Wednesday, September 29, 2010

GA Church Banning of Richard Wright effects on Christian Fiction

The purpose of Christian Fiction is to share Good storytellers with you. Sometimes these stories aren’t wrapped in pretty packages. Oftentimes these books aren’t discussed in Christian fiction circles, but they should. So in honor of Banned Books Week I want to share a Good book that some of our churches have removed[or removed] from some Georgia schools.(I live in Georgia.) Moreover, I want to share with you why fiction matters and this book shouldn’t be banned.

Banned Book: Native Son

Synopsis from Time Magazine:

In Chicago of the 1930's, where Bigger Thomas has found work as a chauffeur, he murders a young white woman, the only child of the wealthy family who has just hired him. Though the killing is accidental, it becomes a kind of retroactive act of will. It leads Thomas to an inquiry into his own injuries and humiliations at the hands of a sometimes literally bloodthirsty white society.

Who banned this book: Appling County School(Baxley, GA)  2008

Reason: Language

Response Appling High School English Department Head, Mary Ann Ellis, speaks out against the books' removal.:

Our students are the ones who’ve truly been betrayed by the very board responsible for giving them the best education available. Somewhere down the road when the ministers bring three more books and three more and Shakespeare, what will happen then?  Our students will leave this county unprepared for Mercer, UGA, Harvard, GSU.  Not because of the ministers, mind you. No, they can thank their very own Appling County Board of Education.

 Read her Op-Ed in the Baxley News-Banner.

My response: I read Native son in high school. My high school isn’t far from Baxley, Georgia, so I understand the region, especially Christianity influences there. However, what I don’t understand is how  that church couldn’t find black spiritualism and Christian existentialism as theme threads in. Perhaps because the ministers never read the book [according to the complaint.]

Thus, this realization causes another challenge.

I’ve talked with many ministers through the years about the relevance of Christian fiction and the banning of Christian fiction from their churches. And like Appling High School’s banning decision they, too, have never read the novels.

These decisions to ban books—for whatever reason—cripples our society. More so for Christian fiction authors, whose books are banned in their own churches…

Your thoughts. Does your church support Christian fiction? Or any fiction for that matter?

Tuesday, September 28, 2010

CNN’s Wants America’s Black Church Choirs Singing “The Blood”

 

In Black in America’s third year, CNN will focus on the church. Spiritual and gospel music has always been at the heart of the black church.  To honor this rich tradition, CNN is inviting choirs around the world of all denominations to sing as one.

How to participate:
Gather your choir and sing a very special hymn, “The Blood Will Never Lose Its Power” by Andrae Crouch -- commonly referred to as “The Blood.” Then upload your video below. CNN will blend all the videos together to create a unique global version.

Tips and guidelines:

     -  Please sing in the key of F.

     -  We encourage you to sing a cappella, but minimal instrumentation like percussion is welcome.

     -  Audio is key, we encourage you to use microphones in order to capture the best possible audio.

     - You’re welcome to sing in your place of worship, but we encourage you to sing someplace that best represents your hometown. Someplace significant to your community.

     - Don’t have a choir? That’s fine – sing by yourself, or with members of your congregation.

Upload your videos below before Sunday, October 10, 2010. Please be sure to include the name of your church and choir and please keep video files under 600MB.  After you’ve uploaded your videos, CNN will put them together to make a global choir of voices.

Click here for more information.

Monday, September 27, 2010

Christian Fiction Preview: Medical Error


Christian Fiction Monday Mention spotlight is Dr. Richard Mabry’s

Medical Error (Prescription for Trouble Series)

Abingdon Press (July 12, 2010)


ABOUT THE BOOK in DR. MABRY’s WORDS:


Medical Error tells the story of Dr. Anna McIntyre, whose life was going along just fine until someone else began living it. In a single day, she finds herself suspected of a felony, suspended from her position at the medical school, and likely to be the target of a malpractice suit. Could it get worse? She finds that it can, and it does.


AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:


Eric Hatley’s last day alive began routinely enough.

He paused beside his brown delivery truck, shifted the bulky package, and turned in a tight circle to search for the right apartment.

Shouts filled the air. Firecrackers exploded all around him. A dozen red-hot pokers bored holes through his gut.

The package flew from his arms. He crumpled into a privet hedge at the edge of the sidewalk, clutching his midsection and recoiling when his fingers encountered something wet and slimy.

A wave of nausea swept over him. Cold sweat engulfed him.

Eric managed one strangled cry before everything faded to black.

* * *

Dr. Anna McIntyre bumped the swinging door with her hip and backed into Parkland Hospital’s Operating Room Six, her dripping hands held in front of her, palms inward. “Luc, tell me what you’ve got.”

Chief surgical resident, Dr. Luc Nguyn, didn’t look up from the rectangle of abdomen outlined by green draping sheets and illuminated by strong surgical lights. “UPS driver, making a delivery in the Projects. Got caught in the crossfire of a gang rumble. Took four bullets in the belly. Pretty shocky by the time he got here.”

“Find the bleeding source?”

“Most of it was from the gastric artery. Just finished tying it off.”

Anna took a sterile towel from the scrub nurse and began the ritual of gowning and gloving made automatic by countless repetitions. “How about fluids and blood replacement?”

Luc held out his hand, and the nurse slapped a clamp into it. “Lactated Ringer’s, of course—still running wide open. We’ve already pushed one unit of unmatched O negative. He’s finishing his first unit of cross-matched blood. We’ve got another one ready and four more holding in the blood bank.”

“How’s he responding?”

“BP is still low but stable, pulse is slower. I think we’re catching up with the blood loss.”

Anna plunged her hands into thin surgical gloves. “Lab work?”

“Hematocrit was a little over ten on admission, but I don’t think he’d had time to fully hemodilute. My guess is he was nine or less.”

Anna turned slightly to allow the circulating nurse to tie her surgical gown. “Bowel perforations?”

“So far I see four holes in the small intestine, two in the colon.”

“Okay, he’ll need antibiotic coverage. Got that started?”

Luc shrugged. “Not yet. We don’t know about drug allergies. His wallet had ID, but we’re still working on contacting next of kin. Meanwhile, I have Medical Records checking his name in the hospital computer for previous visits.”

“And if he’s allergic—“

The nursing supervisor pushed through the swinging doors, already reading from the slip of paper in her hand. “They found one prior visit for an Eric Hatley, same address and date of birth as on this man’s driver’s license. Seen in the ER two weeks ago for a venereal disease. No history of drug allergy. They gave him IM Omnilex. No problems.”

The medical student who’d been assisting moved two steps to his left. Anna took his place across the operating table from Luc.

Luc glanced toward the anesthesiologist. “Two grams of Omnilex IV please.”

Anna followed Luc’s gaze to the head of the operating table. “I don’t believe I know you. I’m Dr. McIntyre.”

The doctor kept his eyes on the syringe he was filling. “Yes, ma’am. I’m Jeff Murray, first year anesthesia resident.”

A first year resident on his own? Where was the staff man? “Keep a close eye on the blood and fluids. Let us know if there’s a problem.” Anna picked up a surgical sponge and blotted a bit of blood from the edge of the operative area. “Okay, Luc. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

In the operating room, Anna was in her element. The green tile walls, the bright lights, the soft beep of the monitors and whoosh of the respirator, the squeak of rubber soles as the circulating nurse moved about the room—all these were as natural to her as water to a fish or air to a bird. Under Anna’s direction, the team worked smoothly together. Conversation was at a minimum, something she appreciated. Do the job in the OR, talk in the surgeons’ lounge.

“I think that’s got it,” Luc said.

“Let’s check.” Anna’s fingertips explored the depths of the patient’s belly with the delicate touch of a concert violinist. Her eyes roamed the operative field, missing nothing. Luc had done an excellent job. He’d do well in practice when he finished his training in three months.

Anna stepped away from the table. “I think you’re through. Routine closure, leave a couple of drains in. Keep him on antibiotic coverage for the next few days.”

Luc didn’t need to hear that, but she figured the medical student did. She might as well earn her Assistant Professor’s salary with a little low-key teaching.

She stripped off her gloves and tossed them in the waste bucket at the end of the operating table. “If you need me—“

“Luc, we’ve got a problem. Blood pressure’s dropping, pulse is rapid.” A hint of panic rose in the anesthesiologist’s voice.

The scrub nurse held out fresh gloves, and Anna plunged her hands into them. “He must be bleeding again. Maybe one of the ligatures slipped off.”

