obligation to Reinhardt, Eli plans to see Lillian and her sons safely settled on their Kansas homestead--and he's equally determined that the boys will be reared in the Mennonite faith. What he doesn't expect is his growing affection for Lillian--and the deep desire to be part of a family.

Excerpt of chapter one:

Fields Of Grace
Bethany House (October 2009)


Fields of Grace

Excerpt - ONE IMPERFECT CHRISTMAS by Myra Johnson

Myra is a friend of mine who blogs with me at Seekerville. We were all so thrilled when she got the call that Abingdon had bought this book! This manuscript has finaled and won in many RWA contests before it was contracted and Myra worked a very long time to achieve her dream. She really is a testament to perseverance and determination!

This week, the
Christian Fiction Blog Alliance
is introducing
One Imperfect Christmas
Abingdon Press (September 2009)
by
Myra Johnson

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

Making up stories has been second nature to me for as long as I can remember. A select group of trusted friends back at dear old Mission High waited eagerly for the next installment of my "Great American Spy Novel" (think Man from Uncle) and my "All-American Teen Novel" (remember Gidget and Tammy?). I even had a private notebook of angst-ridden poetry a la Rod McKuen.

The dream of writing persisted into adulthood, although it often remained on the back burner while I attended to home and family and several "real" (read paying) jobs along the way. Then in 1983, while recovering from sinus surgery, I came upon one of those magazine ads for the Institute of Children’s Literature. I knew it was time to get serious, and the next thing I knew, I'd enrolled in the “Writing for Children and Teenagers” course.

Within a year or so I sold my first story, which appeared in the Christian publication Alive! for Young Teens. For many years I enjoyed success writing stories and articles for middle-graders and young adults. I even taught for ICL for 9 years.

Then my girls grew up, and there went my live-in inspiration. Time to switch gears. I began my first women's fiction manuscript and started attending Christian writers conferences. Eventually I learned about American Christian Romance Writers (which later became American Christian Fiction Writers) and couldn't wait to get involved. Friends in ACFW led me to RWA and the online inspirational chapter, Faith, Hope & Love.

So here I am today, still on this crazy roller-coaster ride. Still writing. Still hopeful. Writing, I'm learning, is not about the destination, it's about the journey. My current projects are primarily women's fiction and romance . . . novels of hope, love, and encouragement. Novels about real women living out their faith and finding love in the midst of everyday, and sometimes not so everyday, situations.


ABOUT THE BOOK


Graphic designer Natalie Pearce faces the most difficult Christmas of her life. For almost a year, her mother has lain in a nursing home, the victim of a massive stroke, and Natalie blames herself for not being there when it happened. Worse, she's allowed the monstrous load of guilt to drive a wedge between her and everyone she loves-most of all her husband Daniel. Her marriage is on the verge of dissolving, her prayer life is suffering, and she's one Christmas away from hitting rock bottom.

Junior-high basketball coach Daniel Pearce is at his wit's end. Nothing he's done has been able to break through the wall Natalie has erected between them. And their daughter Lissa's adolescent rebellion isn't helping matters. As Daniel's hope reaches its lowest ebb, he wonders if this Christmas will spell the end of his marriage and the loss of everything he holds dear.

Watch the trailer:



Excerpt of chapter one:

One Imperfect Christmas
Abingdon Press (September 2009)


Chapter 1

Natalie Pearce padded into the kitchen in her new velour robe and fuzzy orange-and-white slippers that looked like little foxes. They were a Christmas present from her husband, Daniel, just three weeks ago. The gift tag had read: “To one foxy lady!”

First thing in the morning, straw-blonde hair still tangled from sleep, she felt anything but foxy. Still, her cheeks warmed as she considered inviting Daniel back to the bedroom for a few more minutes of snuggling. Then she remembered this was Saturday—her day to play “coach’s widow.” After nearly fifteen years of marriage she still hated her husband’s erratic schedule. On Christmas Eve her parents had celebrated their forty-eighth wedding anniversary, a legacy of love Natalie hoped she and Daniel could emulate. But was such a dream even possible when the two of them seemed to operate in different time zones?

She paused at the breakfast table and set her hands on her hips. As usual, he’d left the newspaper in shambles, the comics pulled from one section and the sports page decimated after he’d clipped all the articles covering Putnam Middle School’s athletic teams.

