It is time to play a Wild Card! And this time I'm doubling the score; you can preview not one, but two books by this amazing author. Every now and then, a book that I have chosen to read is going to pop up as a FIRST Wild Card Tour. Get dealt into the game! (Just click the button!) Wild Card Tours feature an author and his/her book's FIRST chapter!
You never know when I might play a wild card on you!
Robin Jones Gunn is the bestselling author of sixty books, representing 3.5 million copies sold. A dozen of her novels have appeared on the top of the CBA bestseller list, including her wildly successful Sisterchicks series. Thousands of teens from around the world have written letters to Robin sharing how God used the Christy Miller and Sierra Jensen series to bring them to Christ as well as lead them to make life changing decisions regarding purity. Robin and her husband of thirty years live near Portland, OR, where they are members of Imago Dei Community along with other Christian authors.
Visit the author's website.
Product Details for Finding Father Christmas:
List Price: $13.99
Hardcover: 176 pages
Publisher: FaithWords (October 11, 2007)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 0446526290
ISBN-13: 978-0446526296
Product Details for Engaging Father Christmas:
List Price: $
Hardcover: 176 pages
Publisher: FaithWords (October 30, 2008)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 0446179469
ISBN-13: 978-0446179461
AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:
A string of merry silver bells jumped and jingled as the north wind shook the evergreen wreath on the heavy wooden door. Overhead a painted shingle swung from two metal arms, declaring this place of business to be the Tea Cosy.
As I peered inside through the thick-paned window, I could see a cheerful amber fire in the hearth. Tables were set for two with china cups neatly positioned on crimson tablecloths. Swags of green foliage trimmed the mantel. Dotted across the room, on the tables and on shelves, were a dozen red votive candles. Each tiny light flickered, sending out promises of warmth and cheer, inviting me to step inside.
Another more determined gust made a swoop down the lane, this time taking my breath with it into the darkness of the December night.
This trip was a mistake. A huge mistake. What was I thinking?
I knew the answer as it rode off on the mocking wind. The answer was, I wasn’t thinking. I was feeling.
Pure emotion last Friday nudged me to book the round-trip ticket to London. Blind passion convinced me that the answer to my twenty-year question would be revealed once I reached the Carlton Photography Studio on Bexley Lane.
Sadly, I was wrong. I had come all this way only to hit a dead end.
I took another look inside the teahouse and told myself to keep walking, back to the train station, back to the hotel in London where I had left my luggage. This exercise in futility was over. I might as well change my ticket and fly back to San Francisco in the morning.
My chilled and weary feet refused to obey. They wanted to go inside and be warmed by the fire. I couldn’t deny that my poor legs did deserve a little kindness after all I had put them through when I folded them into the last seat in coach class. The middle seat, by the lavatories, in the row that didn’t recline. A cup of tea at a moment like this might be the only blissful memory I would take with me from this fiasco.
Reaching for the oddly shaped metal latch on the door, I stepped inside and set the silver bells jingling again.
“Come in, come in, and know me better, friend!” The unexpected greeting came from a kilt-wearing man with a valiant face. His profoundly wide sideburns had the look of white lamb’s wool and softened the resoluteness in his jaw. “Have you brought the snowflakes with you, then?”
“The snowflakes?” I repeated.
“Aye! The snowflakes. It’s cold enough for snow, wouldn’t you say?”
I nodded my reluctant agreement, feeling my nose and cheeks going rosy in the small room’s warmth. I assumed the gentleman who opened the door was the proprietor. Looking around, I asked, “Is it okay if I take the table by the fire? All I’d like is a cup of tea.”
“I don’t see why not. Katharine!” He waited for a response and then tried again. “Katharine!”
No answer came.
“She must have gone upstairs. She’ll be back around.” His grin was engaging, his eyes clear. “I would put the kettle on for you myself, if it weren’t for the case of my being on my way out at the moment.”
“That’s okay. I don’t mind waiting.”
“Of course you don’t mind waiting. A young woman such as yourself has the time to wait, do you not? Whereas, for a person such as myself . . .” He leaned closer and with a wink confided in me, “I’m Christmas Present, you see. I can’t wait.”
What sort of “present” he supposed himself to be and to whom, I wasn’t sure.