“No way,” Luc said. "Everything was double-tied, with a stick-tie on the major vessels. You saw yourself, the wound was dry when we finished.”

“Well, we’ve got to go back in and look.” Anna turned to the anesthesiologist. “Run the IV wide open. Hang another unit of blood and send for at least two more. Keep him oxygenated. And get your staff man in here. Now!”

He snapped out a couple of requests to the circulating nurse before turning back to Anna. “He’s getting hard to ventilate. Do you think we might have overloaded him with fluid and blood? Could he be in pulmonary edema?”

“I want your staff doctor in here now! Let him evaluate all that. We’ve got our hands full.” Anna snatched a scalpel from the instrument tray and sliced through the half-dozen sutures Luc had just placed. “Deavor retractor.” She shoved the curved arm of the instrument into the edge of the open wound and tapped the medical student’s hand. “Hold this.”

Anna grabbed a handful of gauze sponges, expecting a gusher of blood from the abdomen. There was none. No bleeding at all within the wound. So why was the blood pressure dropping?

“Pressure’s down to almost nothing.” The anesthesia resident’s voice was strained. “And I’m really having trouble ventilating him.”

Dr. Buddy Jenkins, one of the senior anesthesiologists, pushed through the swinging doors. “What’s going on?”

Anna gave him the short version. “Blood pressure’s dropping, pulse is climbing. We’ve gone back into the belly, but there’s no bleeding. And there’s a problem ventilating him.”

Jenkins moved his resident aside, then slipped a stethoscope under the drapes and listened for a moment. “Wheezes. And no wonder. Look at his face.”

Anna peeked over the screen that separated the patient’s head and upper body from the operative field. Her heart seemed to skip a beat when she saw the swelling of the lips and the red blotches on the man’s face.

“It’s not blood loss,” Jenkins said. “He’s having an anaphylactic reaction. Most likely the blood. Did you give him an antibiotic? Any other meds?”

Anna’s mind was already churning, flipping through mental index cards. Anaphylaxis—a massive allergic reaction, when airways closed off and the heart struggled to pump blood. Death could come quickly. Treatment had to be immediate and aggressive.

“He had two grams of Omnilex,” Luc said. “But his old chart showed—“

Jenkins was in action before Luc stopped speaking. “I’ll give him a cc. of diluted epinephrine by IV push now, then more in a drip.” He turned to the anesthesia resident. “Get that ready— one milligram of epinephrine in a hundred milliliters of saline.”

“Luc, you two close the abdominal wound,” Anna said. “I’m going to break scrub and help Dr. Jenkins.”

Jenkins handed her a syringe. “Give him this Decadron, IV push. I need to adjust the ventilator.”

Anna injected the contents into the patient’s intravenous line. She said a quick prayer that the epinephrine and steroid would turn the tide, that they hadn’t been too late in starting treatment.

The team battled for almost half an hour, at first gaining ground, then losing it steadily. Finally, Jenkins caught Anna’s eye. They exchanged glances. There was no need for words.

She sighed and stepped away from the table. “I’m calling it.” Her voice cracked. “Time of death is eleven oh seven.”

Luc let the instrument he’d been holding drop back onto the tray. Jenkins picked up the anesthesia record and began to scribble. Murray, the anesthesia resident, turned back to his supply table and started straightening the mess. The medical student looked at Anna. She nodded toward the door, and he slipped out of the room. She didn’t blame him. This was probably the first patient he’d seen die.

Anna tossed her gloves and mask into the waste container. She shrugged, but the tension in her shoulders didn’t go away. “Any idea why this happened? The blood was supposed to be compatible. He’d tolerated Omnilex before. What else could have caused it?”

No one offered an answer. And she certainly had none. But she intended to find out.

The OR charge nurse directed Anna to the family room, where she found Hatley’s mother huddled in a corner, twisting a handkerchief and occasionally dabbing at her eyes. The room was small and quiet, the lighting was soft, the chairs as comfortable as possible. A box of tissues sat on the table, along with a Bible and several inspirational magazines. Soft music playing in the background almost covered the hospital sounds drifting in from the nearby surgical suite.

Anna whispered a silent prayer. She’d done this dozens of times, but it never got any easier. She knelt in front of the woman. “Mrs. Hatley, I have bad news for you.”

Anna stumbled through the next several minutes, trying to explain, doing her best to make sense of a situation that she herself couldn’t fully understand. When it came to the matter of permission for an autopsy, Anna wasn’t sure of the medico-legal situation here. Hatley had died after being shot, but his injuries weren’t the cause of death. Would she have to call the County Medical Examiner and get him to order one? The weeping mother solved the problem by agreeing to allow a post-mortem exam.

There was a light tap at the door, and the chaplain slipped into the room. “I’m sorry. I was delayed.” He took the chair next to Mrs. Hatley and began speaking to her in a low voice.

Anna was happy to slip out of the room with a last “I’m so sorry.” Outside, she paused and took several deep breaths.

It took another half-hour for Anna to write a chart note, dictate an operative report and final case summary, and change into clean scrubs. She was leaving the dressing room when her pager sounded. The display showed her office number followed by the suffix “911.” A “stat” page—respond immediately.

As she punched in the number, Anna wondered what else could possibly go wrong today. “Lisa, what’s up?”

“Dr. McIntyre, there are two policemen here. They want to talk with you. And they say it’s urgent.”

* * *

Nick Valentine looked up from the computer and grimaced when he heard the morgue attendant’s rubber clogs clomping down the hall. The summons he knew was coming wasn’t totally unexpected. After all, he was the pathologist on autopsy call this week, which was why he was sitting in this room adjacent to the morgue of Parkland Hospital instead of in his academic office at the medical school. But he’d hoped for some undisturbed time to get this project done.

The attendant stuck his head through the open door. “Dr. Valentine, you’ve got an autopsy coming up. Unexpected death in the OR. Dr. McIntyre’s case. She asked if you could do it as soon as possible. And please page her before you start. She’d like to come down for the post.” The man’s head disappeared like that of a frightened turtle. More clomps down the hall signaled his departure.

There was nothing new about an attending wanting a post-mortem done ASAP. You’d think they’d realize there was no hurry any more, but that didn’t seem to stop them from asking. At least she was willing to come down and watch instead of just reading his report. Nick turned to the shelf behind his desk and pulled out a dog-eared list headed “Frequently Needed Pager Numbers.” He ran his finger down the page. Here it was: Department of General Surgery. Anna E. McIntyre, Assistant Professor. He picked up the phone and punched in her number. After he heard the answering beeps, he entered his extension and hung up.

While he waited, Nick looked first at the pile of papers that covered half his desk, then at the words on his computer screen. He’d put this off far too long. Now he had to get it done. To his way of thinking, putting together this CV, the curriculum vitae that was so important in academics, was wasted effort. Nick had no interest in a promotion, didn’t think he’d get one even if his chairman requested it from the dean. But his chairman wanted the CV. And what the chairman wanted, the chairman got.

The phone rang. Probably Dr. McIntyre calling back.

“Dr. Valentine.”

“Nick, this is Dr. Wetherington. Do you have that CV finished yet?”

“I’m working on it.”

“Well, I need it soon. I want you to get that promotion to Associate Professor, and I have to be able to show the committee why I’ve nominated you. Don’t let me down.”

Nick hung up and riffled through the pile on his desk. Reprints of papers published, programs showing lectures delivered at medical meetings, textbooks with chapters he’d written, certificates from awards received. His professional résumé was pitifully small, but to Nick it represented the least important part of his job. What mattered most to him was what he was about to do: try to find out why the best efforts of a top-notch medical staff failed to save the life of some poor soul. If he did his job well, then maybe those doctors would be able to snatch some other patient from the jaws of the grim reaper.

His phone rang. “Dr. Valentine, are you about ready?” the morgue attendant said.

Nick looked at his watch. Almost half an hour, and Dr. McIntyre hadn’t responded to the page. He hated to start without her, but he might have to. “Give me another ten minutes.”

While he waited, Nick figured he might as well try to make Dr. Wetherington happy. Now when did he deliver that paper before the American Society of Clinical Pathology? And who cared, anyway?

* * *

Her administrative assistant met Anna at the doorway to the outer office. “Dr. McIntyre, I didn’t know what to do.”

“That’s all right, Lisa. I’ll talk with them.” Anna straightened her white coat and walked into her private office, where two people stood conversing in low tones. Lisa had said, “Two policemen,” but Anna was surprised to see that one of them was a woman.

