A Taste of Friday with Trish Jenkins and Treasures of Darkness

Treasures of Darkness

by Trish Jenkins

FAITH TO OVERCOME

Living with murderers, drug dealers, frauds and broken humanity, her prayers for deliverance were not answered the way she expected. Instead the Lord delivered her "through the fire..." Prison was not part of Trish Jenkins’ ministry plans but it happened. Conned by a fraud and a breach of the Corporations Act meant losing her multi-million dollar portfolio, including her family home. It also meant this Australian mother served 8 months in prison, isolated from her husband and 3 little girls.

TREASURE IS FOUND IN DARK PLACES

Instead of succumbing to despair and self-pity, Trish chose to believe the Word of God and in doing so, she introduced many other prisoners to Christ. In the darkness, Trish found keys to freedom and courage and a deeper walk with the Holy Spirit.

Trish felt compelled to record everything she experienced. She wrote letters to her family and friends by writing letters to her husband, who then copied the letter to an email that went out to a list that grew rapidly. Those emails went viral and Trish’s readers shared her journey with her. What she couldn’t put in letters due to their sensitive nature, she wrote in a private journal.

From stories of winning over bullies, to the despair of persecution for her faith, Trish shares her journey with warmth and candour.

Today Trish shares her hard-won “Treasures” as an entertaining, insightful speaker and author, inspiring audiences to be courageous in all circumstances. Ministering effectively to both Christian and secular audiences, she is warm, compassionate and funny! Today, as a well-respected international speaker and author, Trish’s heart-felt and inspirational story filled with practical advice is re-igniting fire and faith in the hearts of her audiences.

Trish and her family were reunited and today are all active members of Citipointe Church, Australia.

FREEDOM ON THE INSIDE

Prison was not on the “Goal Chart” of entrepreneur Trish Jenkins. A breach of the Corporations Act meant losing her multi-million dollar portfolio, including her family home.

It also meant Trish served 8 months in prison.

Isolated from her husband and 3 little girls, living among Queensland’s most dangerous criminals, Trish could have succumbed to despair.

But treasure is found in dark places.

Refusing to give in to self-pity, Trish answered a new calling to make a difference in the lives around her. In doing so she found a different kind of freedom and healing.

Real and raw, these pages are better than a memoir; made up of letters, personal journaling and hindsight.

“I assumed I would be a model prisoner because I was a Christian. So how did I get into so much trouble, so often, yet with the best of intentions?”

Like when she was reported escaped…

Or setting the alarm off in the officers’ quarters…

Or having to explain why the woman she prayed for fell to the floor…

Be Inspired

You’ll laugh, cry and shake your head at hilarious stories, tragic circumstances, discouragement, hope and ever present faith.

“You may have no razor wire around you, but you may feel more like a prisoner than me! Let me share my keys to freedom with you.”

A Taste of Friday with Michael Webb and Infernal Gates

Infernal Gates
by Michael J. Webb

 

 

With impetuous recoil and jarring sound

Th’ infernal doors, and on their hinges grate

Harsh thunder, that the lowest bottom shook

Of Erebus.  She opened, but to shut

Excelled her power; the gates wide open stood

 

                                                                        Paradise Lost, John Milton

 

Chapter 1

 Less than ten minutes before we’re all dead, thought Ethan Freeman, and there is nothing I can do about it!

The stricken A320 Airbus--originally bound for St. Thomas and now limping back to Charlotte, North Carolina—shuddered like a bird suffering a mortal wound, then shook violently.  Shouting and screaming from the rear of the plane drowned out the prayer of the older couple seated in front of them, “Our Father, Who art in Heaven, Hallowed be Thy Name, Thy kingdom come—”

Lisa, Ethan’s wife, sobbed beside him.  Across the aisle his eighteen year-old son, Josh, yelled, “Dad--are we going to crash?”

“No, son,” he lied.  “We-are-not-going-to-crash.”

Megan, his sixteen year-old daughter, seated next to her brother, screamed, “The engine is on FIRE!”

Lisa clung to the seat arms so hard her fingers turned white and whimpered, “We’re all going to die--just like Greg,” then moaned, “I don’t want to die—”

Ethan reached for his wife’s hand as a thunderous explosion shook the plane and slammed him against the window, knocking breath out of him.  He cried out in agony as the palm of his right hand was sliced open by a jagged metal clasp sticking up on the arm rest between him and Lisa.  Blood gushed out of the ugly-looking wound and splattered the back of the seat in front of him.

The plane banked hard to the right and the nose suddenly pointed toward the ground, six miles below, as if the commercial airliner was being plucked from the cloudless, crystal blue heavens by a giant unseen hand.  Ethan glanced toward the rear of the aircraft.  A gaping hole replaced the emergency exit.  Loose debris disappeared violently out of the plane—and there were at least two rows of seats missing!

