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Tuesday, June 24, 2014
Christian Fantasy Author Lorilyn Roberts: Testimony of Christian Author Lorilyn Roberts
Christian Fantasy Author Lorilyn Roberts: Testimony of Christian Author Lorilyn Roberts: Testimony of Lorilyn Roberts http://t.co/WnsOKRaKgC — Lorilyn Roberts (@LorilynRoberts) June 24, 2014
Friday, June 20, 2014
A Taste of Vanished by Barbara Derksen
Vanished, Barbara Ann Derksen, Createspace, May 2009
Prologue
The intruder shoved her up the
stairs. Diane Michner stumbled. She grabbed the stair treads for support. Tears
of fright blurred her vision.
“Hurry or I hurt the kid.” His
rumbling threat released hot breath across her neck. She scurried faster. An
arm, covered in monstrous tattoos that bulged beneath the sleeve of his dirty
t-shirt, circled the tiny wiggling torso of her three year old son. Jeffrey
whimpered. The thug pushed her again.
“Mommy!” Jeffrey screamed, large
droplets of tears coursing down his pudgy cheeks.
“Quiet.” The man gripped the boy’s
arm and squeezed. He shot a glance at the woman. She bowed her head in
submission and headed toward her little boy’s bedroom.
“H-h-how long will we be g-gone?” Her
eyes traveled over the little blue train stenciled on three walls of her son’s
dream room.
“Never mind. Get the clothes.” He
motioned with the boy’s body, whipping him toward the folded doors of the
closet. Jeffrey whimpered.
She yanked the door open and snatched
a large suitcase from the top shelf. Her tears dampened pieces of clothing from
her son’s chest of drawers as she threw them into the case. With downcast eyes,
Diane glanced toward her son and then back to the task at hand. In a haphazard
fashion, she added some of the outfits hanging inside the closet door and
seized his fluffy brown teddy bear from the bed. Jeffrey whimpered again.
Obediently she turned toward the
doorway where the intruder fought to retain hold of her struggling child.
“P-please. Don’t hold him so tight,”
she pleaded. “You’ll hurt him.” Her arms ached to hold her frightened son, to
protect him from this man who didn’t care if he injured a small child. “It’s
okay, Jeffrey. Please don’t cry.”
The man used his elbow to point her
toward the next room. “Get a move on.” His grip on the child’s body enticed her
to hurry.
The trio moved quickly down the hall
towards the bedroom she shared with her husband of five years. She sucked in an
anguished breath as she stumbled against the doorframe of the closet. She
seized another suitcase and shoved in pants, shirts, and undergarments for both
of them, then closed that case and looked at the man. Her eyes begged as her
arms reached to hold the tiny boy.
The man thrust Jeffrey at her and
grabbed the suitcase, as she wrapped grateful arms around her son’s trembling
body. She could feel his terror. The thug pushed Diane toward the hallway. She
shifted the boy’s weight to one arm but stumbled, almost losing her footing. She
reached out with her free hand to steady herself against the wall.
Moving toward the staircase, the
villain picked up the other suitcase standing just inside the boy’s bedroom.
“Get going.” He motioned for her to descend the staircase toward the living room.
When she reached the first floor,
Diane gasped. Two large men twisted a rope looped tightly around her husband’s
neck. Another coarse length of rope tied Trent’s hands and wrists together,
behind his back. The muscles of his upper arms stretched painfully beneath the
sleeve of his cotton shirt. He grimaced, pain written on his face. Bright red
oozed from a cut above his eye, the evidence of a battle lost. Blood congealed
in his eyebrow and then trickled down his face to drip onto his collarbone. A
jagged piece of cartilage stuck out from the bridge of his nose, blood
coagulating near his upper lip.
A tormented groan escaped Diane’s
lips, as if from the depths of her heart. She shuddered and cuddled Jeffrey,
trying to shield him from the sight of his father. Her body churned with
unfamiliar hatred as she looked on the three men who had invaded their peaceful
home. She watched as they laughed. The one nearest caressed her cheek. Her skin
crawled in revulsion. She yanked her face out of reach. The intruders laughed
harder.
****
Trent struggled toward his wife. He
watched anguish seep from her eyes, a torment that matched his own. Had he
brought this to their home? What did they want? The thugs yanked him back as
viciously as they would a dog on a leash. He twisted, desperate to reach her
side. Jeffrey’s eyes seemed so large that Trent could almost feel his fright
from across the room. His own eyes cautioned his wife not to arouse their
anger. By the look on Diane’s face, he knew she wanted to scratch their eyes
out, to inflict as much damage on them as they had on her family. He watched
tears fall unchecked as Diane turned accusing eyes on him and then turn her
head towards their son.