The man stepped forward to meet Anna. “Doctor McIntyre?”

Anna nodded.

He pulled a leather folder from his pocket and held it open for her inspection. Anna could see the gold and blue badge pinned to the lower part of the wallet, but couldn’t read the words on it. The card in the top portion told her, though. It carried a picture beside the words, US Drug Enforcement Administration.

Lisa had been wrong. These people were from the DEA, not the police. Still, an unannounced visit from that agency made most doctors sweat. You never knew when some innocent slip might get you into trouble.

The man flipped the credential wallet closed. “This won’t take long.”

“Good. I’ve just finished an emergency case, and I still have a lot to do.” Anna moved behind her desk and sat.

“Your chairman said you’d give us as much time as we need.”

Anna glanced pointedly at her watch. “Well, have a seat and let’s get to it. What do you need from me?”

The man lowered himself into the chair, his expression slightly disapproving. His partner followed suit. “We have some things we need for you to clear up.”

“Could I see those credentials again?” Anna said. “Both of you.”

They obliged, laying the open wallets on the desk. Anna pulled a slip of notepaper toward her and began copying the information, occasionally glancing up from her writing to match the names and faces on the ID’s with the people sitting across from her. The spokesman was Special Agent John Hale, a chunky, middle-aged man wearing an off-the rack suit that did nothing to disguise his ample middle. Anna thought he looked more like a seedy private eye than an officer of the law.

The woman, the silent half of the pair so far, was Special Agent Carolyn Kramer, a woman who reminded Anna of a California surfer bunny, complete with perfect tan and faultlessly styled short blonde hair. The resemblance stopped there, though. Kramer’s eyes gleamed with a combination of intelligence and determination that told Anna she’d better not underestimate the woman. Kramer wore a stylish pants suit that had probably cost more than Anna made in a week, How could a DEA agent have money for an outfit like that?

Anna handed the badge wallets back to Hale and Kramer. “All right, how can I help you?”

Hale pulled a small notebook from his inside coat pocket and flipped through the pages. “Doctor, recently you’ve been writing a large number of Vicodin prescriptions, all of them for an excessive amount of the drug. Can you explain that?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Anna said. “I’m pretty sure I haven’t written any more Vicodin ‘scripts than usual, and I certainly haven’t changed my prescribing practices.”

Hale nodded, stone-faced. “What are those practices?”

“I prescribe Vicodin for post-operative pain in many of my patients, but always in carefully controlled amounts, usually thirty pills at a time. By the time they’ve exhausted that first prescription I can generally put them on a non-narcotic pain reliever. It’s rare that I refill a Vicodin ‘script.”

Apparently it was Kramer’s turn in the tag-team match. She picked up a thick leather folder from the floor beside her chair, unzipped it, and extracted a sheaf of papers held together by a wide rubber band. “Would you care to comment on these?” Her soft alto was a marked contrast to Hale’s gruff baritone,

Anna’s eyes went to the clock on her desk. “Will this take much longer? I really have things I need to do.”

Kramer seemed not to hear. She held out the bundle of papers.

“Okay, let me have a look.” Anna recognized the top one in the stack as a prescription written on a form from the faculty clinic. She pulled it free and studied it. The patient’s name didn’t stir any memory, but that wasn’t unusual. She might see twenty or thirty people in a day. The prescription read:

VICODIN TABS

Disp. [#100]

Sig: 1 tab q 4 h PRN pain

At the bottom of the page, three refills were authorized. The DEA number had been written into the appropriate blank on the lower right-hand corner.

Anna squinted, closed her eyes, then looked again. There was no doubt about it. The DEA number was hers. And the name scrawled across the bottom read: Anna McIntyre, MD.

“Can you explain this?” Kramer asked.

A familiar vibration against her hip stopped Anna before she could reply. She pulled her pager free and looked at the display. The call was from the medical center, but she didn’t recognize the number. Not the operating room. Not the clinic. She relaxed a bit when she saw there was no “911” entry after the number. If this was about the autopsy, she’d have to miss it.

Hale picked up the questioning as though there had been no interruption. “What can you tell us about all these prescriptions for Vicodin?”

“I suppose the most important thing I can tell you is that I didn’t write them.” She riffled through the stack, paying attention only to the signature at the bottom of each sheet. “None of these are mine.”

“That’s your number and name. Right?” Kramer said.

“Right. But that’s not my signature. It’s not even close.”

“Can you explain how someone else could be writing prescriptions on your pads using your DEA number?” Hale asked.

“I have no idea.” Anna made no attempt to keep the bitterness out of her words. “Sorry, I’ve just lost a patient, and I’m not in the best of moods. Can’t we wind this up? I didn’t write those ‘scripts, and I don’t know who did.”

Obviously, Hale didn’t want to let the matter go. “You’re sure there’s nothing you want to tell us?”

“What would I have to tell you? I said I don’t know anything about this.”

Kramer spoke, apparently filling the role of good cop. “Take a guess. Help us out here.”

Anna felt her jaw muscles clench. These people were relentless. She had to give them something, or this would never end. “I really don’t know. I mean, we’ve got an established routine, and all the doctors here are pretty careful.”

Kramer pulled a silver ballpoint from the leather folder and began twirling it between her fingers. “Why don’t you walk us through that routine?”

Anna wanted to follow up on Hatley’s autopsy, talk with her department chair about today’s events, eventually sit down and try to relax. She was drained. The agents, on the other hand, seemed to have unlimited time and energy.

“Doctor?” Kramer’s voice held no hint of irritation. Patient, understanding, all the time in the world. Just two women chatting.

“Sorry.” Anna tried to organize her thoughts. “The prescription pads in the faculty clinic are kept in a drawer in each treatment room. That way they’re out of sight, although I guess if someone knew where they were he could latch onto one when no one was in the room.” She looked at the agents. Kramer simply nodded. Hale scowled. “Hey, we know it’s not perfect, but that’s the way we have to do it. Otherwise, we’d waste all our time hunting for a pad.”

“And do you ever forget and leave the pads sitting out when you’ve finished writing a prescription?” Kramer asked.

“Sure. Especially when we’re in a hurry.” Anna’s cheeks burned.

Hale turned a page in his notebook and frowned. “How about your DEA number?”

“You’ll notice those aren’t printed on the forms. Each of us has to fill in our number.”

“Maybe someone else had access to your number. Do nurses ever write the prescriptions for you?” This came from Kramer. Anna felt as though she was watching a tennis match, going back and forth between the two agents.

“When we have a nurse in the room with us, yes, she’ll write the prescription. I don’t know what the other doctors do, but I sign the prescriptions after she writes them. And I add the DEA number to the narcotic ‘scripts myself.”

The questioning went on for another half hour. Anna’s throat was dry, her eyes burned, she felt rivulets of sweat coursing between her shoulder blades. Finally, she’d had enough. “Look, am I being charged with something? Because if I am, I’m not saying another word without a lawyer.”

Hale replaced his notebook in his pocket. Kramer picked up her folder and purse. They let the silence hang for a moment more before exchanging glances, then standing.

“Right now, we’re simply investigating, Doctor,” Hale said. “You may be hearing from the Texas Department of Public Safety and the Dallas Police as well. Also, since your DEA number and identity have been compromised, I’d advise you not to prescribe any controlled substances for now. You’ll receive formal notification in writing tomorrow about applying for a new permit.”

The agents walked out, leaving Anna with her hands pressed to her throbbing temples.

* * *

Nick stepped back from the autopsy table, pressed the pedal under his right foot, and spoke into the microphone hanging near his head. “No other abnormalities noted. The balance of findings will be dictated after review of the histopathology specimens and the results of the toxicology tests. Usual signature. Thanks.” He turned away from the body and gestured to the morgue assistant to close the incisions. “I’ll be in the office if you need me. Thanks for your help.”

Nick removed his goggles and stripped off his mask, gown, and gloves. He was standing at the sink outside the autopsy room, drying his hands, when he heard footsteps hurrying down the corridor toward him. He turned to see a woman approaching. The attractive redhead wore surgical scrubs, covered by a white coat. As she neared him, he could make out the embroidered name above the breast pocket: Anna McIntyre, MD. She stopped in front of him, and the set of her jaw and the flash of her green eyes told Nick she was in no mood for light banter.

“Dr. McIntyre?”

She nodded.

“Nick Valentine. I paged you, but when you didn’t answer I had to go ahead and get started. Sorry.”