Swinging his gaze back to the First Class Cabin, Ethan noticed that ice crystals now clung to the windows.  His ears popped as oxygen masks dropped from overhead.  Shivering, he reached for the oxygen mask dangling in front of him like a puppet on a string and struggled to place it over his mouth and nose.  He took several deep breaths, ignoring his bleeding hand, then yelled out to his family, “Put your masks on!” 

In the next instant, he was pressed so hard into his seat it seemed as if he weighed four to five times his normal weight.  Black spots danced before his eyes and he fought for breath. 

All he could think about was that he had failed his family—that he had not been able to save them.  He cried out in desperation, “GOD HELP US—” 

Moments later, a flash of blinding white light enveloped him as a blast of fiery heat washed over him.

Then everything went black.

Sam Weaver, lying on a towel in the hot sand, thirty feet from the edge of the blue-green ocean, daydreamed about what it might be like to lead a normal life, when her pager went off. 

She opened her eyes and fought rising resentment. 

It was her first vacation in over eighteen months.  Her boss, E. “Mac” Macready--the Chief of the Major Investigations Division of the National Transportation Safety Board, or the AS-10 in Board nomenclature had promised he’d page her only if it was absolutely necessary. 

She stared at her bright pink beach bag, one that matched her swimsuit, for several

seconds, tempted to ignore the pager.  Then she remembered that when she’d signed up to be an investigator for the NTSB she’d literally signed the rights to her life away.  She sat up, brushed several errant strands of thick black hair from off her face, and reached inside the bag.

Her heart beat rapidly as she read the text:  Call Mac immediately.  Major accident involving Quest Airways A320 your neck of the woods.  Go Team notified. 

No matter how frustrated she got with the government bureaucracy, her pulse always quickened whenever she received a message like this.  Some of her friends back in DC found her reaction a bit gruesome, but her dad understood.  “The thrill of figuring out complex problems

others find too challenging, or too painful, to deal with is in your blood, Sam,” he’d told her on more than one occasion.  “You can’t help yourself.  You love Gordian knots.” 

She found her cell phone.  When she reached Mac he said, “Sorry to interrupt your down-time.  I know I promised not to call, but this one is big--and bad.” 

“Tell me—”

He did, and then finished by saying, “I’ve already spoken with Ted, Marissa, Tony--and Frank.  All of them but Frank are on their way to Hanger Six at Reagan International.”

Ted Anson was the human performance specialist, while Marissa Chen was highly regarded as one of the world’s foremost experts on cockpit and flight data recorders.  Tony North was a top notch metallurgist.  Frank Bacon had two Ph.D.’s and was the NTSB’s expert on the A320. 

Frank was obsessed with planes manufactured by the French consortium.  He blamed Airbus for the downsizing that cost him his high-paying job at Boeing.  It was widely known he’d compiled a detailed and extensive computerized list of all suspicious incidents resulting in the crash of planes manufactured by Boeing’s chief competitor.  When it came to fatal crashes involving Airbus, Frank was like a detective tracking down a serial killer he’d pursued for years in his spare time.

“Frank is in Dallas,” continued Mac.  “He’ll meet you and the rest of the Team at the Command Center later this afternoon.  You’ll have to call him and let him know where that’s going to be.”

“Me?”  Was it finally time?

“Yeah--you.”

“But--but,” she stammered.

“Well, well, well.  I’ve always wondered what it would take for the unflappable Sam Weaver to be at a loss for words.”

“I want it official--on the record.”

“Okay.  You’re the Investigator-in-Charge.  After five years of working with you, I know you don’t care about the title, or need the pay raise.  You just want to be in control of your own investigations.  I know the feeling.” 

Sam took two deep breaths and pulled a notepad out of her bag.  “Who’s the Regional on the ground in Georgia?”

“Ed Landers.  He’s the senior IIC out of Atlanta, but he’ll answer to you.  He’s a first-rate investigator, has a calm head on him, and if he has any kind of agenda, I’ve never heard about it.”

“Which translates, he’s smart, soft-spoken, and doesn’t play politics.” 

“Not everyone in government service subscribes to the ‘dog-eat-dog’ mentality, Sam.”

“You could have fooled me.”

Mac snorted and continued.  “Ed is already on his way.  He’ll set up a perimeter, establish security, and get the investigation started.  He’ll also coordinate with local authorities, including police and firefighters, and inform the media the investigation is under our jurisdiction.”

Sam scribbled on her notepad as Mac talked.  “Am I flying on one of the Board’s planes?

Or going commercial?”

“The Citation is in Fort Lauderdale.  The pilot can land at Patrick in an hour.”

“I’ll be ready.”

