Friday, November 11, 2011

FIRST Wild Card Tour: The Spirit Who Speaks by Peter Lawrence

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:

David C. Cook; New edition (September 1, 2011)
***Special thanks to Audra Jennings – The B&B Media Group – for sending me a review copy.***

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:


Peter Lawrence was a vicar in the Church of England for 32 years. After serving in Birmingham, England, the largest city outside of London, he spent his last 14 years as leader of the three churches of Canford Magna in Dorset. Lawrence authored ten books, including The Hot Line, Doing What Comes Supernaturally and The Spirit Who Heals. The Spirit Who Heals is his first book to be published on both sides of the Atlantic—something he was delighted to know would happen. Peter was a man with a great gift for teaching Bible doctrine in an accessible way. His goal was always to help people put into practice the things he taught, highlighting many of the principles through his stories of both success and failure. Lawrence died from a brain tumour on February 22, 2009.



SHORT BOOK DESCRIPTION:


Many Christians today wonder if they are receiving all that God has to offer in the form of the Holy Spirit. Some even believe that the Holy Spirit is nothing more than a symbol of God’s power. Peter Lawrence, who was once a vicar in the Church of England, recounts his amazing journey to truth in The Spirit Who Speaks: God’s Supernatural Intervention in Your Life.








Product Details:

  • List Price: $14.99
  • Paperback: 240 pages
  • Publisher: David C. Cook; New edition (September 1, 2011)
  • Language: English
  • ISBN-10: 1434765296
  • ISBN-13: 978-1434765291


AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:

The God Who Speaks


The speaker at our conference looked like Santa Claus. He had a big belly, a full beard, a jovial smile, and an American accent. There were several thousand of us in the Sheffield Centre in Britain in 1985 who had been persuaded against our better judgment to attend a conference with the not-at-all-British title “Signs and Wonders.”

Santa played a keyboard to the highest standard and led us in a time of musical

worship. (I discovered afterward that he arranged songs for the Righteous Brothers and actually had three top-ten hits in America, all at the same time.) He then came to the lectern, told the story of how he had become a Christian, and regaled us with all kinds of stories and jokes for an hour. I was captivated and enjoyed myself immensely.

In the evening there was much more teaching from the Bible, emphasizing Jesus’

dependence on His Father. Jesus said, “I tell you the truth, the Son can do nothing by himself; he can do only what he sees his Father doing, because whatever the Father does the Son also does” (John 5:19).

Our speaker placed the emphasis on Jesus, full of the Holy Spirit, taking His

orders from His Father. Jesus teaches us what the Father teaches Him (John 7:17), He speaks what the Father speaks (John 8:2–11), and He says what the Father says (John

14:10). All of which comes from the Father through the Spirit: “For the one whom God has sent speaks the words of God, for God gives the Spirit without limit.” (John 3:34)

And then the speaker, whose name was John Wimber, had a go at speaking a

“word.”

“Is there a lady here,” he asked, “aged thirty-two, with a bad throat, with a name beginning with L, who would be willing to come out?”

I had never witnessed anything like this before, so it was good we had heard

John’s testimony and his teaching from the Bible beforehand. It could have been a put- up job, but I trusted him. When the “word” was given, Linda sensed the Spirit speak to her, and she came down from the back quite quickly.

During the interview it was obvious she had a bad throat, but she was adamant that her age was thirty-one, not thirty-two. A team prayed for her; she went down on the floor, and when she came up her voice was clear and seemed to be healed. It was impressive. But there was no way I could have possibly guessed what Santa’s sack had for me next.

“Is there someone here,” John asked, “whose testicle did not drop as a teenager?” What a question! What an embarrassment! It was me. Fortunately the stage was full of people receiving prayer for other “words,” so John said it might be better if the person saw him privately afterward. Good job!

Just before the conference a surgeon had seen me and advised that I have my testicle removed in case it turned cancerous. He booked me in for an operation when I returned from Yorkshire. After the service, I checked to see if anyone else had claimed the word—apparently not.

