My Dad - Born Dead, Died Alive

On a little New York dairy farm, a boy named Keith milked cows by hand.  His dad had died years earlier, but with a dream of owning a dairy farm.  The mother of the house still lived, ruling with care and sense, but not with much time to spend at home with her brood of five boys and two girls.  Her new husband was not much help at first, for he was muddled with a mental illness.

Keith grew into a wild young man, empty and lonely, trying to escape his feelings with drink and parties.

One day, his brother Deryl became a new man, one eager to share the newness in Christ, one not afraid to say that Keith was on his way to hell if he didn't repent.  That rang true and somber in Keith's heart.  He accepted the urge to go to church, and there heard a prophecy message--something new to him, something that amazed him.  This old Book could speak to things today?  He talked with the deacon afterward and prayed a prayer, a shining look on his face, one woman said--the woman who would become his wife.  Keith went home, still uncertain, and broke down under his sin, asking for forgiveness, longing to change.

And change he did.  He sought eagerly to become a preacher, changing his major from engineering to Bible.  Though formerly shy, he faced this new life with courage, preaching to many by the grace of God, preaching in the same church he'd first attended as a lost man.

That woman watching in the church was Mary--my mother--who married him, loving his single-mindedness.  She helped him through Bible school assignments, typing for him in a pinch.

Along the way, Dad needed other work to survive, learning from the renovation of houses that he did and using his past of engineering.

He took a job with two of his brothers in a cable factory, and the asbestos flew heavy through the air.

Beneath a flimsy mask, he breathed them in, those dusty particles.  They entered his lungs with barbs that clung tenaciously to the lining for decades, hiding from us--but known to God.  Dad worked with them, joked with them, ate with them, but never invited them.

We went along, unaware that the disease was lurking in his lungs.

Dad preached with boldness, never shying away from a controversial topic, but truly wanting what was best for others, wanting the Way, the Truth, and the Life to be poured out in our lives.  He prayed on his knees with us on the living room couches, read from the Bible and Christian men often.

But as a girl of thirteen, I didn't know if he loved me.  He pointed out error, but didn't kiss us or tell us he loved us.  He joked to lighten things up, but they were just jokes.  I needed reassurance of his love--words of comfort and a hug, and time spent with me alone.

My loneliness prompted me to seek the Lord, or at least to read the Bible and pray to be saved.  Things would get better then, right?  I would have love at least from One, and maybe from Dad and others, too.

Dad questioned my faith, noting the tears in my eyes and perhaps the shifting of feet.

I fell back to what I did better than talking: writing.  I wrote a paper on how I'd ostensibly become a Christian--I thought I was, though some doubts lingered.  Without much thought, I wrote that I didn't know if Dad loved me, and that he'd examined me as if I were a bug under a microscope.

He came to me then, teary-eyed.  I learned how words in ink could hurt someone, even this stalwart man.  He'd try harder, he said, to show his love.

He said he loved me every night, and kissed me on the cheek.  At first I wondered if it was just to appease me.  Little by little, I grew to accept his love, to see his care, to enjoy time with him, though we were both a bit tongue-tied when alone with each other.  We shared music on the radio when he picked me up from college, guessing the composers.  He stopped for MacDonald's or other surprises, and I delighted in his spontaneity.

One day, the asbestos particles showed themselves on an X-ray . . . lungs quite destroyed, ready to breathe their last in just a year or two.

Now, were radiation or chemo to rob his strength, his hair, his joy?  No, he said, he'd fight for life using food and vitamins before any further invasion to his body!

And then there was a man we heard of named Burzynski, who ran a clinic in TX, with hope for patients with cancer.  Yes, he was expensive.  No, there was no cure for every patient.  But if there was a remote possibility, we wanted to try.  The doctor, accented in Polish, told Dad that he would not give us good odds on this cancer, this mesothelioma.  He had not treated much of it successfully, especially this far along.  Still, we pressed on, praying for the outcome mostly miraculous.

Dad had treatments in TX, then went home for a while.  There he and my sister Annie read books on cancer, natural remedies.  We juiced carrots laced with vitamins and minerals, which Dad drank till his skin was tinted orange.  He cut out refined sugar and most fatty foods, things he loved.   More treatments, home nurses, shots of vitamins.  We hoped and prayed.