“One more thing, Sam.  Watch your back.  Frank has been looking for an excuse to make life miserable for you--” 

“I can handle Frank,” she retorted.  Her male counterparts at the safety board tended to behave with the macho air of men in a locker room.  Frank was one of the biggest proponents of the pervasive attitude.

“I know you can, Sam.  Frank has more time with the Board, but you have the kind of moxie, and the people skills, it takes to handle all the egos involved.  You’ve worked hard for this slot--you deserve it.”

Mac was in rare form.  He’d given her both a promotion and a compliment within a couple of minutes.  “What about the ‘flyaway’?”  She referred to one of two large standby suitcases used by the Board for investigations.  Each contained a video camera and tape, a laptop computer, a printer, a variety of charging devices, film, administrative supplies, as well as several copies of the ubiquitous investigator’s manual.  Both of the flyaways also had programmable combination locks.

            “You’ll have everything you need by nine a.m. tomorrow.”  He gave her the combination he’d programmed in.

            “Thanks, Mac.  For everything--” she said as she stood up, grabbed her towel and her bag, then headed at a run for her car.

 **********

 

Michael J. Webb graduated summa cum laude from the University of Florida and obtained his J. D. at the same university.  Over the past forty years he has travelled the world in search of adventure.

 

A Taste of Friday, with Martin Roth and The Maria Kannon

Welcome, Martin Roth!

The Maria Kannon

By Martin Roth

Prologue

Yamagata, Japan 

Anjiro knew what they did to Christians, and he was not going to let it happen to him. But first he had to evade the two samurai who had been tracking him for the past four days.

“Move it, you old sack of beans.” He urged on his steed, but in the driving rain and the mud she was rapidly tiring. His lead over his pursuers, once half a day at least, was probably now no more than half an hour.

Since the shogun Tokugawa began the great persecution, militias had been hunting down Christians mercilessly. Now the shogun’s bloodthirsty grandson Iemitsu was in charge, and he had shown himself to be even more ruthless in his determination to eradicate the foreign religion of Christianity from Japanese soil. Already many hundreds of believers had been tortured and executed. Thousands more were in hiding. 

The downpour was cutting through Anjiro’s straw cloak, biting him to the bone, as finally he reached the grassy incline and the forest of towering pines. It was the foot of the mountains. Not much further to go now.

“Won’t need you any more,” he muttered. The stolen mare had served him well, despite her age. But from now it would be on foot all the way, through the trees and up the steep slope.

He dismounted. His bag of possessions - cooked rice, a few pickles, a water bottle and his precious holy cross, carved from wood and costing him a month’s wages - were in a cotton bag that he had slung over his shoulder.

He slapped the horse. “Get out of here.” But the animal was fatigued and clearly wished to rest. She bent her neck to chew at some grass.

“I know how you feel,” growled the youth. “But you can’t stay here. They’ll find you. And me.”
Over to one side stood a grove of maples. He suspected a stream might be there. He led the horse forwards, and then moved behind and shoved her on the rump. Then he slapped her again, hard. This time the beast kept walking.

He turned and tried to peer through the rainstorm for any sign of the enemy, but little was visible.

Precious Jesus have mercy on my soul, he prayed inwardly as he began making his way up the steep hillside. Holy Mary, protect your servant.A flash of lightning flared above him and once again he was filled with a chill dread. He did not relish trekking up through the towering pines in the middle of a thunderstorm. But he knew this was his only chance.

The samurai were charged with capturing him, and they would fight to the death - his or theirs - to achieve this. Failure was not an option for them. They might even be required to commit seppuku - harakiri, ritual self-disembowelment - should they not return with his head.

Anjiro was a powerful swordsman. But he was a commoner, and was only permitted to own a shikomizue, a cane with a hidden blade. This would be no match for the steel katana of the samurai, forged by the finest swordsmiths of the land. He knew that despite his skills they would eventually prevail, and would surely cut him to ribbons.

Water was rushing down the hillside in rivulets, and he cursed as he stepped into a stream of mud that sent him skidding face forward to the ground. He grabbed a low-hanging branch and pulled himself to his feet, then resumed his odyssey.

What if he surrendered? Gave himself up without a fight? The samurai might choose to keep him alive, in order to carry him back with them to Edo. Torturing the Christians, forcing them to recant their beliefs, was a spectator sport there, as it was throughout Japan. Their reward for bringing him back alive might be more than simply returning with his head.

And if that happened, could he withstand the torture? Might he too eventually give in and tell the Buddhist interrogators that he no longer believed?

Father Lopez, the gentle Spanish missionary priest with the white beard and red face, had whispered to him the horror stories.

“You need to know, Anjiro-san,” he had said. “You must prepare yourself. But my son, you are blessed with youth and strength, and you are single. You can escape.”