With a nod, the man drew back the heavy door and strode into the frosty air.
From a set of narrow stairs a striking woman descended. She looked as surprised at my appearance as I was at hers. She wore a stunning red, floor-length evening dress. Around her neck hung a sparkling silver necklace, and dangling from under her dark hair were matching silver earrings. She stood tall with careful posture and tilted her head, waiting for me to speak.
“I wasn’t sure if you were still open.”
“Yes, on an ordinary day we would be open for another little while, until five thirty. . . .” Her voice drifted off.
“Five thirty,” I repeated, checking my watch. The time read 11:58. The exact time I’d adjusted it to when I had deplaned at Heathrow Airport late that morning. I tapped on the face of my watch as if that would make it run again. “I can see you have plans for the evening and that you’re ready to close. I’ll just—”
“Che-che-che.” The sound that came from her was the sort used to call a squirrel to come find the peanuts left for it on a park bench. It wasn’t a real word from a real language, but I understood the meaning. I was being invited to stay and not to run off.
“Take any seat you want. Would you like a scone with your tea or perhaps some rum cake?”
“Just the tea, thank you.”
I moved toward the fire and realized that a scone sounded pretty good. I hadn’t eaten anything since the undercooked breakfast omelet served on the plane.
“Actually, I would like to have a scone, too. If it’s not too much trouble.”
“No trouble at all.”
Her smile was tender, motherly. I guessed her to be in her midfifties or maybe older. She turned without any corners or edges to her motions. I soon heard the clinking of dishes as she prepared the necessary items in the kitchen.
Making my way to a steady looking table by the fire, I tried to tuck my large shoulder bag under the spindle leg of the chair. The stones along the front of the hearth were permanently blackened from what I imagined to be centuries of soot. The charm of the room increased as I sat down and felt the coziness of the close quarters. This was a place of serenity. A place where trust between friends had been established and kept for many years.
A sense of safety and comfort called to the deepest part of my spirit and begged me to set free a fountain of tears. But I capped them off. It was that same wellspring of emotion that had instigated this journey.
Settling back, I blinked and let the steady heat from the fire warm me. Katharine returned carrying a tray. The steaming pot of tea took center stage, wearing a chintzquilted dressing gown, gathered at the top.
Even the china teapots are treated to coziness here.
“I’ve warmed two scones for you, and this, of course, is your clotted cream. I’ve given you raspberry jam, but if you would prefer strawberry, I do have some.”
“No, this is fine. Perfect. Thank you.”
Katharine lifted the festooned teapot and poured the steaming liquid into my waiting china cup. I felt for a moment as if I had stumbled into an odd sort of parallel world to Narnia.
As a young child I had read C. S. Lewis’s Narnia tales a number of times. In the many hours alone, I had played out the fairy tales in my imagination, pretending I was Lucy, stepping through the wardrobe into an imaginary world.
Here, in the real country of Narnia’s author, I considered how similar my surroundings were to Lewis’s descriptions of that imaginary world. A warming fire welcomed me in from the cold. But instead of a fawn inviting me to tea, it had been a kilted clansman. Instead of Mrs. Beaver pouring a cup of cheer for me by the fire, it was a tall, unhurried woman in a red evening gown.
An unwelcome thought came and settled on me as clearly as if I had heard a whisper. Miranda, how much longer will you believe it is “always winter and never Christmas”?
This article is used with the permission of Hachette Book Group and Robin Jones Gunn. All rights reserved.
Around me swarms of Londoners rushed by, intent on their destinations and sure of their plans. My destination was the small town of Carlton Heath, and my plans revolved around a certain Scotsman who was now officially late.
I tried to call Ian again. His voice mail picked up for the third time. “It’s me again,” I said to the phone. “I’m here at Paddington station and —”
Before I finished the message, my phone beeped, and the screen showed me it was Ian.
“Hi! I was just leaving you another message.” I brushed back my shoulder-length brown hair and stood a little straighter, just as I would have if Ian were standing in front of me.
“You made it to the station, then?”
“Yes. Although I was about to put on a pair of red rain boots and a tag on my coat that read, ‘Please look after this bear.’ ” I was pretty sure Ian would catch my reference to the original Paddington Bear in the floppy hat since that was what he had given to my niece, Julia, for Christmas last year.