Daniel breezed into the kitchen, sneakers squeaking on the ceramic tile floor. “Hey, hon, sorry about the paper.” He planted a toothpaste-flavored kiss on her parted lips. “I’d sort it out for you, but I’m already running late. I’m meeting Carl at Casey’s Diner to carpool to the tournament.”

Natalie fought to keep her smile in place as she gave him a playful punch in the stomach. “What’s new? Get out of here before I decide not to let you go at all.”

“Promises, promises.” He wiggled his dark eyebrows. “Seriously, before you go . . . ,” she said in her sexiest voice. She clutched the lapels of his red Putnam Panthers jacket and pulled him toward her.

With a seductive grin, Daniel drew her into his arms. “Sweetheart, I told you, I’m already running late.”

She chuckled and bit his ear. “Sorry, Coach, I just wanted to ask you again what time your parents will be here.”

“Woman, you break my heart!” He slammed a hand to his chest as if he’d been shot. “Ah, now I get it. You want to know exactly how much time you have to clean the house.”

So she wasn’t the world’s greatest housekeeper—one trait she didn’t inherit from her mother. Who cared about a little clutter on the kitchen counters, or last night’s pizza pan still soaking in the sink? So what if she hadn’t dusted since Thanksgiving? Hard to do with Christmas decorations covering every flat, dusty surface in the house.

Daniel seemed to read her thoughts. He tilted her chin until she reluctantly met his gaze. “Next weekend. Promise me, okay? The Christmas decorations need to come down.” She pushed out her lower lip. “Only if you stay home and help. It’s depressing to do it all by myself.”

“I’ll check my schedule.” He gathered up his car keys and canvas briefcase and then slicked a hand through ash-brown hair still damp from his shower. “Mom and Dad won’t get here before three at the earliest, so you’ve got plenty of time to enjoy your coffee.” He glanced at his watch. “And I don’t. I’m out of here, sweetie. With any luck, I’ll be home in time for dinner.”

“That’ll be the day.”

The door to the garage banged shut behind him, sending a puff of wintry air into the kitchen. Moments later Natalie heard the ancient green Bronco grumble a couple of times before starting up. The poor thing must have nearly 200,000 miles on it. How Daniel kept it running, she hadn’t a clue, but what with paying the mortgage on their dream home and keeping their thirteen-year-old fashionista daughter in designer jeans, replacing a vehicle wasn’t in the budget. She sent up a quick prayer for Daniel’s safety on the road and hoped the weather held. The last she’d heard, the predicted snow wouldn’t arrive until tomorrow morning.

Her chest caved. Much as she enjoyed the visits with Daniel’s parents, Alice Pearce was an even more meticulous housekeeper than Natalie’s mother. No way around it—the cleaning had to get done. Maybe Natalie could bribe her daughter into helping. After all, half the mess was Lissa’s school books, art supplies, and discarded shoes dropped haphazardly between the kitchen door and her bedroom upstairs.

So much for getting back to the watercolor landscape Natalie had begun last weekend. At least her freelance graphic design assignments had tapered off now that the holidays had passed. The extra income supplemented Daniel’s small-town coaching salary, but Natalie dreamed of making her living as a fine artist—thanks to her mother’s teaching and inspiration. She’d much rather pursue her own creative visions than those of her finicky clients.

She poured a glass of orange juice and a mug of coffee and then dropped an English muffin into the toaster. She’d barely sat down to spread the muffin with her mother’s homemade apricot jam when Lissa flounced into the kitchen, her long blonde hair pinned up with mismatched butterfly clips. Natalie suppressed a laugh and lifted her hands in mock surrender. “Is this the part where you say, ‘Take me to your leader’?”

“Oh, Mom, how juvenile!” Lissa swiped her finger through the jam jar and licked off a sticky, amber glob. “Have you seen my pink sweater—the one with the gray stripe across the front?”

Natalie sipped her coffee. “Did you check the laundry hamper?”

“Yes, twice.”

“The floor of your room?”

“Mother!”

“How about the closet? Any chance you actually hung it up?”

Lissa clenched her fists. “Mom, I need some help here. Jody and her mom are picking me up in twenty minutes.”