She waved away his apology. “No, it’s my fault. I couldn’t break free to answer your page. What can you tell me?”

“Why don’t I buy you a cup of coffee and I’ll tell you what I’ve found so far? If we go to the food court, we can get away from the smell down here. I hardly notice it anymore, but I’ve learned that my visitors aren’t too fond of the odor of chemicals.”

She hesitated for a few seconds. “Okay. Lead the way.”

It seemed to Nick there was a Starbucks on every corner of every major city in the US. Most important to him, however, was the one here in the basement of the Clinical Sciences Building at Southwestern Medical Center. As he waited to order, he sniffed the rich aromas that filled the air. The smell of coffee never failed to lift his spirits. Maybe it would do the same for the woman who stood stoop-shouldered beside him. For most doctors, caffeine was the engine that helped propel them through long days and longer nights. Maybe all she needed was a booster shot.

When they were seated at a corner table with their venti lattes Nick filled her in on his findings at the autopsy he’d just completed. “That’s about it,” he concluded. “I’ll sign the death certificate with the preliminary cause of death as anaphylaxis due to an unknown cause.”

“But you won’t have a final diagnosis until—“

“Right. I’ll review the tissue samples and the results of the toxicology screen, but I doubt that we’ll find anything there. I’m going to have some tests run on the blood samples I took, and maybe that will help us. I’ll need to research whether there’s a good blood test for a drug reaction or latex allergy. The long and short of it is that we may never know the real reason he developed anaphylaxis and died.”

“I hadn’t even thought of latex allergy,” she said. “But that’s pretty rare, isn’t it?”

“Less than one percent of the population. Seen in people chronically exposed to latex: surgeons and nurses, industrial workers, patients with lifelong indwelling catheters.” He felt himself slipping into his lecture mode and made an effort to pull back. “I mean, we could talk about all these uncommon things, but I’ll bet you learned the same thing in medical school that I did. When you hear hoof beats—“

“Think horses, not zebras.” She managed a tiny smile. “Yes, I know. So we should concentrate on the blood or the antibiotic. If it was the blood, there’s a problem in the blood bank because he got one unit of unmatched O negative, which should have been okay, and one unit that was supposedly compatible by cross-match.”

“The residuals in both bags of blood are being re-typed and cross-matched against your patient’s blood as we speak. We’ll know the answer by the time we finish our coffee.” He drank deeply from his cup. “Don’t you think an antibiotic reaction is the most likely cause?”

She took a sip of coffee. “Probably, although I hope not. Choosing an antibiotic wasn’t a routine matter, because we didn’t know if Hatley had any drug allergies. The resident—one of our sharpest ones, by the way—thought he’d see if we could get the information another way. He had medical records check for a previous visit for the patient. They found a recent emergency room visit by the patient where he tolerated Omnilex. Since that antibiotic’s the best choice to cover spillage from a perforated bowel, I agreed with Luc when he ordered it.”

“But—“

“I know. If you give that drug to a patient who’s allergic to it or to penicillin, their reaction is likely to be severe—like this one. But I thought, since we had that history of tolerance, it was okay.” She blinked hard. “I should have known better. Should have made him use a different drug.”

Nick sensed he was treading on thin ice here. Maybe he should change the subject. Besides, he wanted to know more about this woman. “You know, I’ve seen you in the halls, but we’ve never actually met. Did you train here?”

She hesitated before reeling off what had apparently become a stock answer. “Raised in Oklahoma. Graduated from med school in North Carolina. Duke, actually. Lucky enough to get a surgery residency here at Parkland, and when I finished I was offered a faculty position in the Surgery Department. I’ve been here a little less than a year now.”

Nick held up a hand, palm out. “I know better. You don’t get a surgery residency here because you’re ‘lucky.’ You get one because you’re good. Let me guess. AOA at Duke?” If Anna was Alpha Omega Alpha, she must have been in the top ten percent of her class.

“Right. But I don’t guess it’s enough to be bright if you foul up and cost a patient his life.” She drank from her cup, and Nick noticed that she kept swallowing several more times after that.

Nick was barely aware of the activity around him, the ebb and flow of people, the sounds of pagers punctuating dozens of conversations. All he saw was Anna. She was one of the prettiest women he’d encountered in quite a while. But he was certain there was more to this trim, green-eyed redhead than striking good looks. Right now she was focused on medicine—it was obvious she cared a great deal about her patients, and this loss hit her hard—but Nick had a sense that in a different setting she’d be fun to know. And he intended to see if he couldn’t arrange that. Anna shifted in her chair. He couldn’t let her leave yet.

“Wait a minute,” he said. “Aren’t you curious about me at all? There may be a prize if you can answer all the questions later.”

Did he see the ghost of a grin? “Sure. Why not? What’s your story—the Reader’s Digest version?”

Nick moved his cup aside and leaned forward with his elbows on the table. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could draw out their time together, but he was determined to give it his best shot. “My roots are Italian. Named for my grandfather. He was Nicolo Valentino when he got off the boat, changed his name when he got his citizenship. I’m Nicolo the Third.” He ticked off the points on his fingers. “Worked my way through pre-med at Texas Tech. Got into the med school there by the skin of my teeth. Managed to get a residency in pathology here at Southwestern. When I finished, they had an opening in the department.” He held out his hand, palm up, fingers spread, thumb tucked under. “So here I am—four years in the department, still an Assistant Professor. Up for promotion now, and I suspect that if I don’t make it they’ll cut me like a dead branch from a tree.”

Nick’s last sentence rang a faint alarm bell in his head. He had to finish that project or the chairman would be royally ticked off, but it only took Nick a second to put that chore out of his mind. He was sitting with the most beautiful woman he’d ever met. He wanted to get to know her better, and he intended to keep her here as long as possible, even if it meant incurring Dr.. Wetherington’s wrath.

What is the Role of Christian Media Today?

me5 This past week in Atlanta has been a hot unholy mess for me. Salacious news surrounding a well-known pastor, reminded me of some events I had hoped had drowned in the Sea of My Forgetfulness. But as more fodder fed into our news stream, an old troubling question—one that made me want to stop reporting Christian news and instead represent Christians to the media—resurfaced. What is the role of Christian Media?
  • Is it to only report good news and avert bad news?
  • Is it not to present current news that affect Christians?
  • Is it the spin for Christians when secular media no longer drinks our Communion juice?

If the answer is “no” to any question, then why are we silent? Is that what God intended?

Continue reading "What is the Role of Christian Media Today?" »

Friday, September 24, 2010

How to Build A Novel over The Weekend with 5 Easy Steps

 

I’m a project manager and designer by pedigree.  As a book reviewer, I search for the foundation & rudimentary components of a book. As a storyteller, I build a story.

That makes sense to me. So when its time for me to write a story. I use these steps. I usually can build the book in a weekend. Want to try it? CLick here

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Tuesday, September 21, 2010

TPT: Efrem Smith’s Jump

This week's Trailer Park spotlight is Efrem Smith's Jump(David C. Cook, September 2010)

Jump is a powerful guide to becoming a vehicle of compassion, reconciliation, and transformation in our world.Life is all about jumps. We jump from high school to college, school to the professional world, dating to marriage. Each leap launches us to new levels.Even though we can't see what's on the other side of the wall, our faith jumps are about trusting that God is there. We experience the liberation when we jump into the arms of our Savior, then into a church family, and then into a world desperately in need.Efrem Smith presents fresh insights into how Christians can say yes to the jump that takes them deeper into a loving, devotional, intimate life with God.