“Don’t go hangin’ any tags on your coat,” Ian said with an unmistakable grin in his voice. “I’m nearly there. The shops were crammed this morning, and traffic is awful. I should have taken the tube, but I’m in a taxi now. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes tops. Maybe less if I get out and run the last few blocks.”
“Don’t run. I’ll wait. It’s only been, what? Seven weeks and three days since we were last together? What’s another fifteen minutes?”
“I’ll tell you what another fifteen minutes is. It’s just about the longest fifteen minutes of my life.”
“Mine too.” I felt my face warming.
“You’re at track five, then, as we planned?”
“Yes. Track five.”
“Good. No troubles coming in from the airport?”
“No. Everything went fine at Heathrow. The fog delayed my flight when we left San Francisco, but the pilot somehow managed to make up time in the air. We landed on schedule.”
“Let’s hope my cabbie can find the same tailwind your pilot did and deliver me to the station on schedule.”
I looked up at the large electronic schedule board overhead, just to make sure my watch was in sync with local time. “We have about twenty minutes before the 1:37 train leaves for Carlton Heath. I think we can still make it.”
“I have no doubt. Looks like we have a break in the traffic jam at the moment. Don’t go anywhere, Miranda. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
“I’ll be here.”
I closed my phone and smiled. Whenever Ian said my name, with a rolling of the r, he promptly melted my heart. Every single time. His native Scottish accent had become distilled during the past decade as a result of his two years of grad school in Canada and working in an architect office with coworkers from around the world. But Ian knew how to put on the “heather in the highlands” lilt whenever he wanted. And I loved it, just as I loved everything about this indomitable man.
I looked around the landing between the train tracks for an open seat on one of the benches. Since none were available, I moved closer to the nearest bench just in case someone decided to leave.
Balancing my large, wheeled suitcase against a pole so it wouldn’t tip over, I carefully leaned my second bag next to the beast. This was my third trip to England since my visit last Christmas and the first time I had come with two suitcases. This time I needed an extra bag for all the gifts I had with me, wrapped and ready to go under the Christmas tree at the Whitcombe manor.
Last Christmas and for many Christmases before that, the only gift I bought and gave was the one expected for the exchange at the accounting office where I worked in downtown San Francisco. Up until last Christmas I had no family to speak of — no parents, no siblings, no roommate. I didn’t even have a cat. My life had fallen into a steady, predictable rhythm of work and weekends alone, which is probably why I found the courage to make that first trip to Carlton Heath last December. In those brief, snow-kissed, extraordinary few days, I was gifted with blood relatives, new friends, and sweetest of all, Ian.
Christmas shopping this year had been a new experience. While my coworkers complained about the crowds and hassle, I quietly reveled in the thought that I actually had someone — many someones — in my life to go gift hunting for.
I had a feeling some last-minute shopping was the reason Ian was late. He told me yesterday he had a final gift to pick up this morning on his way to the station. He hadn’t explained what the gift was or whom it was for. His silence on the matter led me to wonder as I wandered along a familiar path in my imagination. That path led straight to my heart, and along that path I saw nothing but hope for our future together — hope and maybe a little something shiny that came in a small box and fit on a certain rather available finger on my left hand.
Before my mind could sufficiently detour to the happy land of “What’s next?”, I heard someone call my name. It was a familiar male voice, but not Ian’s.
I looked into the passing stream of travelers, and there he stood, only a few feet away. Josh. The last person I ever expected to see again. Especially in England.
“Miranda, I thought that was you! Hey, how are you?” With a large travel bag strapped over his shoulder, Josh gave me an awkward, clunking and bumping sort of hug. His glasses smashed against the side of my head. He quickly introduced me as his “old girlfriend” to the three guys with him.
“What are you doing here?” He unstrapped the bag and dropped it at his feet.
One of the guys tagged his shoulder and said, “We’ll be at the sandwich stand over there.”
“Okay. I’ll be there in a few minutes.” Josh turned back to me. “You look great. What’s been happening with you?”
“I’m good,” I said. “What about you? What are you doing here?” I was still too flustered at the unexpected encounter to jump right into a catch-up sort of conversation after the almost three-year gap.
“Just returned from a ski trip to Austria with a group from work. Incredible trip. I’m in a counseling practice now. Child psychologist. I don’t know if you knew that.”