Sadly, nobody could find John Wimber to pray for me, so I saw a curate, and the next day a bishop. I wasn’t healed and I had the operation, but I had much to think about. It appears not only that God can still speak to us today, but He is willing to do so.

First Attempts

I came home from Sheffield on Wednesday and had one day to prepare for a celebration meeting in our church, at which our bishop was preaching. Should I or shouldn’t I—have a go, that is? I decided if God gave me a word, I would give it. During the meeting I got a twinge in my left thumb and thought it might be from God. The speakers at Sheffield

had told us that pain in our bodies can sometimes be a word from the Spirit of God for

somebody He wants to heal, so I tried it.

“Is there anyone here who has something wrong with their left thumb?” I asked hopefully, after the bishop had spoken.

Now you would have thought that in a group of 150 people there would be somebody with something wrong with a left thumb, but apparently not. The bishop looked at me—should he close with the blessing? I nodded, and he dismissed the crowd.

As people began filing out, a young man made his way forward to see me. “I cut

my left thumb opening a tin,” he said apologetically, “but I didn’t like to mention it in front of all those people.”

Go away, I thought, it’s no good now. Inwardly I was screaming, Come back, everyone, the thumb’s here! But it was too late. I thanked him for coming forward, prayed for him, and then crawled home, mumbling as I went.

Greg, a man from our church, rang to encourage me the next day, which was totally unexpected and very welcome, as I thought I might need to start looking for a new job. Thus reaffirmed, and having thought things through a little, I tried again, this time with our young people on Sunday night.

Roger Jones, our director of music, had come to talk to the youth, and after he’d finished we waited upon God. Immediately thoughts flashed into my mind: Toe, back, eye. This was crazy stuff. It was a young people’s meeting and there were only nine or ten present. If I’d received such words at our over-sixties group, I’d have felt more confident. At this point Roger began to cough painfully, and I knew he often suffered from a sore throat, so I said to God, “What about this man, Lord?” The answer came back, “Not on the agenda.” So I gave it a try: “Anyone here with a pain in the toe, back, or eye?” I asked, feeling very unsure of myself. Three teenage lads claimed one each and we divided up to pray for them.

The one with the pain in the back said he’d only begun to feel pain when he sat on

the chair in the room. We were very slow to realize that these three were our most skeptical members; two of them claimed to be unbelievers. With hindsight and more experience, I now believe the Holy Spirit gave those three words about very small complaints to show three people, who in varying degrees were struggling with unbelief, how much He loved them. Clearly, if I’d had a word about “two unbelievers and a skeptic,” everyone would have said I knew that anyway. No one knew of the physical complaints mentioned, especially as one had only cropped up at the time. Had we not been so dimwitted we might have used the Spirit’s words more lovingly and profitably.

Nevertheless, I was encouraged. We carried on with the ministry on Sunday

evenings and in our small midweek meetings, and learned not to “despise the day of small things” (Zech. 4:10). I enthused about the conference and shared with my friends whenever the Spirit came and did something significant among us. Occasionally people received a picture or a sense of peace, but most commonly we received “word[s] of knowledge” (1 Cor. 12:8 NKJV).

I shared a few of these things with an acquaintance from another church and then half-jokingly said, “Get me an invitation to one of your services and I’ll come and do a Wimber on your congregation.” This was a very silly thing to say. She took me seriously and a letter arrived from her vicar inviting me to speak and minister at a Thursday night celebration in January. I was too embarrassed to refuse.

I meditated upon the problem and then ransacked my library in search of

confidence-boosting fodder. I was looking for something on words from God. I needed some quotations to add authenticity to my message, and eventually my eyes rested on a book by Stuart Blanch, a former archbishop of York. Like several of the books in my study, it was unread, but I thought a casual aside from an archbishop would sound impressive. I read the first eleven pages, usually enough to find a decent quote, but then found myself putting the book down in total amazement. One sentence stopped me in

my tracks: “The Bible.… rests on the assumption that God speaks.”1 With all the “words

of knowledge” we had been getting, this spoke volumes to me.