Natalie gave her daughter a blank stare.

“Earth to Mo-ther.” Lissa rolled her eyes.

“Oh, rats, the youth group skating party.” No help cleaning from Lissa today. With a sigh, Natalie bit into her English muffin. “Sorry, honey, but I have no idea where your sweater is. Can’t you find something else to wear?”

The ringing telephone halted whatever sarcastic retort Lissa was about to spit out. She squinted at the caller ID on the kitchen extension and grabbed the receiver. “Jody! Did I leave my sweater over there when I spent the night last weekend? Great! Bring it with you. I’ll put it on in the car.” She hung up and dashed through the den, yanking clips out of her hair and tossing them on the sofa.

“Lissa!”

“Sorry, Mom. I’ll get them later, I promise!” Lissa’s bedroom door slammed with finality.

Right, when pigs fly. Sure, Natalie could insist Lissa pick up after herself before leaving for the party, but a battle of wills with a headstrong preteen? No-brainer—it was guaranteed to ruin the entire day for both of them. She made a promise to herself, though, that one day very soon she and Daniel would sit down with Lissa and lay out some ground rules— before Lissa’s adolescent self-centeredness got completely out of hand.

Natalie refilled her coffee mug and carried the remains of the newspaper to the den. Fifteen more minutes and she’d have the house to herself and maybe a little time to work on that watercolor before she got serious about cleaning.

Lissa had been gone barely five minutes when the phone rang again. Natalie, settled in the recliner under a snuggly fleece throw, was tempted not to answer it—probably another of Lissa’s perky seventh-grade friends calling to ask what she planned to wear to the party.

Then the answering machine picked up, and after Natalie’s recorded greeting and the beep, she heard her mother’s voice. “Hi, Natalie, just me. Guess you’re out running errands. I’ll call later—”

Natalie shook off her annoyance and jumped up to grab the kitchen extension. “Hey, Mom, I’m here.”

“Oh, good, glad I caught you.” Her mother’s cheery voice turned cajoling. “It’s that time again, sweetheart. Can I twist your arm to help?”

Apprehension propelled Natalie into the nearest chair. Her mother didn’t even have to speak the words. “Oh, Mom, does it have to be today? Taking down Christmas decorations is my least favorite chore in the world. Daniel’s already on my case about ours.” She gave a weak laugh. “You know me. I’d leave them up year-round if I could.” Someday she’d do just that and hire someone to come in and dust them off once a month.

“I know, and I’m sorry to even ask.” Mom sounded genuinely sympathetic. “But your dad went to that horse auction, and it’s my turn to host the church ladies’ book club tomorrow afternoon.”

“Did you try Hart and Celia?” Natalie’s brother and sisterin- law lived just a few miles from the farm.

“Hart went with your dad to the auction, and Celia’s taking Kurt and Kevin to their basketball game.” Mom paused. “I’ll make apple dumplings and hot cider.”

“Bribery—that is so not fair.” Natalie patted her stomach. “I already need to sweat off at least five pounds of Christmas goodies.”

“Lifting Christmas boxes is good exercise.”

Obviously, Mom wasn’t going to give up. Natalie stared out the bay window. She needed to come up with some logical reason why Mom should postpone this depressing annual chore. Her gaze settled on the bank of gray snow clouds looming on the horizon. She shivered just thinking about venturing out on this frosty January day.

She offered an idea. “Think of how much the ladies would enjoy the decorations. It wouldn’t hurt to leave them up a little longer, would it?”

“Natalie, the tree is completely dry and dropping needles all over the carpet. It really must come down today.” A note of apology tinged her mother’s voice. “I should have asked your father to help me earlier in the week, but the time got away from us.”

“You know I’d do anything for you, Mom, and if it were any other weekend—” Yes, come to think of it, she had a ready-made excuse. She tried not to let the rush of gratitude creep into her tone. “Remember I told you Daniel’s parents are driving over this afternoon? Daniel’s at a tournament in Fielding to scout basketball teams, and Lissa’s at a skating party. I need to clean house and shop for groceries before they get here.”

Not that she actually intended to do all that much. If her mother had asked her help for anything else—rearranging furniture, washing windows, even shoveling snow off the front walk—she’d have driven out to the farm on a moment’s notice.