Father Lopez told him about the first martyrs, twenty-six of them, way down south in Nagasaki, who had been roughly crucified on makeshift crosses. One of them was a twelve-year-old boy, Ibaragi Kun. An official urged him to recant his faith. Instead the youngster replied that it would be better for the official to become a Christian, so he too could go to heaven. Then looking the man in the eye he asked, “Sir, which is my cross?”

When directed to the smallest of the crosses on the hill the young man knelt in front of it and embraced it. He sang praises to God as the jeering soldiers trussed him to the cross and then lanced him to death.

As he continued his climb, Anjiro silently prayed that he too might have strength to be a powerful witness to God’s love.

He knew that, if captured alive, he would be ordered to undertake fumie - demonstrate his apostasy by stepping onto a picture of Jesus or Mary.

But once he refused, as surely he would - well, then the torture would commence. He knew that the torture methods had become increasingly refined.

Simple crucifixion was no longer enough. Sometimes the soldiers would crucify people upside-down, or at sea, where the rising tide steadily engulfed the martyrs over many hours. Others were chopped into pieces, or slowly burned - the fire deliberately lit some distance away so it engulfed them only slowly - or scalded to death in one of Japan’s many hot springs.

Worst of all, according to Father Lopez, was being left to dangle upside-down over a pit filled with excrement. For those who were strong and healthy, like Anjiro, blessed death might take a week to arrive.

His thoughts were interrupted as suddenly Anjiro found himself in a clearing, a small plateau with bushes and some red and yellow mountain flowers, and with a view through the downpour, down the mountainside. He was weary from the pursuit and from the climb, but when he peered down he realized to his shock that the two samurai had already arrived. They had tethered their steeds with his, and were surely even now climbing up after him. He could not afford to pause for a rest.

He had memorized his route, and his arrival at this plateau told him he was on the right path. Now he veered off to the right, along a narrow track of soggy pine needles that led to a stream. He jumped over, and then the path once more headed straight up the mountain.

For at least another thirty minutes he trudged upwards, the rain pounding down on him in an unrelenting torrent, as if trying to crush him like an ant. And then, once more, he emerged at some kind of plateau.
It was like entering another world. Perhaps this was heaven. The rain still thundered down. But instead of the darkness of the forest he was now standing on the edge of an idyllic landscape. Over to one side stood a minka, a large wooden homestead with a high thatched roof, capable of housing several families. Land had been cleared around it and crops planted. A small lake over to the other side ran into a rice paddy.

He had arrived.

A couple of children playing under a covered verandah at the front of the minka had spotted him, and cried out. Quickly two men appeared. Anjiro approached.

“I am a believer,” he panted. “Father Lopez has sent me.” He pulled out the tiny metallic crucifix that he wore around his neck and held it up.

The men both appeared to be in their thirties, and were almost certainly brothers. They looked at him. More kids had appeared, and they too were staring.

“I am being followed,” said Anjiro. “Two of them. Tell me if you want me to keep running.”

“Come inside, brother,” said one of the men. “You are safe with us.”

He beckoned for the youth to follow him inside. “Take off your clothes.”

Anjiro stripped to his cotton undergarment. The man shouted to a lady, who came with a quilted gown. She helped him into it.

Then they led him across tatami mats to a large central room. At least a dozen people were sitting around the irori, a hearth in the center of the room with a soft-burning fire. Smoke rose to a makeshift vent, high up in the roof. The room was dark and hazy.

The people around the room nodded their heads in greeting at Anjiro, almost as if they were responding to the return of a family member, rather than the abrupt arrival of a bedraggled and exhausted fugitive.

“You are safe with us,” said an old lady. She took a worn pottery cup, and from an iron kettle she poured him a hot drink.

Anjiro spoke. “What if the men try to enter the house? What if they bring reinforcements?”

“We have many hiding places,” said one of the men.

“But you are believers too. They will find evidence.”

“We are a simple family who worship the Kannon,” replied the man, a grin on his face. He pointed to one side of the room. A carved wooden statue of the Kannon - the Buddhist goddess of mercy - rested against a wall. She was standing, dressed in flowing Japanese robes and wearing an ornate, jeweled headdress. Her soft eyes were almost closed and her thin lips were curved in a beatific smile. In her arms she cradled a small baby.

Now Anjiro also smiled. He recognized this. “Maria Kannon,” he murmured.

 It was at this moment that loud shouting could be heard from outside. Anjiro stood and walked to the side of the room, near the Kannon. A hole in the wall allowed him to spy on the scene outside.

It was his first close look at his pursuers. They were young men, both drenched. One was tall and skinny, and he was doing the talking.

“We are looking for a runaway,” he said. “A Christian. He came this way. You must have seen him.”

“We have not seen anyone. But please come inside. We will serve you a hot meal.”

“There is only one path. He must have come this way. You are lying.”

“There are many paths on this mountain. We have not seen anyone.”

“You are lying. You are trying to help him. We are going to search this house.”