It was what my friend Bishop John Finney would describe as a “blob” experience—a moment of insight, a sudden encounter with truth. In the past few months I had been thrilled to hear the Spirit speaking to me and had paraded my stories in the pulpit like a centenarian with a telegram from the Queen. Most of us think God may, from time to time, beam in with a special word on special occasions for special people. I had likewise exhibited my words from the Holy Spirit as trophies or rewards for good conduct, as evidence of my high spiritual standing, but suddenly that lie was exposed. God is a God who speaks! Just as I am a man who eats, God is a God who speaks. On Sundays nobody asks me if I’ve eaten anything in the past week; everyone assumes I have. I am a man who eats; it is part of my very nature as a man and something I do without thinking. God is a God who speaks; the Bible declares it from beginning to end.

As the penny dropped I recognized in myself a wrong-thinking about God. People are inconsistent. Even the mature saint fails to do good all the time. We cannot always discern accurately who a person is from what a person does. If a Christian preacher confesses to spending a night with a prostitute, as some have done, we cannot easily tell if it is the confession of a “con man” who has been found out or a sinner who is repentant. There are two kingdoms at war within us, and at different moments either might be seen to have the upper hand.

But God is not like that. His nature is perfect, incorruptible, and totally consistent. He always reveals His true character in everything He does. We may not interpret all He does correctly, because we see through a glass darkly due to our sinful natures, but when so many believers over so many centuries have encountered the God who speaks by His Spirit, it seems right to conclude this is part of who He is. The Bible rests on the assumption that God is a God who speaks.

My whole being thrilled to this new concept, but with the excitement came a

twinge of fear. If this is true, I thought, then I can expect the Spirit of God to speak to

me regularly. And if I preach it as true, the congregation will expect the Spirit to speak to them. This was a moment of truth for me! I began to realize why some of my

ancestors had denied the present-day existence of spiritual gifts and settled for a more comfortable way of life. It is always much easier to claim that God has spoken and God will speak than that God speaks. All my past hurts, fears, rejections, and psychological hang-ups surfaced at once, as my yearning for security sought to bury this simple, luminous truth in the ground, like the man in the Bible did with his one talent (Matt.

25:14–30). As a vicar, I had always sought to hide my insecure emotions by commenting

on life rather than risk taking part in it, and yet I couldn’t bear the thought of spending the rest of my days running away from truth in search of a quiet life.

I decided to think through this new concept and prepare my sermon for the

evening service at my friend’s church accordingly. If, after investigating, I still thought God is a God who speaks, I would expect Him to validate His word. I asked myself three important questions:

1. Does the Bible rest on the assumption that God speaks?

2. Does God speak by His Holy Spirit today?

3. In what way does the Holy Spirit speak today?


Does the Bible Assume God Speaks?

The Bible opens with these words: “In the beginning God created.” The way He created was by speaking: “God said, ‘Let there be light,’ and there was light” (Gen. 1:3). As the psalmist says, “The heavens declare the glory of God” (Ps. 19:1).

As soon as mankind appears, God speaks to them. He speaks to Adam and Eve and to their family; He speaks to Noah, Abraham, and the patriarchs. From Moses to Malachi, the prophets thunder, “Thus says the Lord.”

He speaks to the world through Jesus, the Word of God. The writer to the Hebrews says, “In many and various ways God spoke of old to our fathers by the prophets; but in these last days he has spoken to us by a Son” (Heb. 1:1–2 RSV). On the day of Pentecost the Spirit of God was poured out for all believers: “The promise is for you and your children and for all who are far off—for all whom the Lord our God will call” (Acts 2:39), and it is through the Spirit’s gift of tongues (languages)—God speaking—that the world is alerted to this truth.