But taking down Christmas decorations?

Her mother gave a wry laugh. “It’s okay. Don’t worry, I’ll manage by myself.”

Mom’s disappointment tarnished Natalie’s brief glow of triumph and raised a moment of concern. Her stubborn mother would “manage” all right. She’d take on the whole project by herself, arthritis and all. Natalie pressed the phone against her ear. “Now, Mom, don’t you try to carry all those boxes out to the barn. You’ll aggravate your bad wrist again, and you won’t be able to paint for a week.”

“Natalie—”

“I mean it, Mom. Stack the decorations out of sight in the downstairs guestroom, and I’ll come by one day next week to help you pack everything away.”

After eliciting her mother’s assurance she wouldn’t take on too much, Natalie said good-bye. Just a few more days to psych herself up for the end of the holidays, that’s all she asked. Shrugging off the last twinges of guilt, Natalie snuggled into the recliner to finish her coffee.

Around ten, she finally talked herself into exchanging her comfy robe and those adorable slippers for paint-stained sweats and grungy sneakers. Like it or not, she needed to do a cursory cleaning before her in-laws arrived. She’d just finished loading the dishwasher and returned from the garage with the sponge mop when the phone rang again.

This time it was Daniel’s father, calling to say the winter frontal system had already hit their part of the state. With two inches of snow on the ground and more expected, they’d decided not to chance the drive.

A crazy mix of relief and disappointment flooded Natalie. Daniel didn’t get to see his folks that often, and Lissa had been planning an after-Christmas shopping trip with her grandmother ever since they’d first mentioned coming. But an excuse to postpone housecleaning? Definitely cause for celebration. Natalie loaded the stereo with her favorite Christmas CDs, set up her easel and paints in front of the bay window, and settled in for her version of the perfect Saturday.

Hours later, she was adding the finishing touches to a winter landscape when the phone startled her. The paintbrush skittered across the canvas, marring a stately pine with aquamarine streaks. Natalie mumbled a few choice words and glanced at the mantle clock as she wiped her hands on a paint rag. Five already? Where had the day gone? Daniel and Lissa would be home soon. She needed to wrap things up and figure out something for supper. Mentally sorting through the freezer contents for a quick and simple meal, she picked up the kitchen extension.

“Natalie?” her dad’s voice sounded ragged—choked with panic. “Come to the hospital right away. It’s your mother.”

Her stomach plummeted. She pictured her mother at the bottom of a ladder amidst a pile of Christmas decorations. “What happened? Is she okay?”

Sprained ankle? Broken hip? Oh, Mom, why couldn’t you wait?
“Just . . . get here.” Her father clicked off before she could press him for details.

Dread coiled around her heart. She threw a parka over her sweats and grabbed her purse and keys off the counter. When she gunned the engine to back out of the garage, her trusty silver Saturn screeched in protest. The side mirror nicked the doorframe, and she barely missed taking out the mailbox and the neighbor’s trash can. She drove like a maniac to Putnam General, all the while berating herself for ignoring Mom’s request for help. After everything her mother had sacrificed for her, she could only pray these new injuries wouldn’t cripple her mother for life.

Natalie burst through the ER entrance and scanned the faces in the congested waiting area. A mother holding an ice pack against her son’s forehead. An ashen-faced woman dozing against an elderly man’s shoulder. Whimpering babies. Frightened children. Anxious parents.

She spotted her father’s silver-gray head across the room, where he paced in front of a set of double doors. Her brother, Hart, stood close by with his hands tucked into his blue-jeans pockets, rocking on his heels.

Natalie rushed over and touched her father’s arm. “Dad, how’s Mom? Tell me it’s not serious.”

Her father turned and looked at her—looked through her. “They think it’s a stroke.” His face crumpled as his thin veneer of strength collapsed. He pressed a fist to his mouth and pulled her to him, squeezing her so tightly, she could hardly breathe.

Natalie struggled away and stared at him, not comprehending. A stroke? Ice-cold terror crackled through her veins. She spun to face her brother and seized his wrist. “Hart?”

“It’s bad, Nat. Real bad.” He drew her into his arms, and she felt her brother’s fear in every tense muscle of his body.