But there was no positive change.  Instead, he coughed more, said less . . . and his legs and feet swelled tight and puffy, which we could only rub with ointment, a job I curled my lips at--God forgive me!

I watched a movie or two with Dad, neither of us saying much, reclining in the living room.  It was special, though, like old times, but different.  We watched Lassie Come Home, an old and quiet movie with a happy ending.  Dad said, "That was a good movie," with tears in his eyes.  Was he remembering the dog he lost one time?  Or thinking of heaven, where there would be no more goodbyes, no losses?

Things got uglier, harder to bear.  His breath came in choking gasps and rattles.  Not much time left, we knew.  It was a week, just a week, in which he suffered worst.  But still, as all along, he trusted God.  He asked Mom to read the Bible to him.  No, not the psalms, which he thought had little comfort for one going through disease.  He wanted Job.

And then the night came--he was really dying!  I could hardly face it, even then.  We stood around the bed and sang Psalm 23, those words of comfort, at least for him.  For me--I didn't know for sure if God cared, if He loved.  Such pain, inflicted on his own servant!  Why?

I didn't remember then the agony of Job, or the deepest anguish of God the Son.  And even then, my crazy mind went, why would Dad have to suffer if Jesus had supposedly borne his sin?

I remembered Romans 8:28, yet it still niggled at me, wondering if all this was really fair or helpful.

Just when we had been getting along better, understanding each other, loving more vocally, this had to happen!  Dad was reduced to a skeletal being, not at all like my big, robust Daddy!

I fled the room--he might linger a while longer with no change, we thought--and tried to sleep away the thoughts--cry them away.

And that morning he was gone.  Mom had been left alone with him, calling for assistance at the very last moment, when Dad clearly said he wanted to stand up, asking what time it was, and looking up.  He collapsed in Mom's arms, a dead weight, and she cried, trying not to let him fall, or bang his body on the desk.

She believes he saw an angel, or Jesus Himself, and wanted to honor His presence in standing salute.  Truly, it may be!  Dad had not stood or asked to get up for at least a week before that.

We went to the grave-site after he was buried, with no formal ceremony, just our family.  Mom's sister had also in the same week gone to heaven, so we remembered her, too.

Even in death, Dad's words honored God.  The grave-stone was carved, at his earlier request, "Born Dead Jan. 5, 1948 - Died Alive in Christ Sept. 9, 2006."

Raindrops fell onto our umbrellas.  But as we lifted our heads from prayer, we gasped--a double rainbow, brilliant and rosy, canopied over us.  God's reminder: God is faithful.  No matter what, He is faithful, knowing what is best, and carrying us through the waves.

Portraits of Faith - Book Review

I waffled between giving this four or five stars, since it probably could have been developed a little more in certain areas. However, the concise length is also a plus in some ways.

This book addresses the faith of five different individuals and certain aspects of their faith: Adam & Eve's childlike faith, the Shunnamite woman's submissive faith, the Canaanite woman's mature faith, and Caleb's persevering faith. Each chapter has shorter sections, often with a modern-day example or two. I liked how clear things were, and how insightful and convicting. In the Adam and Eve section there is something I question, but could very well be true--I just wonder at his dogmatism.

Great Quotes:

"Believe [the Lord]! Believe that He will take all those impossibilities that are breaking over the gunwales of your life and bring them to a melodious whimper at your feet. They may alarm you, but they will not drown you. He will take care of you. Believe that!"

"Through afflictions God teaches us, says Thomas Watson, to treat the world like a loose tooth in our mouth, which, being easily twitched away, does not much bother us. Christ ripens us for glory by weaning us from this world."

"We forget that there are more than three hundred biblical imperatives commanding us to grow in the grace and knowledge of the Lord Jesus Christ."

"Unbelief is dreadfully contagious; it persuades people that the giants of Anak are larger than the promises of God; it eats away at the vitals of faith; it stunts spiritual growth. Every time you do not believe in the presence of God, your spiritual growth is bruised. But true faith turns giants into dwarves and shows God to be as big as He really is."