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Monday, September 20, 2010

Monday Book Preview: Whisper on the Wind

It is time for a FIRST Wild Card Tour book review! If you wish to join the FIRST blog alliance, just click the button. We are a group of reviewers who tour Christian books. A Wild Card post includes a brief bio of the author and a full chapter from each book toured. The reason it is called a FIRST Wild Card Tour is that you never know if the book will be fiction, non~fiction, for young, or for old...or for somewhere in between! Enjoy your free peek into the book!
You never know when I might play a wild card on you!
Today's Wild Card author is:
and the book:
***Special thanks to Maggie Rowe of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc. for sending me a review copy.***
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Maureen Lang has always had a passion for writing. She wrote her first novel longhand around the age of 10, put the pages into a notebook she had covered with soft deerskin (nothing but the best!), then passed it around the neighborhood to rave reviews. It was so much fun she's been writing ever since. Eventually Maureen became the recipient of a Golden Heart Award from Romance Writers of America, followed by the publication of three secular romance novels. Life took some turns after that, and she gave up writing for 15 years, until the Lord claimed her to write for Him. Soon she won a Noble Theme Award from American Christian Fiction Writers and has since published several novels, including Pieces of Silver (a 2007 Christy Award finalist), Remember Me, The Oak Leaves, On Sparrow Hill, and My Sister Dilly. Maureen lives in the Midwest with her husband, her two sons, and their much-loved dog, Susie.
Visit the author's website.
Product Details:
List Price: $12.99
Paperback: 432 pages
Publisher: Tyndale House Publishers, Inc. (August 4, 2010)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 1414324367
ISBN-13: 978-1414324364
My Review: Lang does a superb job at grounding her readers. I'm in awe of how she infuses setting with character. I don't know how she does that, but I'm taking notes. :)
AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:

Part I
September 1916
Scope of War Broadens
Rumania joins Allied Powers with hopes of shortening the war
Germany has declared war in response, claiming Rumania disgracefully broke treaties with Austria-Hungary and Germany. The Allied Powers, at the forefront including France, Britain, and Russia, welcome additional men and arms. They remind the world which country was the first to break a treaty when Germany marched into Belgium in direct defiance of an agreement to respect Belgium’s neutrality should international strife begin.
Fifteen nations are now at war.
La Libre Belgique
Chapter One
“Oh, God,” Isa Lassone whispered, “You’ve seen me this far; don’t let me start doubting now.”
A few cool raindrops fell on her upturned face, blending with the warm tears on her cheeks. Where was her new guide? The one she’d left on the Holland side of the border had said she needed only to crawl through a culvert, then worm her way ten feet to the right, and there he would be.
Crickets chirped, and from behind her she heard water trickle from the foul-smelling culvert through which she’d just crept. Some of the smell clung to her shoes and the bottom of her peasant’s skirt, but it was Belgian dirt, so she wouldn’t complain. The prayer and the contents of her satchel reminded her why she was here, in this Belgian frontier the occupying German army strove to keep empty. For almost two years Isa had plotted, saved, worked, and defied everyone she knew—all to get to this very spot.
Then she heard it—the chirrup she’d been taught to listen for. Her guide had whistled it until Isa could pick out the cadence from any other.
She edged upward to see better, still hidden in the tall grass of the meadow. The scant mist cooled her cheeks, joining the oil and ash she’d been given to camouflage the whiteness of her skin. She must have grown used to its unpleasant odor, coupled with the scent she had picked up in the culvert, because now she could smell only grass. Twigs and dirt clung to her hands and clothes, but she didn’t care. She, Isabelle Lassone, who’d once bedecked the cover of the Ladies’ Home Journal with a group of other young American socialites, now crawled like a snake across a remote, soggy Belgian field. She must reach that sound.
Uneven ground and the things she’d hidden under her cloak and skirt slowed her crawl. Her wrist twisted inside a hole—no doubt the entrance to some creature’s home—and she nearly fell flat before scuttling onward again. Nothing would stop her now, not after all she’d been through to get this far, not after everything she’d given up.
Then her frantic belly dash ended. The tall grass hid everything but the path she left behind, and suddenly she hit something—or rather, someone.
“Say nothing.” She barely heard the words from the broad-shouldered figure. He was dressed as she was, in simple, dark clothing, to escape notice of the few guards left to enforce the job their wire fencing now did along the border. Isa could not see his face. His hair was covered by a cap, and his skin, like hers, had been smeared with ash.
Keeping low, the guide scurried ahead, and Isa had all she could do to follow. Sweat seeped from pores suffocated beneath her clothes. She ignored rocks that poked her hands and knees, spiky grass slapping her face, dirt kicked up into her eyes by the toe of her guide’s boot.
He stopped without warning and her face nearly hit his sole.
In the darkness she could not see far ahead, but she realized they’d come to a fence of barbed wire. A moment ago she had been sweating, but now she shivered. The electric fences she’d been warned about . . . where bodies were sometimes trapped, left for the vultures and as a grim warning to those like her.
Her guide raised a hand to silence whatever words she might have uttered. Then he reached for something—a canvas—hidden in the grass, pulling it away from what lay beneath. Isa could barely make out the round shape of a motor tire. He took a cloth from under his shirt and slipped it beneath the fence where the ground dipped. With deft quickness, he hoisted the wire up with the tire, only rubber touching the fencing. Then he motioned for her to go through.
Isa hesitated. Not long ago she would have thought anyone crazy for telling tales of the things she’d found herself doing lately, things she’d nearly convinced her brother, Charles, she was capable of handling despite his urgent warnings.
She took the precious satchel from her back and tossed it through the opening, then followed with ease, even padded as she was with more secret goods beneath her rough clothing. Her guide’s touch startled her. Looking back, she saw him hold the bottom of her soiled cotton skirt so it would touch nothing but rubber. Then he passed through too. He strapped the tire and its canvas to his back while she slipped her satchel in place.
Clouds that had barely sprinkled earlier suddenly released a steady rainfall. Isa’s heart soared heavenward even as countless droplets fell to earth. She’d made it! Surely it would’ve been impossible to pass those electrified wires in this sort of rain, but God had held it off. It was just one more blessing, one more confirmation that she’d done the right thing, no matter what Charles and everyone else thought.
Soon her guide stopped again and pulled the tire from his back, stuffing it deep within the cover of a bush. Then he continued, still pulling himself along like a frog with two broken legs. Isa followed even as the journey went on farther and took longer than she’d expected.
She hadn’t realized she would have to crawl through half of Belgium to get to the nearest village. Tension and fatigue soon stiffened her limbs, adding weight to the packets she carried.
She heard no sound other than her own uneven breathing. She should welcome the silence—surely it was better than the sound of marching, booted feet or a motorcar rumbling over the terrain. Despite the triumph she’d felt just moments ago, her fear returned. They hid with good reason. Somewhere out there German soldiers carried guns they wouldn’t hesitate to use against two people caught on the border, where citizens were verboten.
“Let me have your satchel,” her guide whispered over his shoulder.
Isa pulled it from her back, keeping her eye on it all the while. He flipped it open. She knew what he would find: a single change of clothes, a purse with exactly fifty francs inside, a small loaf of bread—dark bread, the kind she was told they made on this side of the blockades—plus her small New Testament and a diary. And her flute. Most especially, her flute.
“What is this book?” His voice was hushed, raspy.
“A Bible.”
“No, the other one. What is it?”
“It’s mine.”
“What is it doing in this satchel?”
“I—I wanted to bring it.”
“What have you written in here?”
Instantly flushed with embarrassment, she was glad that he couldn’t see her face any better than she could see his under the cover of darkness. No one would ever read the words written in that diary, not even the person to whom she’d written each and every one. Well, perhaps one day he might, if they grew old together. If he let her grow old at his side.
“It’s personal.”
He thrust it toward her. “Get rid of it.”
“I will not!”
“Then I will.” He bolted from belly to knees, hurling the little book far beyond reach. It was gone in the night, splashing into a body of water that no doubt fed into the culvert she knew too well.
Isa rose to her knees, the object of her gaze vanished in the blackness. The pages that securely held each intimate thought, each dream, each hope for her future—gone. Every page a visit with the man she loved, now forever lost.
“How dare you! You had no right.”
The guide ignored her as he resumed the scuttle forward.
Fury pushed Isa now. That diary had meant more to her than this dark figure could know. When at last he stopped and stood beneath the low branches of a forest to scrape the wild heath off his clothes, Isa circled to confront him.
At that moment the clouds parted enough to allow a bit of moonlight to illuminate them. And there he was, in glorious detail—older, somehow, and thinner, but the black brows, the perfectly straight nose, the square jaw, and the eyes that with a single look could toss aside every sensible thought she might have. The very man about whom—and to whom—that diary had been written.
Her heart skipped wildly, rage abandoned. “Edward!”
All he offered was confused scrutiny, a glance taking her in from head to foot. She took off her hat and her blonde hair tumbled to her shoulders. In the dim light he might not be able to see the blue of her eyes, but surely he saw her familiar smile, the shape of her face, and the welcome that sprang from the deepest part of her.
The look on his face changed from confusion to recognition. Then astonishment.
“Isa?”
She threw herself toward him, and he received her as she dreamed he might one day, with his strong arms enveloping her, his face smiling a welcome. His eyes, if only she could see them better in the darkness, must be warm and happy. She longed for him to kiss her and raised her face, but there the dream ended. He pushed her away to arm’s length.
If there had been any warmth in his eyes a moment ago, it was gone now, replaced by something not nearly as pleasant.
“What are you doing here? I thought it was a fool’s mission to bring somebody in. A girl, no less. And it’s you, of all people!”
She offered a smile. “Well, hello to you too, Edward. After more than two years I’d expected you to be happy to see me. A guide was supposed to take me to you; no one told me it would be you.”
“We’ll retrace right now, young lady.” He took one of her hands and moved away so easily that he must have believed she would follow.
“I’m not going anywhere, except home. If you knew what I’ve been through to get here, you wouldn’t even suggest such an absurd notion.”
“Absurd? Let me give you the definition of the word, Isa. Absurd is smuggling someone into a country occupied by the German army, into a starving prison camp. Do you know how many people have been killed here? Is the rest of the world so fooled by the Germans that you don’t even know?”
“Edward, I’m sure no one on the outside knows everything that’s going on, except maybe Charles. He was in France, caught behind the lines. And now he’s working with the British, not far from where you were born. In Folkestone.”
“Your brother? Working? Now there’s a new concept. He should have talked you out of coming here.”
Isa wouldn’t admit just how hard Charles had tried. “I found my guide through him. Mr. Gourard—”
“Gourard! He was here—he was with us the day my father was shot.”
“Oh, Edward.” She leaned into him. “He told me your father was killed.” Tears filled her eyes, an apparently endless supply since she’d been told the news. “I’m so sorry.”
He pushed her away, but not before she saw his brows dip as if to hide the pain in his eyes. “Look, we can’t stand here and argue. The rain was working with us to keep the sentries away, but if we have to go through that fence when it’s this wet, we’d better go now before it gets worse. We’ve got to keep moving.”
“I’m not going back.” If he knew her at all, he would recognize the tone that always came with getting her way.
He stood still a long moment, looking one direction, then the other, finally stooping to pick up her satchel—now lighter with the absence of one small diary—and heading back to the grassland.
She grabbed his arm. “No, Edward! I won’t go. I—I’ll do anything to stay. I’ve been through too much to give up now.”
He turned on her then, with a look on his face she’d never seen before—and his was a face she’d studied, memorized, dreamed of, since she was seven and he twelve. That the war had aged him was obvious, and yet he was still Edward.
He dropped the satchel to clutch both of her arms. “Do you think I’ll let you walk into a death camp? That’s what Belgium is, even your precious Brussels. Go back home, Isa. Your parents got you out. Before all this. Why would you be foolish enough to come back?”
“I came because of you—you and your family. And because this is my home.”
His grip loosened, then tightened again. He brought his face close, and Isa’s pulse pounded at her temples. But there was no romance in his eyes. They were so crazed she couldn’t look away if she wanted to.
“Isa,” he said, low, “I’m asking you to go back.”
Her heart sped. “Only if you come out with me,” she whispered. Then, because that seemed to reveal too much and yet not enough, she added, “After we get your mother and Jonah.”
He dropped his hands and turned away, facing the grassland instead of the trees.
She could tell him what she had hidden inside her flute; surely that would change his mind about the wisdom of her actions. But something held her back. If she gave it to him now, he might simply accept the flute but return her to the border anyway. No, she wouldn’t reveal her secret. Not yet.
Isa picked up her satchel and started walking—deeper into Belgium, away from the grassland, into the wood that no doubt served a nearby village. Beneath her skirt and blouse, the other goods she carried tightened her clothes so she could barely breathe, but she didn’t stop. She didn’t even look back.
Before long she heard Edward’s footfall behind her. At first they did not speak, and Isa didn’t care. Her journey had ended the moment she saw his face. This was where she’d longed to be. She’d prayed her way across the Atlantic, escaped the wrath of her brother and all those he worked with. Days of persuasion led to downright begging, until she’d tried going around them and contacted Brand Whitlock, the American ambassador to Belgium, to arrange her passage home to Brussels.
But her begging had accomplished nothing.
Yet her journey had not ended there, thanks to the whispered advice of a clerk who worked in Folkestone with her brother. When Charles went off on an errand, another man approached her and spoke the name of a guide who started Isa on the final leg of her journey to Edward’s side.
“We’re coming to the village road,” Edward said flatly. “I was told your papers would give your name as Anna Feldson from Brussels, which match mine as John Feldson. We are cousins, and I am bringing you home from visiting our sick grandmother in Turnhout. There is a German sentry on the other side of this village, and we’ll no doubt be stopped. There won’t be anyone on the street at this hour, which is a good thing because even the locals won’t trust us. Nobody likes strangers anymore, especially this close to the border. So if we do see anybody, keep to yourself and don’t say a word.”
She nodded. A few minutes later the trees parted and she saw shadows of buildings ahead. The rain had let up to a drizzle again, and the moon peeked out to give them a bit of light. She wasn’t soaked through but knew a wind would send a chill, especially now that the anxiety of crawling through the underbrush was behind them.
Edward stopped. “I’m only going to ask once more, Isa, and then I’ll not ask again.” Now he turned to look directly into her eyes. “We have enough darkness left to make it safely. Let me take you back to the border.”
“I can’t,” she whispered. When the crease between his eyes deepened, she said, “This is where I belong, Edward. It must be where God wants me, or I never would have succeeded.”
“God.” He nearly snorted the word before he turned from her and started walking again toward the village.
“Yes!” She hurried to catch up. “If I told you all the ways He’s protected me so I could get this far, you wouldn’t doubt me.”
Edward turned on her. “I refuse to hear it, Isa. God’s not in Belgium anymore; you’ll find that out for yourself soon enough.”
His words stung. God had used Edward to show her His love to begin with, and she knew He wasn’t about to let Edward go. Had Edward let go of God, then? When? And why, when he must need God more than ever if things here were harder than she had imagined?
They walked through the quiet village without incident, the soft leather soles of their wet shoes soundless on the cobbles. The village was so like many others of Belgium: a few small homes made of familiar brick, a stone church with its tall bell tower, and a windmill to grind grain into flour. So different from the frame homes or sprawling businesses Isa had left behind in New York, but so dear that she wanted to smile as deeply as Edward frowned.
At the other end of the narrow village street, there was indeed a German officer stationed on the road. Isa’s heart thudded so loudly in her ears she wondered if she would be able to hear over it, or if the soldier would hear it too.
But he said nothing, not a word, at least not to her. He looked at them, looked at their papers, then asked Edward in rather bad French why they were traveling so early in the morning, having come so far from Turnhout already.
Edward replied that the steam tram was unreliable but that they hoped to reach the next village in time to catch it anyway.
The soldier waved them through.
“That was easier than I expected,” Isa whispered once they were well away.
“Don’t underestimate other soldiers based on that one. A suspicious one with a rifle can do as he pleases.”
But Isa was too relieved to be gloomy. “Amazing how I can still understand you through your clenched jaw, Edward.”
Edward didn’t look at her. “We have to be in Geel in less than an hour if we expect to make the tram.”
They made their way in silence, under sporadic drizzle and meagerly emerging sunlight. When at last they came to the next town, it was quiet until they reached the tram station, where soldiers outnumbered civilians. So many soldiers did what the rain couldn’t: dampened Isa’s spirits.
She had a fair understanding of German, but she could barely keep up. Not that she needed to; the soldiers ignored her, speaking of mundane things to one another, hardly worthy of interest. She prayed it would stay that way, that she and Edward would be invisible to each and every armed soldier.
A commotion erupted from the front of the platform. German commands, a snicker here and there. Silence from the civilians.
A man not much older than Edward was forced at gunpoint to open the packet he carried, to remove his coat and hat, even his shoes. A soldier patted him from shoulder to ankle.
Isa could barely watch and wanted more than anything to turn away. To run away. She told herself to look elsewhere, to allow the victim that much dignity, but was transfixed by the sight of such a personal invasion. Her throat tightened so that she couldn’t swallow, could barely breathe. She couldn’t possibly withstand such a search, and not just for modesty’s sake. “Edward . . .”
“Keep your eyes down and don’t say a word.”
“But—”
“Quiet.”
A tram entered the station and the man was allowed to board, everyone else soon following. Edward nudged Isa and they took seats.
The secret goods beneath Isa’s cloak and clothing clung to her skin, as if each sheet, each letter were as eager as she not to be noticed. She feared the slightest move would sound a rustle. Carefully, slowly, she stuffed her satchel beneath the seat, wanting to take comfort that it had escaped notice. If her flute was looked at with any scrutiny . . . She couldn’t bear to think of it.
The vehicle rumbled along far slower than the pace of Isa’s heartbeat. She wanted the luxury of looking out at the land she loved, the fields and the villages, the rooftops and steeples, the mills and the farms, but her stomach didn’t allow her eyes to enjoy any of it. At each stop a few soldiers departed, but new ones joined them. She tried not to study what went on, at least not conspicuously, but longed to learn how the soldiers chose which civilians to search. It appeared entirely random. More men were searched, but women weren’t spared. One holding a baby was made to unswathe her child, who screamed and squirmed when jostled from its secure hold.
Isa did as Edward told her, kept quiet, eyes cast downward or upon the passing landscape that under any other circumstances would have been like a gift from the finest art palette. One hour, then two. After the third she could stand it no longer. Surely they were near their destination? But she had no idea how far Louvain might be at the rate they were going with so many stops and searches. No doubt they could travel more safely by foot without losing much time.
Six times she nearly spoke, to urge Edward to take her out of this tram. Six times she held back. But one more search and she could resist her impulses no more.
“I—I must get off the tram, Edward. I’m sick.”
“Sick?”
“Yes, I must get away from—” She wanted to say away from the soldiers but dared not in case any of them spoke French and overheard. “I must get away from this awful tram. The stop and go is making me ill.”
“Another hour. Surely you can last?”
She shook her head even as from the edge of her vision she saw a soldier looking her way. How do you not look guilty when you’re completely, utterly, culpable?
Isa stood as the tram came to a slow stop at the next intersection. She kept her back to the soldiers, jumping to the ground just as soon as it was safe to do so. Then, without waiting for Edward, she walked forward as if she knew exactly where she was going.
She walked a block, well out of sight from the disappearing tram. There she stood . . . not amid one of the lovely villages, with their ancient way of life so quaintly preserved and appreciated. Instead, she found herself at the end of a row of destruction. Crumbling homes, demolished shops. Burned ruins of a town she once knew. Aerschot, where she’d dined and laughed and dreamed of walking the street with Edward’s hand in hers.
A moment later Edward’s shadow joined hers. “Are you positively mad?”
“We’re in Aerschot?” she asked, barely hearing his question.
“Obviously. And several hours’ walk from Brussels. Do you know how ridiculous that was? We don’t need any complications, Isa.”
She faced him. “Your contact didn’t tell you what I’d be carrying, did he?”
Suspicion took the place of the anger on his face. “What?”
“Well,” she began slowly, “I would try to show you, but among other things, I’m afraid I’d never get everything back in place.”
He let out what she could only call a disgusted sigh as he ran a hand through his dark hair—hair that seemed thinner and yet sprang instantly back into place, symmetrical waves that framed his forehead, covered his ears. He needed a haircut, but she found she liked the way he looked too much to think of changing anything, even the length of his hair.
“Isa, Isa,” he said, shaking his head all the while. “I should make you take out every scrap and burn it right here and now. Do you know what could have happened if you’d been searched on that tram?”
“Which is why we’re no longer on it.”
“You might have warned me!”
“I tried!”
He paced away, then turned to stand nearly nose-to-nose with her again. Not exactly the stance she’d dreamed of when she’d imagined him at such close proximity, but it sent her pulse racing anyway.
“You could have been shot. Do you know that? Shot.”
She nodded. “They warned me.”
His brows rose and his mouth dropped open. “Then why did you agree to the risk?”
“Gourard told me there are no newspapers, no information at all about what the rest of the world is doing to try to save Belgium and end this war. How have you lived so long without knowing what’s going on? I have the best portions of a couple of recent newspapers. And I have letters, too. Letters from soldiers. Don’t their families deserve to know they’re all right?”
“It doesn’t matter what I think. Gourard shouldn’t have taken your life so lightly or trusted such things to a young, naive child.”
“Child! I’m perfectly capable of deciding what risks I will or won’t take. I’m the one to decide what I will or won’t do for Belgium.”
“It was bad enough for you to come back, but to bring contraband—it’s beyond foolish.”
“Edward, don’t be angry with me. I’ll deliver the letters and then be done with it if you like, if it’s too dangerous for us. But I won’t abandon what I brought with me.”
“I don’t care about the risk for me. I’ve done so many things the Germans could shoot me for that one more thing doesn’t matter. It’s you. Maybe the Germans wouldn’t shoot you—being just a girl—but who knows?”
“I’m not—” . . . just a girl. But she didn’t bother with the words. She doubted they’d convince him.
She looked away, embarrassed. All she could think of when she agreed to smuggle the letters was how desperately she had wanted news of him and how other families cut off from their loved ones must be desperate too. She couldn’t have refused to take a chance with the letters and lived with herself. “I agreed to take the risk for the same reasons you’ve taken so many. Your mother and father didn’t teach values only to you and Jonah, you know.”
He emitted something between a moan and a laugh, then took her arm. “We’re going somewhere for you to take out the letters. And the newspaper clips.”
“But, Edward—”
He looked at her then, and she could see he was not to be argued with. “I’ll carry them in my cloak. It won’t be the first time.”
Monster Armored Cars Used by British in Charge on the Somme
Called “tanks” by those who’ve seen them, Allied soldiers themselves refer to these huge traveling fort machines as “Willies.” Driven like motorcars but able to scale barbed wire, leap trenches, knock down houses, and snap off tree limbs, they are a formidable weapon indeed and will no doubt play an important role in the defeat of the Germans.
La Libre Belgique
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Friday, September 17, 2010