A tall, bearded man in hospital greens pushed through the double doors. “Mr. Morgan? I’m Dr. Wyatt.” He indicated a frayed blue sofa, the only empty seat in the waiting area. “Why don’t we sit down.”

Natalie blocked his way. “Just tell us, how is my mother? She’ll be okay, right?”

“I wish I had better news.” The doctor glanced at the chart he held.

“But there’s stuff you can do for a stroke these days. I saw it on TV.”

“It isn’t that simple. Please try to understand.” Dr. Wyatt attempted to explain her mother’s condition, tossing out phrases about blood clots and clot-dissolving medications and something about a three-hour time window before irreversible brain damage set in.

A sob tore from Natalie’s throat. “Are you saying she got here too late? That there’s nothing you can do?”

“We’ll continue to do all we can to minimize the damage, but under the circumstances . . . ” The doctor gave a oneshoulder shrug. “I’m sorry. I’m so very sorry.”

Excerpt - A COWBOY CHRISTMAS by Mary Connealy

Okay, okay, I know I've been slacking on the blogging lately, but cut me some slack--I got home from the ACFW conference and I swear A BOMB WENT OFF IN MY HOUSE. The mess is mind boggling. I don't know how it got to be such a war zone after only one week, and without me in the house! Anyway, my brain can't function if my house is messy, so I've been trying to clean up. My house, not my brain. Hopefully my brain will follow.

Regardless, today's excerpt is by Mary Connealy, one of the funniest women I know. If she comes to do a booksigning near you, go and meet her! I just saw her last week at the conference.

Today's Wild Card author is:

Mary Connealy

and the book:

A Cowboy Christmas

Barbour Books (September 1, 2009)

Get ready for a fun and suspenseful Christmastime romance. Trouble follows singer Annette Talbot to Wyoming—and rancher Elijah Walker finds himself directly in its path. Though still wounded by the betrayal of his ex-fiancée, Elijah finds himself attracted to the secretive singer. When it appears Annie is a threat to his mother’s life, Elijah must decide if Annie’s deep faith and love of God is genuine or if it’s all just a ruse. He decides to trust her—until he discovers she’s a wanted woman. As Christmas draws near, will Elijah respond to God’s gentle persuasion to find the truth before he loses Annie forever?

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

As an award-winning author, Mary Connealy lives on a Nebraska farm with her husband and is the mother of four grown daughters. She writes plays and shorts stories, and is the author of two other novels, Petticoat Ranch and Calico Canyon. Also an avid blogger, Mary is a GED instructor by day and an author by night. For more information on Mary Connealy, visit her Web site at .

Visit the author's website.

Product Details:
List Price: $10.97
Paperback: 304 pages
Publisher: Barbour Books (September 1, 2009)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 1602601453
ISBN-13: 978-1602601451

AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:

A mining camp in Missouri, November, 1879





“You’ll wear that dress, Songbird.” Claude Leveque grabbed Annette Talbot’s arm, lifted her to her toes, and shoved her backward.



Annie tripped over a chair and cried out as it toppled. The chair scraped her legs and back. Her head hit the wall of the tiny, windowless shack, and stars exploded in her eyes.



Stunned by the pain, she hit the floor, and an animal instinct sent her scrambling away from Claude. But there was nowhere to go in the twelve-by-twelve-foot cabin.



Her head cleared enough to tell her there was no escape, so she fought with will and faith. “Never.” Propping herself up on her elbows, she faced him and shouted her defiance. “I will never go out in public in that dress.”



“You’ll sing what I tell you to sing.” Claude, in his polished suit and tidily trimmed hair, looked every inch civilized—or he had, until tonight. Now he strode toward her, eyes shooting furious fire, his face twisted into soul-deep rot and sin.



“I sing as a mission.” Annie tried to press her back through the unyielding log wall. “I sing hymns. That’s the only thing—”



A huge fist closed over the front of her blouse, and Claude lifted her like a rag doll to eye level, but he didn’t strike.



He would. He’d proved that several times over since he’d come here with his disgusting demands.



She braced herself. She’d die first. Claude might not believe that, but he’d know before long.



“So, you’re willing to die for your beliefs, heh?” Claude’s fist tightened on her blouse, cutting off Annie’s air.



“Yes!” She could barely speak, but he heard. He knew.