I received a copy of this book from crossfocusedreviews.com (thank you!), and was not required to give a positive review.

Short Story - "War Wounds"

I wrote this for a contest.  It has gone through a lot of edits, with help from my lovely, critiquing family.  I'm sure it is still not perfect, especially since I chose to ignore one of my brother's bigger quibbles with the "Lazarus" scene.  He gave me the idea I used for a major plot point, so I'm very thankful for that (it is a little out of the known historical framework, but not beyond the realm of possibility).  Hope you enjoy!

~~~

Reclining in a cane chair, Ethan closed his eyes and shooed a buzzing fly away from his head.  It was the hottest day he ever remembered in Tennessee, and even the shade provided from the sprawling oak only served to cut the temperature enough to allow him to breathe. He was recovering slowly from his war wounds, but this scorching heat was worse than the pain below his stump of a leg.  Tipping the last bit of water into his mouth, he only got a drop or two, and licked his lips, tasting tin.

He was about to prop himself up on crutches and replenish his water when he heard the noise: a boom like a cannon.  He froze, fingernails digging into palms, eyes wide, limbs trembling.  Firing all around; he must shoot!  General Lee was counting on him, as were his friends nearby—Tommy was moaning, his ear a bloody stub.  Asa was already dead.  Smoke, lots of smoke—where was his rifle?  He charged forward, stumbled, fire jabbing his leg.  Tears blended with the smoke, creating a distorted picture of a blue-clad soldier, peering down at him, saber in hand.  "God, help!" he pleaded.

Someone was gripping his arm, calling, "Ethan!  Are you all right?"

He smelled rose and lemon.  Above him was a woman, dark hair, gray dress, a comrade—but why out in harm's way?  He blinked, things becoming clearer.  His wife!  Why was she here? . . . But then, he was home, not on the field of battle.  Stillness reigned, not artillery fire.  "Rachel!"  His mouth wobbled, and he clung to her.

"Shh," she whispered, "you're safe. God brought you home.  The war is over."

Over in all but his mind.

Ethan's heartbeat slowed gradually.  "It felt so real—but I should'a known it wasn't," he said, grimacing. "It's happened so many times before."

"But not in a long while," Rachel soothed.

Ethan detected a pounding noise and lifted his head to see a horse and rider like a black bird of prey swooping in their direction.  The hoof-beats thundered, then quieted, dust swirling about the dancing legs near them.

"A cave-in!  There's been a cave-in at the mine!" the rider, Billy Alders, announced between gulps of air.  He rubbed a dirty hand across his sweating forehead.

Rachel gasped and held a hand to her throat.  "Was anyone inside?"

"Two dynamite men—the others got out in time.  One is Jim Lyle, the other is a Yankee, Daniel Compton."

A Yankee?  Ethan had not heard of him before, and could hardly comprehend it. This man had the gall to rub their faces in the Union victory by moving South and taking one of their jobs!

" . . . need yer help, Ethan.  We heard you say something about how you've tried shaping blasts, so the rocks scatter in one direction—?"

This Yankee was likely in the Union Army, taking away the lives of Ethan's friends!  He could almost see the man now, a gun gripped tightly beneath an angry mouth.  But there was another man in the mine, too . . . and he was a Southerner.

"I-I'll help, but I've no guarantee of anything," Ethan answered.  "I've only read about it and made some experiments that seemed to work."

"We gotta try—there's not much time to lose."

Ethan nodded.  "I have some powder in the barn."  He grabbed his crutches and tried to keep up with the fleet-footed Billy.

"This it?"  Billy pulled out a barrel marked with a large red X.

"Yep.  Now get my metal pieces—they're in a blue crate in the loft."

Everything went fast, but Ethan felt in a daze, moving by rote.  The wagon wheels bumped over ruts as Rachel gripped the reins.  He felt like half a man anymore, manhood taken along with the half of his leg, memories haunting many of his waking hours, sometimes seeping into his dreams, awaking him and his wife as he screamed like a baby.  The baby they couldn't have.

His mind was yanked to the present when, after arriving at the mine, men surrounded their wagon and recounted at a fast clip what had happened and the problems they faced.  Background noises of metal clanking on rock distracted him, but he strained to listen to their voices.

"That Yankee and Jim Lyle were working with dynamite—and wham—the whole back of it collapsed!  We were close enough to the entrance to get out . . ."

"We're tryin' to get 'em out, but it could take all day, and we don't know if they have enough air to live."