Paul assures us that God, the God who loves to speak, is now dwelling in every

believer by His Spirit. “If anyone does not have the Spirit of Christ, he does not belong to Christ” (Rom. 8:9). “We were all baptized by one Spirit” (1 Cor. 12:13); “You are the body of Christ” (1 Cor. 12:27). The gifts of the Spirit that Paul talks about are nearly all gifts that enable us to hear God speaking or discern what He is doing. And the final book of the Bible continues on the same theme: “He who has an ear, let him hear what the Spirit says to the churches” (Rev. 2:7).

This revelation about God is present from beginning to end of the Bible—and it is present as a powerful truth. If we compare the statement “God speaks” with other biblical statements like “God heals” or “God loves” or “God forgives,” we can appreciate its strength. Anyone who says “God heals” has to have something to say about the plagues He sent upon Egypt (Ex. 9:8–11; 12:29), the leprosy He gave to Gehazi (2 Kings

5:27), and the blindness He gave to Elymas (Acts 13:9–12). Even in Revelation, John

tells us that at the end of history God will not heal everyone (Rev. 20:11–15).

Anyone who says, “God forgives” has to have something to say about “God judges,” and those who claim “God loves sinners” can never forget that “God hates sin.” It is far easier to claim that God “speaks” than that God heals, forgives, or loves. Whether He is saving Daniel (Dan. 6:22), killing Ananias and Sapphira (Acts 5:5, 10), forgiving a woman caught in the act of adultery (John 8:11b), urging the stoning of a man to death for collecting sticks on the Sabbath (Num. 15:32–36), whipping the money-changers with cords (John 2:15), or accepting lashes Himself (Mark 15:15), God is speaking. Even when He is silent He communicates: “Again the Israelites did evil in the eyes of the LORD, and for seven years he gave them into the hands of the Midianites” (Judg. 6:1). Verses 7 and 8 continue, “When the Israelites cried to the LORD because of Midian, he sent them a prophet.”

There are times in Scripture and in the history of the church when the word of the Lord has been rare (e.g. 1 Sam. 3:1), but it seems to have been the result of people’s sin rather than God’s unwillingness to speak (1 Sam. 2:12–36). In Genesis 1–2 Adam and Eve had fellowship with God, but after they sinned in chapter 3, they hid from Him. It appears that sin causes us to turn our backs on God, while the saving activity of God enables us to turn round, face Him, and call Him Father. God has recalled us into fellowship through His Son, Jesus Christ (1 Cor. 1:9); Paul prays for the “fellowship of

the Holy Spirit” to be with the Corinthians (2 Cor. 13:14); and John says, “Our fellowship is with the Father and with his Son, Jesus Christ” (1 John 1:3). God’s desire is to have fellowship with His children, and salvation through Jesus restores us into that fellowship. A God who creates us for fellowship—and calls us back into fellowship through repentance and faith—is a God who loves to communicate with His children.

Jeremiah 10:10 says, “But the LORD is the true God; he is the living God,” and

Paul teaches about God’s spiritual gifts that enable us to discern His activity and hear

His voice.

The God of Isaiah (Isa. 37:17), Jeremiah (Jer. 23:36), Daniel (Dan. 6:26), Hosea (Hos. 1:10), Jesus (John 6:57), Peter (Matt. 16:16), Paul (Acts 14:15), the writer to the Hebrews (Heb. 12:22), and John (Rev. 7:2) is a “living God.” He is not a dumb idol but a God who speaks.

If we accept the biblical revelation, it seems we are on firm ground when we claim

that the living God, who lives in all believers by His Holy Spirit, is a God who speaks.


Does God Speak Today?

In a world of changing pressures and insecurities, the Bible has always been very precious to me. Ever since my conversion at fourteen, the foundation of my Christian faith has been the Scriptures, and I firmly believe the Spirit speaks to us today through them. Every day I try to spend time reading from the Bible, asking the Holy Spirit to speak to me through God’s Word.

Most Christians accept that God communicates through the Bible, but some go on to say that today God speaks to us only through the Bible. It is this “only” that concerns me. I was brought up to believe in a God who has spoken and will one day speak again, but for the present speaks only through His written Word—lest we should be tossed about by every whim and fancy. I believe the main way God speaks to us today

is through the Bible, but I do not believe it is the only way God speaks. I spent some time

thinking about this and found three reasons why I could no longer accept that the Spirit speaks today only through Scripture.

