here’s the link. It’s a touching story of an expectant mother emailing her husband overseas in the Mideast during Christmas. The 12 Days of Christmas in today’s world.
http://craftieladiesofromance.blogspot.com/2010/12/twelve-days-of-christmas-part-one.html
This link takes you to the first part and then you can read from there. I’ll be posting Christmas Eve on Friday!
LaBelle Christiane, preview, part two
“What is going on here?” a cool English voice sliced through the room. The clamor evaporated.
All eyes, including hers turned to the red-and-white uniformed captain. He was tall, slender, yet solidly built. His straight brown hair was pulled into a neat club at the back of his neck. Clear blue eyes shone against his tanned face. Christiane guessed that he was in his thirties about double her age. His regular features were set sternly toward the company. He didn’t appear to be a man she’d like to cross.
From her Irish father, Christiane had learned much about English rule in Canada. Although the European population of Canada was still mostly French, the government had been British since the French and Indian War, a decade earlier. She surmised that here the British monitored the flow of furs down the river and watched Indian activity.
This man was the authority here and the men acknowledged it. At the captain’s arrival, the tension in the room seeped away. The men around her parted, giving way to the officer. Would this work in her favor or no?
“Mademoiselle, Captain John Eastham of His Majesty’s Army, at your service,” he said in precise French and removed his tri-corn hat and performed a formal bow.
Stunned by this sudden forgotten courtesy, Christiane managed to incline her head in his direction. She studied this stranger more. Why do you treat me like a lady, sir? Is it mockery? Yet his concerned expression showed no obvious scorn.
With all the aplomb she could muster, she replied to his courtesy with a deep curtsey with her hand gracefully holding her worn-out skirt. “I am Christiane . . . Marchon,” she improvised in French, the language the captain had used. She was no Marchon.
The barman stepped forward, answering the captain in careful French, “This Indian has brought his daughter to find a husband for her, mon capitaine.”
The Englishman studied her and then the gray-haired Indian, his aloof expression hiding all thought. “Mademoiselle Marchon, how do you come to have an Indian for a father?”
The simplicity and the incisiveness of the question gave Christiane pause. How much to tell? Straightening, she sensed that the captain’s question had struck all the Frenchmen in the room similarly by their sudden intense concentration on her. Yes, why did a white girl belong to an Algonquin–the disgruntled faces of the men appeared to demand now.
Tension still choking her, she cleared her throat. “He found me alone in the forest and took me in.” That is all you need to know. And what would you think if I answered you in English, sir?
“Why were you alone in the wilderness?” the captain continued.
“I was with my father, but he. . .died,” she replied, omitting all the incriminating details about her treasonous father’s flight from the British crown and his murder in Canada. The captain after all was English, not likely to view an Irishman with favor.
“Then this Indian did not kill your father?” The captain rested his hand on the sword hilt on his belt, a silent sign of his authority, a silent gesture of his readiness to defend…her?
The room stiffened with alert attention again. Christiane wondered why he’d asked this question. Then she realized that he was establishing her foster-father’s right to seek a husband for her. “No, sir.”
“I see,” the Englishman said. “And he has provided for you as his daughter?”
She nodded and the men around her relaxed. That much had been done for her. And since she didn’t speak any Algonquin, she had no clear idea of why he’d decided she must come here and be married to a white man.
The captain studied her further. “Mademoiselle, do you agree to this then? Do you wish to find a husband here?”
At this, the crowd’s tension spiked again. How odd that she could feel their emotions swirling around her as if they were natural forces. It has been a long time, Captain, since I’ve been asked for my opinion about even the meanest matter.
Christiane repressed an instinctive denial. Of course, she did not want to marry a stranger. But did she have a choice? Could she face the wilderness alone with Canadian winter coming in mere months? Shaw-nee-awk-kee’s declaration of her virginity had established her as a decent woman, but she would need a husband to keep this distinction. Otherwise, she’d be easy prey for any unprincipled man.
Christiane sighed. “I have no other choice. Shaw-nee-awk-kee no longer will take responsibility for me and I have no family to turn to. Yes, sir, I need to find a husband here.” At her calm acceptance, the men relaxed their tense positions.
The captain scanned the men. “A show of hands please. Which of you, as yet unmarried, would be seriously interested and able to marry this young woman?” There was a slight hesitation and then a forest of hands sprang up. “That is what I feared. The question is how to decide fairly who will pay the bride price that I assume this Indian will require.”
“We could bid for her,” someone offered.