"That's why we need your help, to blast 'em out, but without hurting 'em!"

Ethan swallowed back fear and tried to speak with confidence.  "There's a chance I can do it, yes.  With God's help."

While some put their efforts into digging with shovels, picks, axes, and even metal buckets, Ethan pried the top off his crate.  Rachel came to his side, her eyes wide.  "Can I do anything?"

"Pray," Ethan returned.  "Pray hard."

Ethan took the pieces that made up his charge.  He filled the back with gunpowder, and inserted a hollow metal cylinder in the front. All the while, his thoughts whirled, each blow of metal ax nearby jostling his nerves, bringing to mind the crack of rifles, the blood, the screams, the homes destroyed by cannons.  He fought to breathe, to remember that there was one Southern man in that cave-in--one man with a conscience, protecting the innocent, protecting their state's rights and their homes.  This must be done for him! When Ethan was nearly done with his intricate work, he called a halt to the digging.

"I need to know what side of the cave-in they're on.  Can we listen a while between a few signal taps?"

The group consented, quieting almost instantly.

Ethan held his breath.  His ears picked up a faint pinging noise beyond the rubble.  "I hear something!"

"That's gotta be them!  Jim's alive!"  Billy whooped.

"They're on the left side," Ethan mused.  He bowed his head over his powder-filled charge, praying silently, Lord, make this work.  Protect the people inside.  A fuse snaked its way out the back of the metal charge.  He wedged the device in a small cavity in the piled-up rocks.

"Everyone stand back."  His voice was calm, but laced with enough volume and authority that the people scattered like crows scared off by a rabid dog.  They settled again on the hill opposite the mine.

Sucking in a breath, Ethan found the end of the charge fuse, some four feet from the cave-in.  A solitary match is all it would take, the difference between silence and blast, quiet and chaos—life and death.  Prayers resounded in his mind for Jim. The other man . . . he would deal with that later. He struck the match and touched it to the fuse.  It flared up like a mini fire-breathing dragon.  Fumbling to situate his hands on his crutches, he backed away--and tripped.  Rachel cried out.  He righted himself and hobbled as fast as he could toward the safety of his wagon.

Within a minute, the explosion scattered rocks.  Dust cleared, and a three-foot wide hole gaped up at them.

After a moment of quiet, the men descended, eyeing the jagged hole as if it was the pit of a fiery abyss which no one dared cross. Then, a man coated in dirt, limping slightly, clothes tattered, emerged from the tunnel, like the biblical Lazarus coming out of the tomb.

"Daniel Compton!" a man exclaimed. Then, "Where's Jim?"

"He's dead," Daniel murmured.  "From the initial blast."

Ethan clenched his fists.  And this Yankee had barely a scratch on him!  "Maybe you planned this in order to kill Jim and us Rebels!"  He couldn't seem to stop the accusation from coming out, no matter how illogical it might sound.

Daniel's mouth dropped open.  "Jim and I were good friends."  His face crumpled.  "I'd rather it had been I who died than he!"

Ethan swallowed a sour taste in his throat.  What if he wished this man dead?  It was wrong, dead wrong, but he could not force himself to continue the Good Samaritan role.  He closed his eyes.  God, how can I help this man?  How can I—love him?  Then he was struck with the thought, How could Jesus love me, I who pierced His hands and feet with my sins?  Tears dotted his eyes.  God, forgive me!  He knew what he must do.

Just a few steps over, and he was in front of Daniel.  After a deep swallow, he stuck out a hand and said, "Forgive me, Mr. Compton.  The War has messed me up some.  Yankees—" He shook his head and shrugged. "It'll just take time and prayer for me to get over.  We'll get you to a doctor."

Daniel smiled.  "I understand, and thank thee.  And thee may call me what some of my friends do: Quaker Dan."

From the Pen of Pastor Paul - Book Review

I have only read the first 36% of the book (goodreads.com figures for me), but I can tell it's a keeper.  The author gives many pointed, convicting questions, yet is humble and encouraging, pointing to Christ's power.  I don't know where he got "Jameson" from in the book of Acts--it's Jason in all the versions I looked up--so that is one distracting thing, but probably a typo, though written two or three times that way.  Other than that and a few other possible typos, it's good enough that I want a pencil with me while I'm reading it, in order to underline or mark parts I like.  Here are a few of the quotes I've marked so far:

'Like those new believers in first century Thessalonica, what we know today is this: Jesus has utterly revolutionized our lives. To the world, we turn everything upside down. To the believer, God is making everything right side up. The world has fallen and it is God who is picking it up. The world is like a shattered vase and it is God who is restoring it. The world is like a filthy mirror and it is God who is renovating its luster.'

'We are to persevere in prayer that we might persevere by prayer.'

'Not to be totally sold out to the Word of God is to lack that joy, that fruitfulness.  Not to give yourself to it more than all riches is to lack, is to struggle, is to trip, and is to stumble along in our Christian life.'

'When people saw the Thessalonians, they saw love, zeal, and gospel. When the world sees you, what do they see?  Do they see arrogance?  Do they see you being stuck up?  Do they see you as too good for them?  Does the world see you projecting a "holier than thou," "I'm better than you," attitude?  Or, are you an example of a sinner saved by grace?  Do they see you as a jar of clay that has been broken into a thousand pieces that God himself is putting back together; and even as he puts you back together those cracks are still visible?  Our evangelistic zeal must be shown in our lives living amongst the world; in truthfulness of who we were; in honesty about what we are; in hope of what we will become.  Like a masterpiece of art shown in a window, show the world what God can do.'

He quotes from many good writers/preachers, including John Calvin and Charles Spurgeon, as here:

'Describing preaching, C. H. Spurgeon once put it like this: "when we speak as ministers, and not as men; as preachers, instead of penitents; as theologians instead of disciples, we fail."'

'The devil hid himself in the serpent with Adam and Eve so that he could distract them with the question, "Hath God said?" (Genesis 3:1; KJV). The devil came and tried to drown out God's clear command with his noise, speaking his own version of the gospel--a gospel of self-help and a gospel of your best life now.'

'We can praise God in the midst of being sifted, in the midst of being persecuted by Satan himself because we know that our faith is a gift of God and that as a gift of God it is unassailable, it is invincible, it cannot be destroyed, it cannot be snuffed out.  We can praise God for the Devil's temptations because they are signs to the true believers of true faith.  The Devil's temptations are signs to us that our faith is real. We can stand up in true confidence against the Devil. We know he wants our true faith to be destroyed, but it can't.'

I look forward to reading the rest of the book.

Thank you to crossfocusedreviews.com for a copy to review.  My review is honest and unbiased.

Happy Cooking - A Book Review

Giada De Laurentiis writes about her journey and health, but without smothering you in a horde of vegetables.  The desserts range from quite healthy to decadent.  I have only tried two recipes so far (a soup and a pasta dish), but they were good ones, even with a little tweaking out of necessity or personal preference.  I'm sure each recipe is carefully crafted by this TV chef.  The only downside to the book is that some of her clothing is a bit immodest (perhaps most would not think so, but a conservative homeschooling family would, likely).

I've tried this recipe on the left, though I used a different kind of cheese and didn't use fresh dill, or much dried dill, substituting basil for some of it. I added sausage, as well. Tasty!

With bright and colorful photos, this cookbook may make you feel happy . . . and eager to pull out a pan or mixing bowl.

Thanks to Bloggingforbooks.com for this book!  I was not required to give a positive review.

Owls: Our Most Charming Bird - Book Review

This book is written and illustrated by Matt Sewell, a British artist and ornithologist.  He has created several books about birds, and this one focuses on the mysterious owl.  This is a readable and fun book. The illustrations are charming and the descriptions are a little zany, comparing owls with people and more. Besides the mention of myths/gods and one illustration of a woman who isn't too modest, it's quite a swell book, about pocket-size.  There is a place to check off owls you've seen, as well.

I received this book from Blogging for Books in exchange for an honest review.

Remembering WWII in Linden, 2015

The morning of September 26 was one of hectic getting ready--unwinding pin curls, donning shoes, picking out hats or jewelry, making sandwiches, and forgetting things I meant to take.

Our brother Matthew was our chauffeur, as Annie tried to cheer me up about my hair not having time to be pinned up properly--I had videos on WWII hairstyles that I hadn't had time to watch.  I did my best as we bumped along the roads.