“We are farmers. We…”

“You are lying,” screamed the man, and he drew his sword. His companion did the same. “Are you Christians too? Bring forward this man now.”

Now a woman spoke. “We are just farmers,” she said. “Please let us serve you dinner. You are so wet. You can sleep here tonight.”

“You are Christians,” shouted one of the men, thrusting his sword forward. “You know what happens to Christians. We are going to search this house and then we shall put you all to the sword.”

Anjiro felt the first pangs of alarm. He had brought this upon the household. Father Lopez had told him he would find sanctuary here. But he should not have come until he knew that he had thrown off his pursuers. Now they were all in danger.

His hand reached out to the Maria Kannon beside him and he said a silent prayer. Mother Mary, save me. Save us. Protect this home. I beg it of you. In the name of the Holy Father.

Outside, the shouting continued, the words drowned by the roar of thunder. One of the samurai was pointing his sword at the throat of a man from the house.

Mother Mary protect us. Anjiro maintained his silent prayer, watching with horror as the men advanced.

“We shall destroy this house and we shall kill everyone inside,” shouted the skinny man.

It was at that instant that another loud thunderclap rent the sky, rocking the house. At the same instant a blinding flare of lightning illuminated the entire plateau in a vivid white glow.

Then came another noise, an eerie grating sound like the rasping babble of a thousand angry ghosts, and without warning one of the giant pines toppled downwards.

The two men realized too late what was happening. They did not even have time to scream before the tree crushed them both.

Anjiro still had his hand on the wooden statue

Now he looked at it. His eyes were teary. He stroked the head of the statue.

“Maria Kannon. You have saved me.”

 About the Author:

Martin Roth is a veteran journalist and foreign correspondent whose reports from Asia have appeared in leading publications around the world. He is the author of many books.

A Taste of Friday with Michael Webb and Infernal Gates

Welcome, Michael J. Webb! 

 

INFERNAL GATES

Michael J. Webb

 

 

With impetuous recoil and jarring sound

Th’ infernal doors, and on their hinges grate

Harsh thunder, that the lowest bottom shook

Of Erebus.  She opened, but to shut

Excelled her power; the gates wide open stood

 

                                                                        Paradise Lost, John Milton

 

 

 

 Chapter 1

 Less than ten minutes before we’re all dead, thought Ethan Freeman, and there is nothing I can do about it!

The stricken A320 Airbus--originally bound for St. Thomas and now limping back to Charlotte, North Carolina—shuddered like a bird suffering a mortal wound, then shook violently.  Shouting and screaming from the rear of the plane drowned out the prayer of the older couple seated in front of them, “Our Father, Who art in Heaven, Hallowed be Thy Name, Thy kingdom come—”

Lisa, Ethan’s wife, sobbed beside him.  Across the aisle his eighteen year-old son, Josh, yelled, “Dad--are we going to crash?”

“No, son,” he lied.  “We-are-not-going-to-crash.”

Megan, his sixteen year-old daughter, seated next to her brother, screamed, “The engine is on FIRE!”

Lisa clung to the seat arms so hard her fingers turned white and whimpered, “We’re all going to die--just like Greg,” then moaned, “I don’t want to die—”

Ethan reached for his wife’s hand as a thunderous explosion shook the plane and slammed him against the window, knocking breath out of him.  He cried out in agony as the palm of his right hand was sliced open by a jagged metal clasp sticking up on the arm rest between him and Lisa.  Blood gushed out of the ugly-looking wound and splattered the back of the seat in front of him.

The plane banked hard to the right and the nose suddenly pointed toward the ground, six miles below, as if the commercial airliner was being plucked from the cloudless, crystal blue heavens by a giant unseen hand.  Ethan glanced toward the rear of the aircraft.  A gaping hole replaced the emergency exit.  Loose debris disappeared violently out of the plane—and there were at least two rows of seats missing!

Swinging his gaze back to the First Class Cabin, Ethan noticed that ice crystals now clung to the windows.  His ears popped as oxygen masks dropped from overhead.  Shivering, he reached for the oxygen mask dangling in front of him like a puppet on a string and struggled to place it over his mouth and nose.  He took several deep breaths, ignoring his bleeding hand, then yelled out to his family, “Put your masks on!” 

In the next instant, he was pressed so hard into his seat it seemed as if he weighed four to five times his normal weight.  Black spots danced before his eyes and he fought for breath. 

All he could think about was that he had failed his family—that he had not been able to save them.  He cried out in desperation, “GOD HELP US—” 

Moments later, a flash of blinding white light enveloped him as a blast of fiery heat washed over him.

Then everything went black.

Sam Weaver, lying on a towel in the hot sand, thirty feet from the edge of the blue-green ocean, daydreamed about what it might be like to lead a normal life, when her pager went off. 

She opened her eyes and fought rising resentment. 