“I find that a distasteful solution,” the Englishman replied crisply. “She is not an African slave.” Again, he looked over the intense, but silent men. “Very well then,” he spoke to her, “This will take thought. Mademoiselle, tonight you will sleep in the guardhouse under the King’s protection. Tomorrow at noon I will make the announcement of how this interesting dilemma will be handled. All men interested, be in front of my door then. Mademoiselle, if you please, come with me.” He offered her his arm.
Again, his formal courtesy prompted manners from her past. Christiane rested her hand but lightly on his sleeve, feeling the strength of his arm under her palm. As if at a garden party, she strolled beside the captain out of the dim and crowded room into the cooling night breeze. She let out her breath bit by bit. She’d won a reprieve, just a night long, but still a reprieve.
Walking beside him over the rough turf, she looked sideways at him. The tail of his dark hair swung back and forth over his broad shoulders. His back was ramrod straight and his eyes never glanced her way, the picture of the rigid, correct Englishman. But for once she was glad to have an Englishman in charge, especially one so efficient. Her nerves jittered as they reached the one-room guardhouse. Had it all been a ruse? Would the captain leave her here alone?
After exchanging salutes with the guard who stepped a few paces away, the captain paused in front of her. “I wish I had better accommodations for you.”
The breeze brought his scent to her, some clean soap. She drew it in, savoring the remembered fragrance of spring flowers and heavy perfume. Being so close to this man, the first gentleman she’d encountered in a very long time made her hold herself tightly together. “Merci.”
She kept her chin level. She had no cause to bow her head to this man. But he had been kind. “You have been more than gracious.” She waited for his next move.
He bowed and turned to leave. She stepped inside and closed the door behind her, alone and uncertain. Was she relieved or disappointed?
This is the end of the first half of Chapter One. I hope you’ll drop by Thursday, January 6, 2011 for the rest of the chapter! Remember to let your friends know!
Lady in Waiting by Susan Meissner
My rating: 5 of 5 stars
I had never read a Susan Meissner book but that was a mistake. This is a fantastic double story, intertwining the story of Lady Jane Grey and a modern woman in her middle years. The characterizations burst fresh and complex; the history sparkled with the shimmer of authenticity. I loved A Lady in Waiting!
Here’s another devotional by best-selling Author Patricia Hickman. I don’t know about you but I have drawn comfort and strength from these. I’m grateful that Patricia has shared her wisdom and experiences with us.
Resting in Christ
By Patricia Hickman
Hebrews 3 has as its keyword, rest. Before we get a picture of a Sealy mattress, we first have to get a grasp of the meaning of Christ’s rest. To do that, we have to realize what Christ has done for us in advance.
When my father was very ill, my mother having already passed on, Dad asked me to step in acting as his power of attorney. He suffered his whole life with pulmonary disease and then acquired Alzheimer’s Disease in his final years. In the meantime, he had a relative who had designs on the money he had saved over the years. This person was mentally ill, a violent person who had gone to blows even with her own children. When I arrived in town, I found her selling off my mother’s belongings to neighbors to raise money. I had to work very wisely to get her out of my father’s house and to get him into assisted living care. Then Dad asked me to take him to his attorney where he finalized a will that would leave his estate to my sister and me. Until he signed on the dotted line, there was a great deal of tension and pressure on me. I knew this relative would return to try and gain access to my mother’s belongings and my father’s assets once I left town if I did not put in place safeguards. Because my father’s mental condition would soon deteriorate, he was vulnerable.
But once the will was in place and signed by Dad, I could relax. No amount of scheming or threatening would do this poor individual any good. Finally, I could rest. When he died, I could execute his last will and testament knowing that my sister and I were protected.
When Christ signed my redemption with his own blood, I accepted that new covenant and became God’s newly adopted daughter. My rest is now knowing that my covenant with God is irrevocable, when the testator, Christ, exercises my rights as heir in eternity.
What does that have to do with patience? Everything. All of the work I do, because of Him, for Him, to point others to Him is a long road of work. I have to be patient with myself, knowing that God is finishing a work in me. I have to be patient with His Body because people tend to grow slowly. I have to trust that God is working to finish His work, not to my satisfaction, but to His perfection. Here’s a good verse:
“Let patience have her perfect work, that you may be
perfect and complete lacking nothing.” James 1:4
As God works my imperfect life through the tapestry of His plan, I can rest knowing that I’m secure while abiding in it. That is a true source of patience. It is the ultimate rest for every believer.
www.patriciahickman.com
What do you think of the sentences I highlighted with green? Have you ever stopped to recall God’s perspective in the midst of a problem or painful time?