Reviewed: Soon After

Book Specs: Soon After (Urban Christian) September 2010

Author: Sherryle Kiser Jackson

Summary:  Someone set fire to Harvest Baptist Church on Easter Sunday, according to Chief Herbert Rich, the fire chief and reporter Alexis Montgomery. The suspected arsonists are even more surprising: Pastor Abe Townsend, the new pastor and former Pastor Willie Green, who left the church  and took some of the congregation with him when he married and merged with Pastor Vanessa Green of  formerly Pleasant Baptist Church. The church has been renamed Pleasant Harvest Baptist Church, and there’s the rub. Did this name change and loss of flock set two churches against one another? Or is someone else, seeking to harm them both, the culprit?

Rating Breakdown: My rating is derived from 5 elements-in my opinion- make up a great story. Each element gets 1 point regulated to them. If the story satisfies all elements it will receive 5 choirs.

On to Soon After Review…

1. Character  .75

Alexis point of view began this story. However, it ended with Willie’s. So I wondered was the prologue necessary, since the story arc wasn’t revolved around her, but Willie.

Willie’s story arc is quite nice. He is a transitioning pastor into a new church, a new husband. There are many new things happening to him. How he navigates it all, while dealing with his past at Harvest Baptist makes him a believable and likeable character. I immediately like him, which is very good. Readers will continue reading a story and the series, if the main character has their heart. Kudos to Jackson for Pastor Willie Green.

Vanessa and Willie’s point of view showed why in Jackson’s first novel of the series(Soon and Very Soon) that they were meant to be together.

2. Plot .5

Alexis’ zeal to meet with Willie at the story opener challenges the plot of this story, and thus, the credibility it. A phone interview with him would have sufficed. I did like how Jackson tried to update new readers of this series with Alexis’ questioning. However, again, this added more plot challenges. Alexis request to embargo Green’s story. Unfortunately, in this current news climate of social media  citizen journalism  news stations rarely make embargo agreements on this type of story.

On another note, the first novel in the series wasn’t a mystery. It was a romance.  This is the first time I read a series, whereby the genre changed. Although I love to read both romance and romantic suspense, I  prefer the entire series to be one genre. (i didn’t deduct any points from plot because of this preference.)

The romcom subplot wasn’t necessary. It unbalanced the romance and suspense elements.

The red herrings were understandable, but the arsonist found at the end, weakened the plot. All the clues should come together here, but more importantly the story theme arc should meet here, but it does not. There is no clear resolution to the Willie’s conflict with his past here.

3. Setting/Theme Relevance .5

Very little setting to ground the reader.  Setting is important in a mystery novel.  I did enjoy learning about the Pleasant Harvest Baptist Church pastor’s study and its relevance and richness to Vanessa’s life. With a story centered around church arson I was hoping for more conversations about church iconography and African-American church architectural history. Southern Black Baptist  Church masons have a rich history.  BTW It would have been a great plot devise to hide clues.