Me with a vintage roadster

Life is never perfect, and I soon forgot all the little things as we entered the Linden event, remembering the big things that happened in time past.  Men and women lost their lives in concentration camps, men fought for freedom from oppression.  The spotlight was not on me.

Some of the audience

Arthur Pais

 We heard the first speaker, Arthur Pais, from a ways back at first, as we sat on the side, hardly able to concentrate on his speaking.  Eventually we moved up, and saw his grave face as he spoke about being separated from his family as they went to work camps (or death camps)--never seeing his mother again.  His humor was not extinguished during the talk, however, or his grace and humility.

As it was nearing noon, we decided to head to the car and eat our packed lunch--an assortment of chicken salad sandwiches, apples, ginger snaps, and chocolate-covered pretzels.  It was nice to relax in our van as we ate and sipped water or iced tea.

The streets and sidewalks were bustling, with vintage vehicles, clanging fire-engines, troops, and onlookers in everyday clothes.

Annie and I split up from Matthew, so we could each listen to a different speaker.  We wanted to hear Norman Weber, an American boy who lived in Germany and even joined the Nazi Youth.  The walk was longer than I expected, and my previously untested high heels began to dig into my feet and rub blisters into them.  But it was worth the walk.  Near the speaking site, we saw rows of tents.

A soldier in camp

Norman Weber

After a few well-sung songs sung by a Courter girl, we heard Mr. Weber speak.

He recounted his story clearly, and an interesting story it was.  It felt normal for him to join the Nazi Youth at the time, not knowing all the atrocities to come.  He was saved from harm through this, and never questioned as to his birthplace, since he looked like the ideal German--tall, erect, blond-haired and blue-eyed. But what was going to happen when the Americans came and won the city?

After his talk, I walked over to meet him and get his autograph.  He was happy to oblige.

I pointed out the vintage vehicles and people getting rides, and asked Annie if we could try to get a ride in one.  It would save us another walk, too.  The back of the jeep we chose was so high that I didn't think I could step up onto it. They pulled out part of the seat in the front so I could get by that, and we got up and onto a bench seat in the back.  Two young friends from church joined us, one of them crouching and holding onto the front seat.  Then three modern-day marines (I think) hopped on the back, as well, making for a pretty crowded ride down the street.  I was near the front, with open air to my left.  It felt rather nice to be riding along with wind in my hair.  Matthew, unbeknownst to us (and he didn't know we were riding, either), took a photo of us as we rode.  The marines wanted to get off near the stop-light, and Annie and I got off there, too, as did our friends.

Around 2:00 pm (shortly after the ride), we met up with Matthew, as well as some friends, in the back row of this "Courthouse Stage."  We listened to Lacie Bowman sing two songs: "The White Cliffs of Dover" and "It Hurts to Say Goodbye."  Her voice and presentation were beautiful, though the impact didn't hit me there at first, because I was talking with one of the Seargeants off to the side.  Then I sat down with the group to watch.  We then heard Jerry Neal, not ashamed to say he owed everything to his God and Savior, Jesus Christ. 

Jerry Neal

Next there was a parade of vintage vehicles and veterans, with young men and women running out to give them honorary white carnations.

Mr. Courter interviewing twin veterans

These twins (left) also had interesting stories to tell, involving an explosion.  The man on the right was a twin, too, and told about a shark story.

At 4:00, there was a battle reenactment, which began peacefully, with women walking the streets, sitting at the Cafe, and having their identification cards checked.

Then shots rang out, and the street was filled with the fake but effective blasts for many long minutes.  I plugged an ear at times, and wished for it to stop. . . . How much more the soldiers of WWII must have wished this, as not just the noise jarred their ears, but comrades fell around them, the bloodied, moaning, and dead.

It was a good day to meet up with friends:

The Seargeants and Sierra

Anna

Mr. and Mrs. Rodriguez

Norah

Laura Verret

We saw many friends, and stopped to rest here (photo below).  Steven Bowman said the beignets were excellent, so we decided to split one three ways.  Annie and Matthew went to order the pastry at "Cafe Normandie."  Indeed, the pastry, with a dollop of jam and sprinkling of powdered sugar, was excellent!  It was light and airy on the inside, and crispy on the outside.