Patricia, thanks for sharing your thoughts. And may God bless your words with power!
The Pirate Queen by Patricia Hickman
The Pirate Queen surprised me. The first few pages made me think I had stumbled into a Southern-style Danielle Steel novel. But then Patricia Hickman waved her author wand and swept me away into a story with layer upon layer of meaning, emotion and tension, a one-of-a-kind family drama. Tender, compelling, outstanding. A keeper.”
Here’s the first page of my December Love Inspired Historical, Her Healing Ways, the final book in the “Gabriel Sisters” series.
Chapter One
Idaho Territory, Late September 1868
High on the board seat, Mercy Gabriel sat beside the wagon master on the lead Conestoga. The line of the supply train slowed, pulling into the mining town, Idaho Bend. Panicky-looking people raced toward it, with bags and valises in hand. What was happening here? Like a cold wet finger, alarm slid up Mercy’s spine.
She reached down and urged her adopted daughter Indigo up onto the seat beside her away from the onrushing people. Though sixteen now, Indigo shrank against Mercy, her darker face tight with concern. “Don’t worry,” Mercy whispered as confidently as she could.
She looked down at a forceful man who had pushed his way to the front. He was without a coat, his shirt sleeves rolled up and his colorfully embroidered vest buttoned askew. From the flamboyant vest, she guessed he must be a gambler. What would he want with her?
Indeed, what would he want with her??? To read a longer excerpt, click here. To purchase, see right column. Just click and it’s on its way!
The preview of LaBelle Christiane, my very first manuscript which has never been read publicly before. Let me know if it snares your interest.
Chapter One
British Canada, July 1774
In a birch bark canoe, Christiane, the Algonquin Shaw-nee-awk-kee who’d adopted her and his son glided down the Ottawa River. She was taking another journey that would change her life. In front and behind her came only the rhythmic dip and swish of paddles. In the cramped space between, she hugged her knees to herself and pressed her forehead against her tattered skirt.
She glanced sideways into the remorseless current, wishing for time, for control. But instead, the river, shimmering with molten sunlight, gave her glimmers of the past–candlelight on silver, soft lace against skin, frosting on the tip of the tongue. But she’d fled France with her father, here to Canada and then. . . . She thrust all thoughts of the past year aside. She had to face today. Tonight, I’ll be some stranger’s wife.
The thought brought fear, a rush of sensation—-as if the bottom of the canoe, her protection, parted and she was plunged into the cool water. She fought her way to the surface of this feeling, gasping for air, pushing down panic. She pressed her face harder against her knees. I will not shame myself. Never.
#
When they reached the trading post on the western shore, the bronze summer sun gleamed low through black tree trunks. The two Indians beached the canoe and without a glance backward, headed toward the crude fort.
Christiane took a deep breath, reciting a half-remembered prayer the nuns had taught her. She climbed out of the canoe and heard the squish of the wet sand under her worn-thin soles. Staring at the flimsy stockade of slender tree-trunks bound together, she staggered inside, stiff from hours of sitting.
After living a few months among the Indians, she was startled that–with their beards, knit caps, buckskin breeches and colorful plaid cotton shirts–white men now looked strange to her. As she passed by, the men stopped. Their heads turned and they nudged each other in the ribs. She heard soft appreciative exclamations in French, “La belle, la jeune fille.” Many of them followed her, murmuring to each other. She ignored them, averting her eyes. That much her mother had taught her. But she hurried to close the gap between her and Shaw-nee-awk-kee.
The rough tavern door stood open to the muggy night air. “Stay here,” Shaw-nee-awk-kee muttered to her at the doorway. Her heart thudding against her breastbone, she leaned back against the open door, only then noticing the cluster of men who’d followed her. Some of them passed on inside, their eyes averted. The bolder ones formed a semi-circle in front of her. A warm blush crept up to the roots of her hair.
She would never have willingly shown herself like this— unkempt and with stained and worn attire–to her own countrymen. She tried to conceal herself in the dusky shadows, pressing herself back against the rough-hewn logs. Avoiding their stares, she gazed inside the tavern.
Holding up two fingers, Shaw-nee-awk-kee ordered ale. The barman thumped two mugs of beer onto a raw oak slab. Both Indians took the draughts in one long swallow. After belching politely, Shaw-nee-awk-kee passed the bartender a coin and then announced in a patois of French and English, “I look for white homme. Man who want wife.”
The barkeep looked puzzled. Catching the direction of the other men’s glances, he stepped around the bar and gawked at her. “Blanc,” he said.
“Oui, white daughter.” Shaw-nee-awk-kee motioned for another round.