“Are you willing to watch someone else die, Songbird? Maybe your precious friend, Elva?” He shook her and her head snapped back. “I can always find another piano player.”



“No!” Annie had to save Elva. Somehow. Of course Elva would be threatened. Annie hadn’t had time to think that far.



Elva would never stand for this. Elva would die for her beliefs, too.



A wicked laugh escaped from Claude’s twisted mouth. “She’s easily replaced. But I’ll never”—he shook her viciously—“find another singer like you.”



How had it come to this? God help me. Protect Elva and me.



“My answer is no! Elva wouldn’t play the piano for me if I wore that.” Her eyes went to the slattern’s dress hanging, vivid red, near the door. “She would refuse to play the piano for those vulgar songs.”



“We’ll see, Songbird.” Claude laughed again.



Annie saw the evil in him, the hunger to hurt. He wasn’t just hurting Annie to get his way. He was enjoying it. Her vision dimmed and blurred as she clawed at his strangling fist.



“I’ll go have a talk with your frail old friend and then we’ll see.” He shoved Annie backward, slamming her against the wall.



She hit so hard her knees buckled. What little air she still had was knocked away.



Claude charged out, shutting the door behind him.



Annie heard the sound of a padlock snicking shut as she slumped sideways.



She became aware of her surroundings with no idea how much time had passed. In the falling darkness, she could barely make out blood dripping down the front of her dress. Tears diluted the blood and she wept.



“Do something, idiot! You can’t just sit here crying.”



Annie proved beyond a shadow of a doubt that she was indeed an idiot by burying her face in her hands and sobbing her heart out. The tears burned. She swiped at them and flinched from the pain in her blackened eye.



Shuddering, she lifted her battered face from her hands and looked at the dress. It seemed to glow in the dim light, as if the very fires of the devil gave it light. Indecent, vivid red silk with black fringe. No bodice worth mentioning, the front hem cut up nearly to the knees. The garment was horrible and disgusting, and Annie’s shudders deepened. She shouted at the walls of the tiny, solidly locked cabin, “I won’t do it!”



Claude had known before he’d asked that Annie would never wear that sinful dress and sing those bawdy songs. Touching gingerly her throbbing, swollen cheek, Annie pulled her hand away and saw blood. Her lip was split, her nose bleeding. She knew Claude’s fists had been more for his own cruel pleasure than any attempt at coercion.



“Beat me to death if you want,” she yelled at the door. “I will never again perform onstage for you!” She felt strong, righteous. Ready to die for her faith.



Then she thought of Elva. Annie’s elderly accompanist was maybe, right now, being punished because Annie hadn’t fallen in line.



Claude’s cruel threats rang in her ears even with him gone.



For all her utter commitment to refusing the Leveques and singing only her beloved hymns, how could Annie watch Elva be hurt? Could Annie stand on principle while Elva was beaten?



The welts on Annie’s arm, in the perfect shape of Claude Leveque’s viselike hand, along with Annie’s swollen eye and bleeding lip, proved the hateful man knew how to inflict pain. He’d proved he had no compunction in hurting a helpless woman.



Noise outside her prison brought Annie to her feet. He was coming back! Annie was sick to think what the couple would do to the elderly woman who had spent her older years worshipping God with music.



Sick with fear that they’d force Annie to watch Elva being battered, Annie clenched her fists and prayed. God would never agree that Annie should wear that tart’s dress, sing vile, suggestive songs, and flash her legs for drunken men.



But Elva!



Please, Lord, guide me though this dark valley.



A key rattled in the doorway.



Annie braced herself. If she could get past Claude, she would run, find Elva, and get away. Go somewhere, somehow. Throw herself on the mercy of the men in this logging camp—the very ones Claude said would pay to see that dreadful harlot’s gown.



The wooden door of the secluded, one-room shack swung hard and crashed against the wall. Elva fell onto her knees, clutching her chest. “You have to run!” Elva, eyes wild with terror, lifted her head. Annie saw Elva’s face was battered; a cut on her cheek bled freely.



Expecting Claude and Blanche to be right behind the gray-haired woman, Annie rushed forward and dropped to Elva’s side. “Elva, what did they do to you?”