It was her first vacation in over eighteen months.  Her boss, E. “Mac” Macready--the Chief of the Major Investigations Division of the National Transportation Safety Board, or the AS-10 in Board nomenclature had promised he’d page her only if it was absolutely necessary. 

She stared at her bright pink beach bag, one that matched her swimsuit, for several

seconds, tempted to ignore the pager.  Then she remembered that when she’d signed up to be an investigator for the NTSB she’d literally signed the rights to her life away.  She sat up, brushed several errant strands of thick black hair from off her face, and reached inside the bag.

Her heart beat rapidly as she read the text:  Call Mac immediately.  Major accident involving Quest Airways A320 your neck of the woods.  Go Team notified. 

No matter how frustrated she got with the government bureaucracy, her pulse always quickened whenever she received a message like this.  Some of her friends back in DC found her reaction a bit gruesome, but her dad understood.  “The thrill of figuring out complex problems others find too challenging, or too painful, to deal with is in your blood, Sam,” he’d told her on more than one occasion.  “You can’t help yourself.  You love Gordian knots.” 

She found her cell phone.  When she reached Mac he said, “Sorry to interrupt your down-time.  I know I promised not to call, but this one is big--and bad.” 

“Tell me—”

He did, and then finished by saying, “I’ve already spoken with Ted, Marissa, Tony--and Frank.  All of them but Frank are on their way to Hanger Six at Reagan International.”

Ted Anson was the human performance specialist, while Marissa Chen was highly regarded as one of the world’s foremost experts on cockpit and flight data recorders.  Tony North was a top notch metallurgist.  Frank Bacon had two Ph.D.’s and was the NTSB’s expert on the A320. 

Frank was obsessed with planes manufactured by the French consortium.  He blamed Airbus for the downsizing that cost him his high-paying job at Boeing.  It was widely known he’d compiled a detailed and extensive computerized list of all suspicious incidents resulting in the crash of planes manufactured by Boeing’s chief competitor.  When it came to fatal crashes involving Airbus, Frank was like a detective tracking down a serial killer he’d pursued for years in his spare time.

“Frank is in Dallas,” continued Mac.  “He’ll meet you and the rest of the Team at the Command Center later this afternoon.  You’ll have to call him and let him know where that’s going to be.”

“Me?”  Was it finally time?

“Yeah--you.”

“But--but,” she stammered.

“Well, well, well.  I’ve always wondered what it would take for the unflappable Sam Weaver to be at a loss for words.”

“I want it official--on the record.”

“Okay.  You’re the Investigator-in-Charge.  After five years of working with you, I know you don’t care about the title, or need the pay raise.  You just want to be in control of your own investigations.  I know the feeling.” 

Sam took two deep breaths and pulled a notepad out of her bag.  “Who’s the Regional on the ground in Georgia?”

“Ed Landers.  He’s the senior IIC out of Atlanta, but he’ll answer to you.  He’s a first-rate investigator, has a calm head on him, and if he has any kind of agenda, I’ve never heard about it.”

“Which translates, he’s smart, soft-spoken, and doesn’t play politics.” 

“Not everyone in government service subscribes to the ‘dog-eat-dog’ mentality, Sam.”

“You could have fooled me.”

Mac snorted and continued.  “Ed is already on his way.  He’ll set up a perimeter, establish security, and get the investigation started.  He’ll also coordinate with local authorities, including police and firefighters, and inform the media the investigation is under our jurisdiction.”

Sam scribbled on her notepad as Mac talked.  “Am I flying on one of the Board’s planes? Or going commercial?”

“The Citation is in Fort Lauderdale.  The pilot can land at Patrick in an hour.”

“I’ll be ready.”

“One more thing, Sam.  Watch your back.  Frank has been looking for an excuse to make life miserable for you--” 

“I can handle Frank,” she retorted.  Her male counterparts at the safety board tended to behave with the macho air of men in a locker room.  Frank was one of the biggest proponents of the pervasive attitude.

“I know you can, Sam.  Frank has more time with the Board, but you have the kind of moxie, and the people skills, it takes to handle all the egos involved.  You’ve worked hard for this slot--you deserve it.”

Mac was in rare form.  He’d given her both a promotion and a compliment within a couple of minutes.  “What about the ‘flyaway’?”  She referred to one of two large standby suitcases used by the Board for investigations.  Each contained a video camera and tape, a laptop computer, a printer, a variety of charging devices, film, administrative supplies, as well as several copies of the ubiquitous investigator’s manual.  Both of the flyaways also had programmable combination locks.

“You’ll have everything you need by nine a.m. tomorrow.”  He gave her the combination he’d programmed in.

“Thanks, Mac.  For everything--” she said as she stood up, grabbed her towel and her bag, then headed at a run for her car.