4. Style/Grammar .5

There were a few awkward sentence structures, dead paragraphs, a lot of passive voice for a mystery novel, and tense shifts within sentences that caused me to pause and re-read. When a reader has to step out of the story to get the story then you have style elements that need to be addressed.

5. Voice & Dialogue .75

Jackson did a balanced job of creating dialogue. Unfortunately, there was one line of conversation between Alexis and Willie that didn’t sit with me, because of my own experience as a journalist, which was more a plot issue. 

However, overall, I’m still waiting for Jackson’s voice to shine in this story.  What is the big message of this story? The takeaway wasn’t big enough to haunt or change me long after.

Total Rating  3 Choirs

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Who is this book suited for? Christian fiction readers, church book clubs, african-american, romantic suspense readers, readers who like to read clean fiction.

Wednesday, September 15, 2010

Tyler Perry's For Colored Girls & Oprah’s Very Possible Book Club Pick


Directed by Tyler Perry, the film stars: Janet Jackson, Loretta Devine, Kimberly Elise, Thandie Newton, Phylicia Rashad, Anika Noni Rose, Kerry Washington, Whoopi Goldberg, Macy Gray, Michael Ealy, Hill Harper, Khalil Kain, Omari Hardwick and Richard Lawson. Based on Ntozake Shange's award-winning 1975 play of the same name, 'For Colored Girls Who Have Considered Suicide When the Rainbow Is Enuf'

Shange’s latest book, Some Sing Some Cry release this month, which is in high contention to be Oprah’s Final Season  and 64th Book Club Pick. I selfishly hope that it is and I hope this movie delivers what the play successfully did.

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Reading for Review: Soon After & Christian Fiction Call for Submissions

This week I am reading Sherryle Kiser Jackson’s Soon After for review here at Christian Fiction Blog. This feature is an old feature that I haven’t did in a while and so I’m looking forward to it. I use a 5 point review system, whereby each point is regulated to what I consider important story elements: plot, character arc, theme, style/grammar, voice, and setting.

If you would like your book considered for review at Christian Fiction Blog, please review my book submission policy. Also be advised I will post reviews with ratings between 1 and 5. These reviews will also be posted on GoodReads, Amazon, Facebook and my 50+ book review channels. However, they will not be posted in RT Book Reviews Magazine. You must go through their own submissions process for that and I advise you to do so. It is a wonderful mag.

Soon After’s review will post here on Friday. Please consider adding your special face to our Facebook Fan Page to receive this review in your email addy.

Monday, September 13, 2010

Move On Up a Little Higher in Your Writing

Realizing Our Greatness in Our Writing Part 3

I’m going home and tell my story…-Mahalia Jackson

Last week I learned the release date for my new novel, but instead of myself filling up with joy, I felt profound sadness and familiar bad thoughts. It reminded of my feelings one night a week after I had given birth to Selah. Fear. Loss. Weakness. I had held her in my arms watching her looking at me, so soft, bright eyed and beautiful and then asking God. Who am I now? Can I do this, be a mother? Can I really do this? I thank God for that moment. Because as I sat at my desk feeling the same way all over again, I knew I was at a new moment time for me. And because God answered me then, I didn't have to ask Him this time. I just had to prepare myself for what I also know I need to prepare some of you for. Your move to a higher place for The Master.

Read More Click here

Friday, September 10, 2010

Honoring Dr. Malinda Sapp & Women with CRC Tonight Live

 

While watching an episode of Dr. Oz this week my sister and I debated the percentages of African American women dying of colon cancer(CRC.) Based on her education [her associate degree in medical administration] and experience she didn’t think black women had a heavy concern about this cancer.  While I, a full-time patient with ten years experience in and out of hospitals and labs, meeting all types of other female patients, I begged to differ.

Moreover, our grandmother survived colorectal cancer. Yet, she was adamant that we stay on top of our colons until her death. She passed four years ago of malnutrition. AlwaysMyHero Grandma Jr. Spaghetti Tank

Yesterday we were both saddened to hear the news of Gospel singer Marvin Sapp, mourning the death of his wife and manager, Dr. MaLinda Sapp. She passed of colorectal cancer.

CRC isn’t a glamorous cancer, as if there is such a thing. It’s hard on both the patient and her family. My grandmom lived with colostomy bag.  

And there are also some competing messages about this cancer’s probability among women that needs to be changed, ergo our old debate. Below are some stats about this disease that should stick with you:

  • Despite having the greatest risk of developing and dying from colorectal cancer (CRC) of any gender, race or ethnicity, an astounding 96 percent of African American women do not consider themselves to be at high risk for the disease. Source: African American Women Bearing Unequal Burden of Colorectal Cancer
  • African-American Women have a mortality rate 40% higher than White CRC patients
  • Beginning at age 45 African American women should get these test to check for  polyps and cancer
    • Flexible sigmoidoscopy every 5 years*, or 
    • Colonoscopy every 10 years, or
    • Double-contrast barium enema every 5 years*, or
    • CT colonography (virtual colonoscopy) every 5 years*

To learn more about this Cancer and to support Cancer Research & Initiatives watch Stand Up for Cancer tonight 8PM on all major networks.

Stand Up To Cancer (SU2C) one-hour, commercial-free telecast will air on Friday, September 10, 2010 at 8PM EST & PST / 7PM CT on ABC, CBS, FOX, NBC, Discovery Health, E!, G4, HBO, HBO Latino, MLB Network, Showtime, The Style Network and TV One and over 30 online streaming partners like AOL, Yahoo! and YouTube.

The SU2C broadcast is dedicated to the 12 million U.S. cancer survivors illustrating how groundbreaking research can change the tide in the fight against the disease. Updates will be provided on the work of the five Stand Up To Cancer Dream Teams, and Dr. Sanjay Gupta, CNN’s Chief Medical Correspondent, will also report on other new medical developments.

Stand Up To Cancer raises funds to hasten the pace of groundbreaking translational research that can get new therapies to patients quickly and save lives. Donations can be made via telephone during the show, anytime online at www.su2c.org or Text STAND to 40202 to give $10 now. 100% of the funds received from the public go to research.

Stand Up To Cancer has raised more than $100 million for cancer research since 2008. Thank you for your support and please join us on September 10th, 2010 with a spectacular line-up of talent – many who will be on hand in the celebrity phone bank.

You can send condolences to the Sapp Family on Their Official Facebook Fan Page here.

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Wednesday, September 08, 2010

International Literacy Day & Atlanta’s Lanier Tech’s Free Program

September 8 was International Literacy Day by UNESCO on November 17, 1965. It was first celebrated in 1966. Its aim is to highlight the importance of literacy to individuals, communities and societies. On International Literacy Day each year, UNESCO reminds the international community of the status of literacy and adult learning globally. Celebrations take place around the world.


Some 774 million adults lack minimum literacy skills; one in five adults is still not literate and two-thirds of them are women; 72.1 million children are out-of-school and many more attend irregularly or drop out.

Today I want to spotlight a local Adult Education Program that can help end adult illiteracy here.

Lanier Technical College’s Adult Education Program is specifically designed for adults who have different needs, backgrounds, and skills. For that reason, a flexible program has been created which meets their needs.

Each of the eight counties that serve Lanier Technical College have locations to assist adult learners in obtaining skills which make students more successful and confident in the workplace and in society.

GED and English Literacy classes taught at Lanier Technical College are free of charge.

GED instruction includes beginning reading, writing, and math all the way to high school completion through the General Education Development (GED) Program.

The following GED services are offered at no cost:

  • Assessment of skills
  • Personal attention from students and tutors
  • Use of textbooks and computers
  • Individualized instruction
  • A comprehensive educational plan for each student
  • Life skills instruction
  • Materials to utilize while studying at home
  • English Literacy classes for non-English speakers are also a part of the curriculum. Besides the above GED services, additional support is offered for English Literacy classes at no cost:

  • Classes for all levels of learners
  • Awareness of the responsibilities and rights of citizens
  • Improved speaking, writing, and listening skills
  • Pronunciation and usage of the English language.
  • By taking the step to continue studying at Lanier Technical College, you can:

  • Set your own goals
  • Have a schedule that fits your needs
  • Study in a location close to home or work
  • Receive instruction from experienced instructors
  • Use textbooks, computers, and software that are provided for your study.
  •  

    To learn more about this program and how you can enroll a loved one, click here.

     

     

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