“I heard. . .I heard Claude making plans, awful plans for you. He caught me eavesdropping. He thought he’d knocked me cold, but I lay still and waited until he left. He’d hung the key on a nail, and I stole it and slipped away to set you free.” Elva staggered to her feet, every breath echoed with pain. She stretched out a shaking hand, and Annie saw Elva’s black velvet reticule. The one the sweet pianist, who made Annie’s voice sound as pretty as a meadowlark, carried always. “There’s money. All I’ve saved.” Elva coughed, cutting off her words. She breathed as if it hurt. “T–Take it and go. There’s a wagon. It’s already left, but run, catch it. Ride to town. Enough.” Coughing broke her voice again and Elva’s knees wobbled. She clung tight to Annie. “Enough for one train ticket.”



Annie realized what Elva was saying. “No, I won’t leave you.”



“It’s my heart.” Elva sagged sideways, clutching her chest. Annie couldn’t hold her dead weight, slight though Elva was. They both lowered to the floor. “When Claude landed his first blow, I felt my heart give out. Oh, Annie, the things he threatened for you. The evil, ugly words from a serpent’s mouth. My precious girl. Run. You must run.”



“I won’t leave you. They’ll kill you, Elva.”



“No. My heart. I’ve felt it coming for months and tonight’s the end. They can’t harm me anymore.”



“Elva, don’t talk like that.” Tears wanted to fall, but Annie had no time for such weakness. “You’re all I have!”



“Your father. Go home.”



“He doesn’t want me. You know that.”



Elva’s hand closed over the already bruised place on Annie’s wrist. Elva clearly saw what Annie had already suffered at Claude’s hands. “Go. There’s no time. What they want from you is a fate worse than death.”



Annie gasped. Those words could mean only one thing. She glanced at the indecent dress. A harlot’s dress.



“God is calling me home, my beautiful girl. He’s taking me b–because He knows you’d never leave me. God in heaven is rescuing us both. I’ll go home and so will you. I believe that.”



Annie looked into Elva’s eyes, and even now they clouded over.



“Go. Please. It’s my fault you’re in this place. I thought we’d bring the Lord to these people with your beautiful singing. I convinced you to stay when the Leveques took over. If you stay I will have died for nothing, Sw–Sweet Annie.”



Elva’s grip tightened until Annie nearly cried out in pain. Then as quickly as the spasm had come, it was gone.



And so was Elva. She sank, lifeless, to the floor.



Annie saw the very moment Elva’s spirit left her body—a heartbreaking, beautiful moment, because now Elva was beyond pain.



But Annie wasn’t.



“If you stay I will have died for nothing.”



A loud snap of a twig jerked Annie’s head around. She gazed into the nearby woods surrounding the sequestered shack she’d been locked in. The Leveques were coming.



“What they want from you is a fate worse than death.”



As if God Himself sent lightning to jolt her, Annie clutched Elva’s reticule, leaped to her feet, and ran.



“There’s a wagon. It’s already left, but run, catch it. Ride to town.”



Annie gained the cover of the woods and, without looking back, began moving with painstaking silence.



She heard Claude’s shout of rage when he discovered the cabin door ajar.



Poor Elva. No one to bury her. No one to make her funeral a testimony to her life of faith.



Annie hated herself for running away. It was cowardly. There had to be some way to stay and pay proper respect, see to a decent Christian burial. Every decent part of herself said, “Go back. Face this.”



She kept moving. Elva had insisted on it. Common sense confirmed it. God whispered it in her heart to move, hurry, be silent.



Silence was her only weapon and Annie used it. She’d learned silence in the mountains growing up, slipping up on a deer or an elk. Slipping away from a bear or a cougar.



As much as Annie had loved her mountain home, she’d never learned to hunt. Pa fed the family. But she loved the woods and was skilled in their use.



Heading for the trail to town, she was careful to get close enough to not lose her way but stay off to the side.



Not long after she’d started out, she saw Claude storming down the trail toward town. He’d catch the wagon Elva spoke of long before she did. And, she hoped, insist on searching it. Once Claude assured himself that Annie wasn’t there, she’d have her chance.



Annie felt the bite of the cool night air. She heard an owl hoot in the darkness. The rustle of the leaves covered tiny sounds she might make as she eased along. She knew the trail. She knew the night. She knew the woods.



All of it was filled with treachery.

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!