 About the Author:

Michael J. Webb graduated summa cum laude from the University of Florida and obtained his J. D. at the same university.  Over the past forty years he has travelled the world in search of adventure.

 

A Taste of Friday with Violet James: 5 Simple Steps To Get Out of Debt

Welcome, Violet James!

5 Simple Steps to Get Out of Debt: Live Debt-Free &

Experience Financial Freedom

By Violet James, MSM; Published by Maximum Potential, LLC; Date of Publication: 1-15-2013

INTRODUCTION

If you are one of the millions of people who have accumulated hundreds or even thousands of dollars of debt and want to successfully get control of your finances and live debt-free, then this simple, step-by-step plan is for you.  It is crucial to have a strategic plan with set goals on how to get out of debt if you want to be victorious in living debt-free. You are at a huge advantage because you now have all the tools you need to change your situation with this proven, debt reduction strategy plan. Those who have a plan and set goals have a significantly higher percentage rate of accomplishing their desired goals.  

Being in debt and owing money is very stressful and feels like you are carrying around a heavy burden.  It can affect your emotions, health and relationships in a negative way.  Also, if you are living paycheck to paycheck it can be very scary if you lose your job or something unexpected happens that causes the income to stop coming in. You are at a huge disadvantage when you owe money. You are at the mercy of the lender. A proverb states, “… the borrower is a servant to the lender.” (Proverbs 22:7).  It is important to make eliminating debt and being debt-free a priority so you can experience true financial freedom.  

In this book, you will have a step-by-step debt reduction plan to follow.  It is recommended that you take one step at a time and do the assignment/action plan for that step before you move on. When you have completed the steps and action plans, you will have control of your spending, have created a budget and have the skills to master your money. 

Let’s get started to financial freedom!

 

About the Author:

 

Violet James, MSM is an entrepreneur, marketing and business manager, award-winning web designer, and artist. She has over 20 years of experience in business consulting, marketing and management. For more information go to: www.NewSeasonPublishing.com

 

A Taste of Friday with Barbara Ann Derksen: Shadow Stalker

Welcome, Barbara Ann Derksen!

Shadow Stalker

by Barbara Ann Derksen

Prologue

Her vision seeped through the louvers on the utility room door. The images seemed broken as in a jigsaw puzzle until she leaned forward and placed her forehead against the wood. Her insides tightened. Everyone was shouting. She willed her body to stop trembling but it seemed to have a will of its own. The gun that the stranger held, just like on TV but different, was pointed at her father. This was real. Daddy had hid her ... told me to stay where I am until ... She couldn't remember.

Daddy’s voice sounded like it did when he talked on the phone sometimes. “What do you want with us? You have no business being here. We said no contact."

She watched his face get redder than she'd ever seen it, even when he'd been out in the sun too long. Mommy was shaking her fist. She never did that. The stranger smiled, totally silent. Not intimidated, it seemed to the five year old. A shiver walked its way up her spine. She’d seen guns like that in the cartoons she watched. This one was a little longer though. Only business, the man said. What business, she wondered.

The man straightened his arm, the one holding the gun. Her vision blurred for a second, horror filling the empty spaces in her brain. The explosion echoed in the foyer. The bullet seemed to travel in slow motion. Just like the cartoons, she thought. Her daddy’s body slammed into the banister of the staircase heading up to the bedroom area and the maid’s quarters. The railing shook. Her father’s body flopped forward. His head smacked the floor. He lay still then.

Blood covered the wall behind where her father had stood. Her mother screamed and then was silent. Before her father's body hit the tiled foyer, she watched the side of her mother’s head explode. Specks of blood and other gooey stuff splattered all over the walls, mixing with the blood from her father. Her stomach lurched. She wrapped a hand tightly across her mouth. A silent scream rattled around in her head seeking an escape. Get up, it said. Daddy. Mommy. Get up. Please. The scream evaporated, as if it had never been. They weren’t moving. In the cartoons, they always got back up. Why don’t they get up?

Tears filled her eyes, blurring her vision again. Daddy just lay there. Mommy lay beside him, covered in the blood that flowed from her body. Her sightless eye stared toward the girl, hidden. The girl felt as if she was going to throw up but she swallowed instead. She swiped at the tears that silently trickled down her pudgy cheeks. Her mother told her she had cute dimples, whatever that was. Her mother liked to touch her cheeks. Now...

She watched as the man, the monster, moved toward the entrance. Then he stopped. He looked up the stairs, then down the hall. He looked toward her hiding place, his eyes cold, calculating, wondering. Her stomach lurched, the fright almost real enough to touch. Could he see her? Her daddy had told her to hide here. He knew they were in danger. Why? Who was this man? How did daddy know him? Maybe it was mommy the man hated. Why? Footsteps interrupted her questions. The man was moving down the hall straight toward her.