****
Diane glanced up again at her husband
and saw a tear slide past the corner of one eye. His helplessness was evident
in the slump of his shoulders. The men were too strong. “Diane...” His voice
croaked. The rope strangling him ended further communication. He saw the slight
nod of her head. She offered him understanding. He had tried to protect his
family but failed.
Diane glanced around at the
destruction of her tidy home, a sanctuary they had built together. Two plants
dripped black dirt onto the carpet, evidence of her husband’s struggle. The
coffee table lay at an awkward angle in splinters, and two sofa cushions
exploded with feathers everywhere. She ached to have control over her life
again as evening shadows crept from the corners of the room and the smell of
overcooked food lingered in the air.
“Did anyone think to turn off the
stove?” She made a move toward the kitchen but a large beefy hand stopped her.
Her subjugator grunted beside her.
His nod told one of the others to check it out.
Diane’s focus switched. She watched
the thug drop the bulky suitcases and then flex his muscles. His grin, when he
caught her watching, caused her stomach juices to curdle.
“Now, we go outside to your car. I
will hurt you and your son if you make a fuss or attract any attention.
Understand?”
Diane nodded once. “Why are you doing
this?”
“Not your business.” He pushed.
“Not my…” She stopped in her tracks
but her captor raised his arm as if to strike her. Diane used her free arm to
swipe at tears betraying her fright. Her eyes traveled down the sidewalk toward
the SUV. Her husband groaned, loud enough for the neighbors to hear if they’d
been home, as the butt of a gun connected with his right shoulder. She saw his
knees buckle. They were defenseless against these men. Her husband stumbled
against the side of the van but no longer labored to free himself.
Diane cried in anguish, not caring
this time who heard. She stared as they grabbed her husband’s shoulder and
squeezed. They lifted him bodily into the backseat.
“We take your car.” Diane jumped. Her
escort’s hot breath drifted across her neck as he thrust her through the door.
The thug let the front door slam behind them. He threw the suitcases into the
backseat of the station wagon parked near the front entry of the house. He
motioned for her to secure the little boy into his car seat.
“You drive. Follow them, and nothing
will happen to you or your man. Make a wrong turn, and you won’t live to see
him shot.” The brute spoke the last word as if a gunshot erupted from his mouth
and then he sneered. He plunked himself in the passenger seat.
Diane’s eyes looked, maybe for the
last time, towards the home she had come to love. She searched for any means of
escape and then slumped in the driver’s seat. Her instincts told her they would
carry out their threats. Her hands trembled as she inserted the key into the
ignition. The motor roared.
She placed the car in reverse and
swiveled her head to linger on the tear-stained face of her little boy. Her
heart felt as if someone had punched a hole in it and all the blood drained
away. Her mind filled with black hatred, hatred so strong that she knew if
she’d had a gun in her hand, she’d use it. Instead, she backed out of the
driveway and followed the SUV containing her husband. She made a quick study of
the home her family had occupied for the last five years, longing to wake from
her nightmare. Will we ever come home again?
About the author: Canadian
born, and with 19 books to her credit, Barbara Ann Derksen works hard to give
her readers the ride of their life when they pick up one of her books. Her favorite genre is murder
mystery, but each book brings forth characters who rely on God as they solve
the puzzle in their life. She also writes devotionals and children’s stories.
Friday, June 13, 2014
A Taste of Where Fitness Meets Faith by Kimberley Payne
WHERE
FITNESS MEETS FAITH
KIMBERLEY PAYNE
Resolutions
I did it all wrong. During the Christmas season, I
stopped doing the things that I needed to do in order to be right with me, and
to be right with the world, but most importantly to be right with God.
My first error was in going to bed much later than
normal. Over the Christmas holidays, I would allow the children to stay up
later than their regular bedtime, and then found myself eventually going to bed
a few hours later. My body clock was thrown off.
My second mistake was letting my body dictate when I
felt like getting up. I know from years of experience that the process of
waking up – no matter what time it is – is slow and painful for me. I will feel
just as groggy and resentful about being yanked from my warm, cozy bed after a
six-hour sleep as I would after a twelve-hour slumber. So, when I relied on my
body to signal me to wake I would actually stay in bed extra hours then feel
guilty for sleeping in. These two mistakes threw my physical and emotional
state into alarm by changing my routine.
Then to further upset my system, I stopped taking my
morning walk. Usually after bringing the children to the bus stop, I would
continue on for a forty-five minute walk. It was a good time to get my body
moving, my blood flowing and my mind thinking. Without this walk, I didn’t get
my usual energy surge needed for the day. Without this morning boost, I felt
like I was dragging myself, and so I also did not have the enthusiasm or desire
to do my other exercise – strength training. I was on a downward spiral.