We had to walk back to the encampment area to eat our supper (we'd purchased tickets upon arriving that morning), and I could barely stand the walk.  Next time maybe I'll be smart and wear flats!

The tables were decorated, with charming lights strung overhead.  A band played to one side ("Merchants of COOL"), lilting and jazzy.  We got in line and got our meal of fried chicken, coleslaw, baked beans, and dinner roll.  We picked up a bottle of water or soda and a root-beer float, where I saw some other friends.

At our table, David Noor met the three of us for the first time, and sat down to eat with us, with our permission.  So we enjoyed chatting with him about various things. A friend of his joined us for a bit, too.

Waiting around

After the meal

Then it was time for the USO-style show to begin.  There were announcements of thanks, prizes for the best reenactors and the family who traveled the farthest (from New Zealand!), more singing, including a children's choir, and a recitation of Winston Churchill's famous "Never Surrender" speech (given on June 4, 1940; House of Commons).

Lacie Bowman singing

Steven Bowman reciting Winston Churchill's speech

 After being immersed in the music, words, and look of the era, I was feeling as if I had stepped back in time; I felt the emotion, the honor and courage of these men and women.

Many of the places in town also appeared to be back in time.

Annie and me posing for a shot

The night ended in fireworks, which we watched after walking halfway back to our van.

Grand finale

Freehand Figure Drawing for Illustrators: Mastering the Art of Drawing from Memory - Book Review

Admittedly, I have not read this whole book, but I have flipped through it and have begun reading it.  From what I have seen and read, I believe this will be quite a helpful book to me as an aspiring illustrator (I have partially illustrated a book before, my mom's Hebrew alphabet book entitled Hebrew: Beginning Your Journey). However, to be a first-rate illustrator, I greatly desire to be able to come up with poses and drawings without having to meticulously copy a photograph.

That's where this book comes in.  It's true that the majority of the poses in the book are dramatic, such as the cover shows, but the proportions, angles, and shapes should help.

The book begins with two and three-point perspective, something which I have never understood well or mastered.  I still need to practice it and reread this section.

Then it moves on to the "glass mannequin," which is, as on the cover, a basically see-through shell of the body.  This is helpful because it allows you to think better about where, say, the arm will come out if partially hidden behind the body.

Then there are the high and low-angle drawings, which are more commonly used in movies or comic books, but could perhaps be useful in a regular book.  I practiced one of them, here, after reading how to draw in the four sections, etc.

It is certainly not perfect, but better than I could have done without this quick book training, and I'm sure would get better with practice and after reading the rest of the book.

There are a few pictures in the book which are quite sensual in nature, showing more than necessary, so I covered them over.

Overall, I'm glad I got this book, though at first I worried that it would be only applicable to those going into animation art or comic books.

A big thank you to bloggingforbooks.com for a review copy of this book!  I was not required to give a positive review.

Prayers for New Brides - Book Review

Prayers for New Brides: Putting on God's Armor After the Wedding Dress by Jennifer O. White

My rating: 4 of 5 stars


Though I am not a bride--new or old--I wanted to read this book and have it in my collection.  As I was hoping, it has many helpful thoughts for me at this stage of life, when I am preparing for the possibility of someday getting married.

The books is separated into two large parts, five smaller parts, and 40 short chapters.  I was glad for the small chapters and sections within chapters, making it easy to digest. Each chapter ends with a "prayer prompt" and "a wife's call to action." The whole book is chock full of Scripture, but especially the prayers. They are not always word-for-word quotes from Scripture, but the ideas are probably at least loosely found in the passages referenced. I was disappointed by one or two that I looked up and didn't find very helpful or fitting. I think most of them fit, however.

I liked the practical assignments ("a wife's call to action"), which included interviewing others who have years of experience in marriage, listing reasons why your husband is fun to love, memorizing Scripture, etc.  Some of these will be more helpful to a married woman, but a few of them are possible to employ before marriage.