“Your daughter?” The barman asked, tapping the keg again.
“Oui, I find. I keep.” Shaw-nee-awk-kee lifted his mug and paused. “You know man who want wife?”
“I don’t know,” the barman stammered. There was a heavy silence. Outside, one of the men standing around her took a step forward and lifted his hand toward her cheek. She jerked her head aside, warning him away with a look. He stepped back.
Then a spirited voice issued from the crowd inside, “What do you want for her?”
“You already have a wife, Jacques,” the barkeep answered.
“Only a squaw. I could use another.” There was laughter over this.
Christiane radiated white hot shame. Going to the highest bidder? Wasn’t that what she’d tried to escape?
Then another man spoke up, “But this girl’s white, Jacques, a Christian. It’s all right to have two Indian wives, but…” He was stopped by a chorus of agreement.
There was another lull. Finally, a man of medium height came forward into the failing day light. “Let’s see the girl. I have no wife,” he said.
Christiane tried to see what he looked like but the fading daylight deepened the gloom moment by moment.
Shaw-nee-awk-kee called her. She looked up, wishing desperately that she could turn and run. Instead, she lifted her chin and forced herself to walk into the tavern. Inside, the odor of stale beer and warm bodies struck her, almost making her sick. But she bit her lower lip and walked to Shaw-nee-awk-kee.
Reaching out an arm’s length, the Frenchman turned her chin toward the daylight to see her face better. He then placed his hands on her shoulders and rotated her in a slow circle. The concentration of the crowd was intense as intense as her embarrassment. Christiane wanted to scratch a maddening itch in the middle of her back. But gritting her teeth, she kept her hands at her sides.
“Is she a virgin, Indian?” the Frenchman asked.
Still flaming, Christiane took refuge in lowering her eyes.
The old Indian nodded, then asked, “What you offer?”
Before the first Frenchman could respond, another spoke up, “One moment, Paul. You’re not the only one without a woman to winter with.” This second man rose from an up-ended log he was sitting on and strode forward to face the first.
Soon three more suitors swarmed around Christiane. She shivered at the change around her. The sleepy atmosphere of the tavern had come alive with loud antagonism, rivalry. She cast around for a way to escape.
“What is going on here?” a cool English voice sliced through the room. The clamor evaporated.
All eyes, including hers turned to the red-and-white uniformed captain.”
Next Tuesday drop by and read the rest of the scene. Remember to invite your friends. I’ll begin posting this scene by scene the first week of January 2011!
Here’s the cover my my Love Inspired Historical, the final book, Her Healing Ways, in my “Gabriel Sisters” series about three Quaker sisters. The tag line for the series is “In the wake of the Civil War, three women combat injustice and find true love.”
I’ve always been fascinated by the Quakers, people who actually lived out their faith in their everyday life. I also admired that they spear-headed the crusades to end slavery and grant women equal rights with men. So I was happy when my editor greeted this series with enthusiasm.
A female physician with an adopted black daughter? The townsfolk of Idaho Bend will never accept Dr. Mercy Gabriel—even when faced with a deadly cholera epidemic. But all Mercy needs is one man willing to listen…and to trust.
Four years of war command turned Lon Mackey into a footloose gambler who can’t abide attachments. Yet he can’t help getting riled by the threats Mercy keeps receiving. Her trailblazing courage could reignite his faith and humanity. And his loyalty could make her dream—for the first time—of a family of her own….
And here’s my family, a candid photo of my dh and daughter (whose birthday is on Pearl Harbor Day).
I also have a son who was born in December. His birthday is on the 16th. So every 9 days in December starting with my daughter’s birthday, we celebrated a birthday: daughter’s, son’s and then Jesus’s! I really enjoyed my “Christmas babies.” When I sat up late in the night feeding them, I turned on the Christmas tree lights and music.
Do any of you have a December birthday in your family or maybe your have one? Did that create problems or special joys? PS-Don’t forget the first Free Read of LaBelle Christiane is tomorrow!
Here’s my friend best-selling author Patricia Hickman again and what she thinks about what America is suffering now and how we can face…
These Trying Times
By Patricia Hickman
A reader who read the Millwood Hollow series asked me if I thought that America was going to go through another Depression. She also asked me if I thought God would protect his children from disaster if another Great Depression did come. The answer to whether or not we will see another Depression is not one that any of us can know until we’re in its throes. And who’s to say the U.S. hasn’t already entered a new dark chapter. But the second question is clearly answered when placed under the microscope of scripture.