She crept backwards, crawling on all fours as if she were a spider. Her gymnastics teacher had taught her that. I need to get out of here. He will kill me, too. She remembered her discovery when she’d hidden in here last week. Her cousins had come for a visit. They loved to play hide and seek in the large, multistoried mansion that was her home. She'd found a door leading to the garage where her daddy’s cars were kept under the chauffeur’s apartment. She’d sneak out that way.

Several hanging tools brushed her shoulders as she crept under them toward safety. They swung to and fro. It was as if they whispered, “She’s in here.” She twisted her head behind. She couldn't see through the slats in the door anymore but the heavy tread of footsteps grew louder, closer. She reached the hidden door. It creaked as she slipped through.

“Wait.” His voice echoed through the tiny room, resonating off the walls of the small space, the sound carried over the creak of the door as he pulled it open. The menace in his voice was gone, replaced by enticement.

She scurried into the large garage. Ignoring the man, she skirted the three cars stored there. Her heart pumped so loudly in her ears, the sound blocked out the rustle of the man's clothes as he squeezed through the same opening. She turned slightly and saw his shadow. Her short legs pumped toward the door leading to the stone walled courtyard and the gated entrance to the back yard. The wrought iron gate was open. Good.

Her feet flew over the paved driveway toward the gate. She turned once to see if the chauffeur was nearby. Benson played with her sometimes. He was nowhere to be seen. Then she remembered. Benson had asked for the day off to take Maria, the maid, to the beach. There’s no one to help. She streaked through the wrought iron gate.

The yard was tree filled, almost like a park. She ran like the wind, as if the devil himself was after her. He is. She reached the second gate in the high wrought iron fence that surrounded her parent's property. It was slightly ajar. Her parent's always kept this one locked but now... She almost forgot to breathe as she raced through it and into the street. The sidewalk led to town. Her legs pounded the pavement hard. “Wait.” The shout came from behind her. The man was following.

The sound of his footsteps bounced off cement walls and rock enclosures, the attempt of homeowners to protect what was theirs. Trees, thick for privacy, lined the street, hiding nearby houses from view. Traffic was non-existent along this street at this time of day. She ran. Her instincts told her that life, her life, depended on it. She rounded a corner but then peeked back. He was still coming, walking briskly in her direction. I need to hide.

She crawled under a nearby bush, its dense foliage the perfect cover, she thought. The picture of her mother’s head scattering debris all over the walls played like a ticker tape through her brain. Her stomach roiled again and she gagged. Mommy. Daddy. Please help me. Footsteps rounded the corner. The sound grew louder. He’ll find me. I have to leave.

She stood. He reached for her with one hand while the other, the one that had held the gun, was in his pocket. She ducked just out of his reach. She raced like the wind, staying off the sidewalk this time. She flew through the trees as if someone carried her, her feet barely touching the ground long enough to make an indent in the leaves. Her body slammed into low branches that scratched and tore at her clothing. She was shorter than the man so movement for her was easier here, she reasoned. The heavier footsteps had slowed, proving her right. She heard a twig snap. He was still coming. Maybe a policeman…

The girl ran. Her legs hurt. Muscles contracted painfully. Trickles of blood from scratches marred her perfect skin, skin that her mother would caress from time to time. Mommy. The thought hurt so much. Her daddy liked to swing her over his head. She almost smiled at the thought but then tears flowed again when she remembered. He’s back there. Lying on the floor. Blood oozed from his forehead. He never got back up.

The race continued. She rounded another corner. Her body slammed into legs encased in dark blue pants. Strong hands steadied her but she wriggled to be free. She looked over her shoulder, twisting this way and that. “Hey there. What’s the hurry?” The voice sounded kind, different than the one she ran from. She looked up.

“Melissa?” The man’s smile turned quickly to a frown, concern written all over his face. “What’s wrong?”

She pointed in the direction she’d come from. Her breaths were mere gasps, words impossible. Tears fell unhindered. She slipped behind the legs. Would the man shoot this person too? She pointed again as the man rounded the corner. She saw him stop before the policeman could look in the direction she pointed. The man ducked his head as his foot stepped backward. She watched him, silently and as quickly as he’d come, step behind the nearest tree, out of sight. Her heart felt as if it would leap out of her chest. Then she was sick. All over the shiny black shoes of the policeman she’d collided into.

“I don’t see what you’re trying to tell me, Melissa. Calm down. Just take a deep breath.” He saw her looking at the mess at his feet. “Don’t worry about that. I can clean them. But what’s got you in such a tizzy?”

She swallowed. Tears streaked down her cheeks as if they’d never stop. “He-he," She hiccoughed. She pointed in the direction she'd come from. "He shot mommy and daddy.” She gasped for another breath. Her finger shook as she continued to point toward the corner where the monster had disappeared. “He shot them.”

 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.