“No. That’s great, Josh. I know that’s what you wanted to do.”
“Yes, it’s going well so far.” He seemed at ease. None of the stiltedness that had been there right after I broke up with him came across in his voice or demeanor.
“And what about you? What are you doing in England?”
Before I could put together an answer, Josh snapped his fingers. “Wait! Are you here because you’re looking for your birth father?”
“You remembered.” Once again he surprised me.
“Of course I remembered. You had that picture of some guy dressed as Father Christmas, and it had the name of the photography studio on the back. That was your only clue.”
I nodded.
“So? What happened?”
“I followed the clue last Christmas, and it led me here, to my birth father, just like you thought it would.”
“No way! Did it really?”
I nodded, knowing Josh would appreciate this next part of the story. “The man in the photo dressed like Father Christmas was my father. And the boy on his lap is my brother, or I guess I should say my half brother, Edward.”
“Incredible,” Josh said with a satisfied, Sherlock Holmes expression on his unshaven face. “What happened when you met him?”
I hesitated. Having not repeated this story to anyone since it all unfolded a year ago, I didn’t realize how much the answer to Josh’s question would catch in my spirit and feel sharply painful when it was spoken aloud.
“I didn’t meet him. He passed away a few years ago.”
“Oh.” Josh’s expression softened.
“You know, Josh, I always wanted to thank you for the way you urged me to follow that one small clue. I’ve wished more than once that I would have come to England when you first suggested it four years ago. He was still alive then. That’s what I should have done.”
“And I should have gone with you,” he said in a low voice.
“Why do you say that?”
Josh’s eyebrows furrowed, his counselor mode kicking in. “I felt you needed that piece in your life. By that I mean the paternal piece of your life puzzle. I didn’t like you being so alone in the world. I wish you could have met him.”
“I do, too, but I actually think things turned out better this way. It’s less complicated that I didn’t meet him while he was still alive.”
“Why do you say that?” Josh asked.
I hesitated before giving Josh the next piece of information. In an odd way, it felt as if he needed the final piece of the puzzle the same way I had.
“It’s less complicated this way because my father was . . .” I lowered my voice and looked at him so he could read the truth in my clear blue eyes. “My father was Sir James Whitcombe.”
This article is used with the permission of Hachette Book Group and Robin Jones Gunn. All rights reserved.
These books just arrived (Saturday, the 11th), so I have (obviously) not had time to read them for the tour (which was scheduled for the 8th). I'll add them to my stack of "must read's" and come back and post my review at a later date. They look like great books!
We actually accomplished ALL of what was on our list the for the past 2 days.
WOW. Rejoice with me!!
Let me clarify. FOR SCHOOL. The rest of this place?? I must confess, I didn't even get dressed yesterday. I am just SO tired at the end of the week.
WHY didn't someone tell me that after you have a baby late in life.....YOU are still the one that has to complete raising, training, educating and CHAUFFERING this child all over the planet (at least, the driving part fits if you live in an area like I do and want him to have any activities at all).
GOOD GRIEF.....I need some mega vitamins or something.
He completed the first unit of Science, with a quiz and a test. Did another quiz over in Grammar, did Bible (which btw, is a VERY comprehensive subject at this level....sheesh), history and geography, did some catch up work in his Lit class, did one of the drawings that were homework for art class (yeah, that hurt him to do THAT assignment) and even did a little reading/research with some books he ordered at the library about Egyptology (he wants to learn to write in hyrogliphics or however you spell that and even wants to learn to speak Egyptian....can you say "rosetta stone"?? Sorry, no math.....I chickened out. More on that at a later date....I have some plans rolling around in this tiny brain of mine!
All in all a great day.....done before 2:00.....getting up early is the ticket for us! With a few jogs around the cul de sac with his dog thrown in.
Hubby came home in a funk though......not sure what that's all about. Must investigate today.
Weather is SOOOO beautiful here....maybe I'll pull him away from this house project (the possible cause of his funk, I'm thinkin') and run away to the dunes or the lake or even an apple orchard today.....