Physically and emotionally, I was out of sorts. Add to
this the new chores and unique assignments of the holiday season. I was
shopping when I normally would be reading. I was wrapping when I normally would
be writing. In addition to this, I was cooking, cleaning and preparing for
festivities.
As if that was not enough, I had two children home from
school for two weeks. I love my children – let’s get that straight from the
start – but they are kids. They bicker and argue and they complain and fight.
And they love me. They want to spend time with mom. They want to help mom shop,
wrap and cook (they never want to clean though). They want mom to play with
them, to read to them, to be with them.
Too much sleep, no exercise and children all day --
they were the ingredients for a stressful holiday season.
However, there was one other thing that I had neglected
that could have truly helped me. I did not spend time with God. Oh, I continued
to pray at meals and bedtime, however, I did not spend quality, one-on-one,
reflective time with Him.
On my morning walks, I do more than just look at the
passing homes. I practice my walking meditation. It is a time when I connect
with God and talk to Him through my thoughts and prayers. It is a mindful and
special time between us that I have come to cherish. On my walks, I explore my
life and give praise and thanksgiving for what He has given me. I open my heart
and pour out my troubles. I give thought to others and pray for the needs of my
family, friends and community. Without my morning walk, I not only missed out
on the healthy physical benefits, but more importantly, I denied the spiritual
healing it had provided.
Generally after my morning walk, I return home to hot
coffee and my pen and paper. I spend one hour writing. I record any
enlightenment God has shown me and I reflect on the prayers I had offered up.
It’s a time for me to not only talk with God, but to listen for a response. For
the entire Christmas season, I had not done this.
Lastly, I did not spend time in His Word. My usual
routine affords me time each day to spend reading and studying the Bible. But
because the time set aside was not given its usual priority, it was lost.
I enjoyed my holidays. No one was sick this year and we
were able to visit many relatives. However, each day took a little bit more out
of me and by the end of the month, I felt very drained.
God is the only thing that really rejuvenates me. He
feeds me each day. He gives me the energy and enthusiasm needed to get through
the day.
I will take this past Christmas season as a lesson for
my life. My resolution is to pledge my life anew to Jesus. Although routines
change, and life can throw me curves, I resolve to spend quality time with God first
and foremost every single day in order to be right with me, to be right with
the world, and most importantly to be right with God.
Therefore, if
anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation; the old has gone, the new has come!
(2 Corinthians 5:17 NIV)
Monday, June 9, 2014
John 3:16 Readers' Picks - Ten Favorite Books for June 2014
As Part of the May 2014 John 3:16 Marketing Network Book Launch, ten readers won books. These are the books chosen by the winners as books they wanted to read.
Leave a comment on this post and for every ten comments, a winner will be chosen to receive a free book from our John 3:16 Pinterest Page.
Click on the book links below to order a Kindle copy from Amazon!
The Fisherman's Wife (Women of the Bible Book 2) by Dianne G. Sagan
Angels of Humility by Jackie Macgirvin
Psalm 23 Help for Lost Lambs by Bob Saffrin
21 Prayers of Faith by Shelley Hitz
A Life of Faith by Shelley Hitz
How to Launch a Best-Selling Christian Book by Lorilyn Roberts
A Thief in the House: A Stella Madison Caper by Lilly Maytree
The Victor by Marlayne Giron
When Will My Life Not Suck by Ramon Presson
Fields of the Fatherless: A Revolutionary War Novel by Elaine Marie Cooper
Friday, June 6, 2014
A Taste of The Saxon Boy, a children's book by Lisa Lickel
First Children of Farmington: John Klessig, The Saxon Boy
Lisa Lickel, Brenda Hendricks
How can John
learn to love a new stepfather?
When John
Klessig’s father dies suddenly, Mama marries Mr. Ernst, who is very different
from Papa. His beard and his boots are big, and he doesn’t want to help new
families the same way Papa did with the inn. Without warning, fire threatens
the village. John and all the neighbors, including the Indians, help each other
as friends. But where is Mr. Ernst? How can John and his new stepfather learn
to love and respect each other?
John Klessig,
The Saxon Boy, has earned the respect of the Wisconsin Writer’s Association as
the 2013 Jade Ring Stories for Young People winner.
Introduction
John
Klessig was eight years old when his father died and his mother remarried. He
was a first generation American, born of immigrant parents who were innkeepers
and farmers. He grew up with four sisters, and a stepsister and stepbrother in
a large house in Fillmore, Wisconsin, which also had guestrooms, a tavern, a
store and lots of activity.