I have to say that I’ve never suffered so much as when I surrendered all to Christ and followed him in full time service. I’ve never known so much disappointment, grief, and, at times, a strong sense of abandonment. While under the weight of loss and failure, there were those who would give us a “word from the Lord,” yet nothing changed. I watched my bank account dwindle and then stood paralyzed as our daughter was lost to eternity following what should have been a little fender bender. So if surrendering your will and your pocketbook to God brings you prosperity and blessings, I must have missed class on that day. One thing was clear, that I had a choice. I could choose to fear and cower or place my confidence in the One who seemed to have abandoned me.
Confidence and fear are two polar opposites. We only have to go as far as the apostle Paul to understand that the riches of faith are tied to earthly trials.
God specifically sent Paul into Philippi knowing that it would be at great cost to Paul, but of rich value to Christ’s higher purposes. Notice that the only “word from the Lord” is one that seemingly sent Paul into disaster. The Spirit of God blocked Paul from going into Asia and Bithynia. He sent Paul a vision of a man inviting him to bring the gospel into Macedonia. Confidence was filling Paul’s heart; but not in whether or not he’d find support to build a flourishing mega-church. His confidence was in trusting God to lead and he obeyed no matter what the cost. What followed would be considered a miserable failure by today’s standards of successful ministries. Paul arrived in Philippi to find only a small group of Jews praying at the city gate. There were not enough of them to form a synagogue. Paul then entered Philippi and wound up in jail.
It’s curious then that there is a book of the Bible called Philippians. Why would a church birthed of a failed leader make it on the blip of Church history in Paul’s epistles?
It is because that even in what should have been Paul’s deepest apology for having humiliated them all by winding up in prison that he pens these famous words from his cell:
”I thank my God in all my remembrance of you, always offering prayer with joy in my every prayer for you all, in view of your participation in the gospel from the first day until now.
For I am confident of this very thing, that He who began a good work in you will perfect it until the day of Christ Jesus.”
Paul continues to shower the Philippian believers with words of great love and affection for them and expressing his yearning to be with them. From a jail cell, he encourages them to pass on the love he has showered on them. Then he explains with great joy how he has shared his faith with the prison guards. He understood fully why God had sent him straight to jail, to show forth God’s love in the midst of disaster.
The events of Paul’s visit launched the church at Philippi. Paul’s confidence was not in the Roman treasury or the affluence of the city. The richness that resonates in Paul’s letter to Philippi comes from the Christ-empowered love that pours out of Paul. His genuine love for them returns to him as joy and that is his strength.
In looking back over our trial, those who we led to Christ and then equipped to serve him are the lives that shine back to us out of our dark season. The love God poured out on us was poured out on those whose path we crossed, and not by accident.
When we understand scripture, it becomes easy to tell the difference in these trying times in knowing what is false and what is true. Our confidence is in Christ and the love he pours through us so that it becomes a shower of love in our community. It returns to us as joy. So any economic downturn is a time for rejoicing as our neighbors can see the contrast in us while we all face the same hurdles. Our response, because of Christ in us, is love poured out on them.
There’s not a Depression in the world that can stop that love feast once it is enacted through trust in God. I’m confident of that.
“For the LORD will be your confidence And will keep your foot from being caught.” Prov. 3:26
That gives me hope, Patricia. We never walk alone.
How are you doing in these trying times? Is God providing?
http://www.patriciahickman.com
The first page today is From The Soldier’s Mission by Author Lenora Worth.
Chapter One
“She couldn’t get his voice out of her head.
Laura Walton thought about the man she’d come to the desert to find. The man everyone was worried about. The man who, a few weeks ago, had called the CHAIM hotline in the middle of the night.
“My father died in Vietnam,” the grainy, low voice said over the phone line. “My brother was wounded in Desert Storm. He’s in a wheelchair now. And I just got back from Afghanistan. Lost my whole unit. Lost everyone. I think I need to talk to somebody.”
Laura had been on call that night, volunteering to man the hotline that CHAIM held open for all of its operatives. But only one call had come to the Phoenix hotline on that still fall night. One call from a man who was suffering a tremendous amount of survivor’s guilt.
Laura understood this kind of guilt. She didn’t have survivor’s guilt, but her own guilt ate away at her just the same. She’d lost a patient recently. A young patient who’d taken his own life. She’d failed the teenager.
She didn’t want to fail Luke Martinez.
The soldier’s tormented words, spoken with such raw pain, had stayed with her long after the man had hung up.
Which he did, immediately after confessing that he needed to talk.”
To read a longer excerpt, click here.
http://www.eharlequin.com/store.html?itemid=22733&cid=416
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