I love taking pictures. i still remember my first "real" camera - I got it as a Christmas gift - it was a fairly expensive 35mm and I was instantly hooked. Looking back, though, I wish I had taken some classes, maybe at the local community college. That camera still sits in its case, in my bedroom; and, I must admit, I never learned to use all it's bells and whistles features.
It became easier and quicker, as a young mother, to get a simple automatic camera and not have to mess with an settings, etc. Let me tell you, I've been through my fair share of those types of cameras. Believe it or not, I was even resistent to move into the world of digital photography. Now, though, I'm so glad that my dad introduced me to the digital camera. It's opened up a whole new world - and is especially fun for bloggers!
Enter the photography blog. I've been thinking lately how much fun it would be for Ashley and I to take some online photography courses. She, too, loves taking pictures - she's always experimenting with black & white, etc. and, like a typical teenager, she loves taking pictures of herself! But, I'd love for us to learn how to take better quality pictures, to know how to shoot things like fireworks, etc. If you know of a good online photography course, please let me know. in the meantime, I'll enjoy reading the photography tips blog.
Should Christian's leave their children in public school to be a light to non-believers?
This is a tough question and one you may have to face while home schooling. We (HomeschoolInformation.com) asked some home educators to respond.
Their answers follow:
I do not think a young child should be sent to public school as a witness. I do think that public school has an anti-Christian agenda that can damage a young child's faith. I have known a number of children that believe evolution over creation because "the teacher said it is true." In our home we discuss quite a bit about evolution and by the time we are done, I expect my children will understand evolution and why it is wrong as well as good, scientific reasons to believe creation That is just one example.
I think that being a witness is something that needs to be modeled for children. Ministry is something for a family to share and for the children to participate with the parents. When people tell me that young children should be in public school so they can be a 'witness' and a 'light', I ask them where they want their children to attend Sunday School.
Everyone wants their children at their own, local church.
I ask why don't you send them to the Mormon church instead of your Baptist church?
Or the Hindu church school instead of the Presbyterian?
It is easy to see that a young child would have no voice to be a 'light' in those circumstances. But it can be hard to get parents to understand that it is just as difficult to be a 'light' against some of the public school teachings.
There may be room for a child to 'be a witness' during out of class time (recess, lunch, etc.) but there is just as great a chance, if not greater, that the child will be influenced negatively by the other children. Let's be real, children are more often pulled down to the lowest common denominator behavior wise than influenced for good.
I have one. He isn't my first to struggle with reading. Each of my children has come to a point where they knew the letter sounds, but could not blend them together. Repeated practice didn't seem to help. It was only frustrating to them, and me. We'd feel as if we were banging our head against a brick wall, so we'd set aside the curriculum and relax for awhile. I'd just resume reading to them, and we'd try again later to work on their word blending skills.
With each child, it eventually "clicked". And when it did "click", they quickly excelled in reading. 9 yo C took a full year longer than her older sisters to reach that point. I had to try new approaches, and continue to remind myself that she would eventually learn to read. Now she can be found reading daily, and often begs me to take her back to the library for a new book.
7 yo J has also taken longer than the first two children. He has reached a point of being able to read the simple Bob books, but still lacks the confidence to apply those skills to more challenging words and books. He is easily discouraged, and I need to be more diligent in listening to him practice reading.
When I saw Tia's request on the Front Porch for several volunteers to review a children's book, I didn't know what the topic of the book was going to be. I thought it would be fun to review a new children's book, so I volunteered. It was truly a blessing to receive the text, and realize it was a book about struggling readers. I read it to myself, and then to 7 yo J.
And Then Mama Said ... It Takes Time To Learn To Read.
Author: Gena Suarez
Illustrated by: Kevin Collier
As a homeschool mother with a struggling reader, I am thankful for this book: And Then Mama Said ... It Takes Time To Learn To Read. Gena's story of Splish is encouraging both to the emerging reader, and the parents.
Splish's mom encourages him that it takes time to learn to read, and everyone learns at their own pace. This lesson is repeated throughout the book, and Splish's feelings about his inability to read will resonate with any child facing a similar struggle. The book will validate their feelings, and show them they aren't alone in their struggle. Splish's eventual success will give hope to beginning readers.
The story also includes gentle lessons for the parents about how to teach reading to a child who is struggling. These subtle reminders for the parents will help ease fears that their child will never learn to read, or that they are unable to teach their own child to read. The book will encourage the parents to persevere, be patient, and not compare their child with others.