Here are a few quotes I like from the book:

"Your heart and mind toward your spouse and your marriage will be as healthy as the information you put into your mind and speak from your mouth."

"Your fight for your marriage is not something you can put on hold while you pursue some other honorable mission.  Sitting down on this job is not an option."

"Remember, God is not sitting on the throne evaluating your ability to stand in hopes that you make it this time.  He is actively involved in helping you stand.  He has an unlimited supply of time, wisdom, strength, and love for you.  He empowers you to stand."

"You cannot walk away from the job of holding up the mirror to your husband.  Your thoughts about him, good or bad, are obvious to him and others.  And they are contagious.  Think about it.  What you've communicated to your parents and friends about him is the foundation where their thoughts of him originate.  Are you painting a picture that looks like God's image of this man?"

"There is no problem in you, your spouse, or your marriage that God cannot resolve.  Nothing that comes against your marriage is stronger than God."

"She explained that talking negatively about your husband was a slap in the face to yourself because the two of you are one."

"Jesus pursues a present-tense love relationship with His Church. You said "I do" to the very same lifestyle of enduring, pursuing love and oneness."

I'm not sure if I quite agree with the interpretation of 1 Peter 3:1, something I've thought about quite a bit.  If a husband is unsaved, is this passage saying that the wife should be totally silent?  The verse says "they may be won without a word by the conduct of their wives," but it doesn't say she can't say anything about the Lord to their husbands. I'm sure that's not what the verse means, as we are supposed to be evangelists.  However, the book may be saying that in general Christian women are to be meek and not badgering their husband all the time regarding the faith, mostly just living it out, which is what I believe the verse means. It's hard to tell, but it seemed to be taken almost literally, since the book states "no more preaching."

There are a couple of other doctrinal fallacies, or so it seems, implying that God will always work marriages out if we follow Him, etc., but it was subtle, and I think with all the battle involved in marriage, the positives of God's victory and strength are needed encouragement. There may have been some Arminian doctrine, as well, but I tend to filter that out unless it's constant.

There are a couple of chapters that offer more to read online, extra stories of encouragement, that I want to look up.

There is a chapter focusing on physical intimacy, which is written tastefully.

The book ends with a brief addressing of abuse in marriage.  I think she handles it well, speaking of separation if needed, yet believing that God can work things out.

My top takeaways from this book:

Marriage is hard, self-sacrificing work, more-so than I imagined (it goes far beyond the basics of cleaning and cooking), yet God is there to uphold and empower when we seek Him and obey Him.

We as women need to be confident in God's love, not seeking man's love to hold us up--God's love is perfect.

Spilling troubles and complaints about husbands with others is most often disastrous.  We should lovingly work out differences one on one with our spouses.

~I received this book from CrossFocusedReviews.com for my review; I was not required to give a positive review.

Hiding in the Light - Book Review

Hiding in the Light: Why I Risked Everything to Leave Islam and Follow Jesus by Rifqa Bary

My rating: 4 of 5 stars

This is an amazing true story of a Muslim Sri Lankan girl who moves to America, meets Christians, and becomes a Christian herself. She hides it for many years, fearing the consequences, though feeling guilty for lying.  Eventually her parents find out and things go from bad to worse, in many ways.  She has to run for her life, unwilling to deny the faith when her father gives her an ultimatum.  Through jail-time, courtroom battles, sickness, and more, Rifqa Bary keeps trusting the Lord, feeling His presence even amid fears.  Read it and be inspired and humbled, as I was.  Though Rifqa didn't do everything right, she is a testimony to God's grace and power.  Most of us don't experience half of the burdens she faced, yet how weak and small is our testimony and love for the Lord! 
4.5 stars.
I received this book from Blogging for Books for this review (thank you!) and was not required to post a positive review.

More Info About the Book and Author