The
Klessigs and Jaehnigs lived in Fillmore in Washington County , Wisconsin
and were real persons. We do not know a lot about John’s stepfather, Ernst
Jaehnig. He went to California in 1852 to find gold and returned to marry the
Widow Klessig. This is a story about what might have happened when John first
met his stepfather.
After his
stepfather passed away in 1879, John ran the family farm. He named it Spring
Brook Farm and raised cattle and horses. The Farmington brewery was in
operation until 1881.
John
later took care of his mother when they moved from Fillmore to Kewaskum in
1910. He was active in local and county government. Liberta Klessig Jaehnig
lived to be eighty-nine years old. John, in his old age, went to stay with his
daughter in Milwaukee, and he lived to be eighty-three years old.
In
September, 2013, the Wisconsin Writers Association was pleased to award The Saxon Boy with a Jade Ring for best
Fiction for Young Adults in the annual fall competition.
Chapter One
In the
dark parlor of their house, John Klessig sat on the dark green sofa and rubbed
his back against its scratchy upholstery. His oldest sister, Mary, shifted
Emma, one of their younger sisters, on her lap and squeezed his hand very hard.
John sat up straight and then wiggled just a little more, bumping into Johanna.
“Eight-year-old
boys should sit still,” Mary whispered.
Boys his age shouldn’t have to sit still on a
sunny spring Friday when there’s no school, John thought.
Baby Ida
waved her little arms as she lay in the basket nearby. John nudged it with his
foot to make her rock.
Mary
pinched his arm. John sighed and prepared to pinch her back when he spied his
mother scowling at them.
John squirmed
away from his bossy sister and stared out of the window. Little new leaves were
just starting to sprout from the oak tree on this sunny day.
John
stared at Mr. Jaehnig perched on Mama’s best guest chair. He had so much beard
that it covered his whole stomach. Mama could scrub the pots with such a huge
scratchy-looking thing.
“Most of
our guests left the inn last summer after my husband died,” Mama said to Mr.
Jaehnig. “The family staying here now is the Youngbauers. Mr. Youngbauer is
building their new cabin.”
Mrs.
Youngbauer did not smile very much and had a strange way of saying her words.
John
liked to practice speaking German with the guests, for he’d been born here in
America and spoke English at home. Fillmore had English school in the winter
and German school in the summer when they could find a teacher. His friend
Gottfried Goldammer spoke both English and German and sometimes teased John
when he didn’t know a German word.
John
slumped his shoulders again. The shiny buttons of his jacket jingled when they
clanked together. This time Mary did not pinch him. She yawned. Emma sat still
as a mouse on her lap. Johanna sat next to them, her dark blue eyes huge and
round in her scared-looking face.
Mr.
Jaehnig just sat there, silent. Wouldn’t he say anything? Papa would never have
been so quiet. Even Mama had nothing to say. When the clock chimed three times
Mr. Jaehnig put his hands on his knees and pushed himself up. “I take my leave
now, Frau Klessig.”
At last!
Now John could go outside and play. Mama got up, but turned around quickly with
her finger out at John to tell him to stay put. She accompanied Mr. Jaehnig.
Mary and
John tiptoed toward the door to listen.
“So, it
is agreed, then, Frau Klessig?” Mr. Jaehnig said, his deep voice booming in the
entry room with the chandelier and the staircase.
John
peeked around the doorway. Mr. Jaehnig held his felt cap in his hands and
turned the brim.
“Yes, Herr Jaehnig. It is
agreed,” Mama answered. And she closed the door behind him.
Mary
pulled John’s sleeve and he followed her quickly back to the sofa where she
tucked Emma back onto her lap. He dove in place next to Johanna.
Author
bio: Lisa Lickel is a Wisconsin writer and historian who lives with her
husband in a hundred and sixty-year-old house built by a Great Lakes ship
captain. A complete list of her novels: mysteries, award-winning romance and
children’s books, and contemporary fiction can be found on her website. She
writes newspaper features, short stories, magazine articles and radio theater,
and is the executive editor of Creative
Wisconsin magazine. An avid book reviewer and blogger, freelance editor,
and writing mentor, she loves to encourage new authors. Married to a high
school biology teacher, she has two grown and married sons. Find more at
LisaLickel.com.
Monday, June 2, 2014
~ Michelle Dennis Evans ~ author : He Who Has a Friend with Carole Brown
Wonderful piece on friendship by Carole Brown.
~ Michelle Dennis Evans ~ author : He Who Has a Friend with Carole Brown
~ Michelle Dennis Evans ~ author : He Who Has a Friend with Carole Brown
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