And Then Mama Said ... It Takes Time To Learn To Read will be a blessing to every homeschool family, and to every beginning reader. It will especially encourage the child who has struggled longer than others, and is discouraged. Splish's story encouraged both myself, and my struggling reader. It will be on my list to purchase for future students.
Thank you, Gena, for addressing a common area of concern to homeschool families, and for doing it so well.
Look for Splish's story (in e-book and print format) in stores soon.
Ya know sometimes when you pray and pray.....and you get the answer, but it's not all wrapped up pretty in the package you expect?
I think that's been happening here for a few weeks and I've not been a good gift reciever....in fact, I've been 're-gifting' and I really need to step back and examine things.
One phrase comes to mind: Be careful what you pray for......GOD DOES ANSWER PRAYER....just in HIS timing and in HIS way.
All that to say that school yesterday was a little......stressful.
Recently, and in direct answer to a prayer that I've prayed for several years now.....my husband has shown an interest in being involved in 'school' for small son.
I think my fog comes from the fact that since small son was 4 years old.....this has been ONLY my domain. I've not always done it well....but I've DONE it.
Many things have come to us lately that I have prayed long and hard for. A good church with great young people small son can associate with and come away with some form of spirituality, not just more skills for the gameboy. Consistency with hubbys job and salary. A better lifestyle afforded by that consistent income.
But I also prayed for YEARS for more involvement from hubby regarding school. I'm getting old....or just feel old sometimes and this small son can be just as stubborn as large son was AND just as .......conniving and vocal as his older sister was. What a combo!
Some days it just seemed too much for me to bear alone....but I had to.
Math is not my strong suit. Neither is consistency if I'm honest with myself.
Enter expanded notation and expotential numbers......I'm thinkin' "who in THE WORLD needs this besides the true geeks and techies, anyway" (NO disrespect here.....large son IS one, but with small son's learning challenges....I just felt it was a waste of time).
Enter hubby who has been taking baby steps into getting more involved.
Boy, did I blow it.
It should be interesting to see what transpires today.
Other than that little Math Meltdown, we had a pretty productive day.
Finished a History quiz that needed lots of review.
Did Bible, Science and Grammar. All BEFORE art class at 11:30 and in between a neighbors questions about how to treat a bee sting.
Today, he needs to work on his Lit class make up stuff, read a little more in his Physical Science book and complete his art homework (the only type of homework he REALLY enjoys) and needs to finish up the science unit, and work in EACH subject today......
Gotta run, time to get small son up so he does not turn into that foolish, slothful son in Proverbs.....comments on that over at my other blog.
I am a big supporter of adoption - I have 2 brothers adopted from Korea and 2 children adopted from Vietnam. I LOVE adoption! Our family has been richly blessed by adoption. So, when I saw this on my friend Michele's blog, I had to check it out.
This is a magnet (heavy-duty for outdoor use) that was designed by an adoptive mom who is waiting for a precious little baby from Russia. You can see him here. Please pray for this family as they wait to bring this little guy home. Also, if you are so inclined, you can order a magnet for yourself - they're only $6 (which includes shipping). I can't wait to put mine on my van and proclaim this message to the world!
National Adoption Day is coming up (November 15th) - these magnets would make great gifts for anyone who know whose life has been touched by the miracle of adoption. Buy in bulk!
1. One of the best concerts/plays/movies I ever saw that I really didn't think I'd like was The Jonas Brothers. (actually, I knew I'd like them - I just thought I might be the only old person there! LOL) 2. Deli Pizza from Wal-mart is a recipe I recently made (or meal I recently ordered) that was delicious!
3. It's time for grocery shopping.
4. Sunshine is quite refreshing.
5. If I never hear the word "random" again, it'll be too soon. (hey, I've got a teenager and it's her current favorite word) 6. To one side of the curving road was a tree in all its autumn splendor, and on the other was a and old one-room schoolhouse.
7. And as for the weekend, tonight I'm looking forward to relaxing with my family after an afternoon of grocery shopping, tomorrow my plans include (not exactly sure yet - I need to make some plans!) and Sunday, I want to go to church for Rally Day and enjoy a carry-in-meal afterwards!