Logic
We present an enormous credibility gap to our secular age if we preach a different God from the one found in the Bible. It is very difficult to convince the world of a God who spoke directly to Moses and Elijah and Peter and Paul, but will not speak directly to us today. If people learn of a God who is the same yesterday, today, and forever, who speaks directly to people for several thousand years, but then stops because He’s got a book out, it is not surprising if they turn away. The unbeliever is often very quick to see through logical inconsistency. If a book cannot be validated by experience it is normally classified as “fiction.” If the Bible rests on the assumption that God speaks, it seems logical to believe He still speaks today, unless the Bible has told us otherwise.
Experience
Historical and contemporary experiences support the view that God did not stop speaking upon the completion of the New Testament. George Fox, founder of the Quakers; Evan Roberts, whom God used in the Welsh Revival of 1904; Smith Wigglesworth, who brought Pentecostal revival to many; and Paul Yonggi Cho, pastor of the world’s largest church, in Korea, are just four of the many people who have claimed the Spirit of God spoke to them with signs following. The faith of all of these men was rooted in the Bible; Smith Wigglesworth would read no other book. All four were Bible- based believers, teachers, and preachers, but none were “Bible-only” advocates. Their experiences validated the Bible, and the Bible validated their experiences. They all encountered the Spirit who speaks in the Bible and in their own Christian lives.
The Bible
Biblical Christianity is about being sons and daughters of the King, being the bride of Christ, having communion with God, knowing God, and being known by Him. Through the Spirit we may know God (Heb. 8:11), know His voice (John 10:4), know the truth (John 16:3), and know the mind of Christ (1 Cor. 2:16). I was unable to find anything in the New Testament to suggest the promises God made to the disciples and the early church are not meant for us as well. After the Spirit speaks on the day of Pentecost, Peter promises that the gift of the Holy Spirit is “for all” (Acts 2:39). When we see God face-to-face, then the spiritual gifts will cease, but the New Testament gives no indication of this occurring before then (1 Cor. 13:9–10).

The canon of Scripture is closed. This means the promises and teachings of the

New Testament must apply to us today, otherwise we would need a third set of canonical writings to explain the new rules. The people in the Old Testament lived under the old covenant. The people of the New Testament lived under the new covenant. As there has not been a third covenant between God and His people, it is right to assume we also live under the new covenant sealed by the blood of Jesus Christ. This must surely mean the promises and teachings of the new covenant apply to all Christians today.

To say the New Testament teachings no longer apply to us is to add a new interpretation of Scripture, invariably based on experience—or lack of it—rather than what the Bible teaches. “I have not heard the Spirit speak,” so God does not speak. “I have not healed the sick,” so God no longer heals the sick. “I do not speak in tongues,” so the gift has died out. At the conference in Sheffield John Wimber exposed the woolliness of this thinking when he said, “We do not seek to bring Scripture down to our

experience, but rather we seek to bring our experience up to Scripture.”

This is what the Bible encourages us to do. It teaches us that anyone who has

faith in Jesus will do what He did (John 14:12); the Holy Spirit is promised to “everyone who calls on the name of the Lord.… for you and your children and for all who are far off” (Acts 2:21, 39); all under the new covenant will know God “from the least of them to the greatest” (Heb. 8:11) and receive His words in their mouths:

“As for me, this is my covenant with them,” says the LORD. “My Spirit, who is on you, and my words that I have put in your mouth will not depart from your mouth, or from the mouths of your children, or from the mouths of their descendants from this time on and forever,” says the LORD. (Isaiah 59:21)

I believe in the Bible. I believe God speaks to us today through the Scriptures. I

believe God also speaks to us today by His Holy Spirit.


In What Way Does the Spirit Speak Today?

After deciding I believe in a God who speaks today, I began to feel the ground shaking a little beneath my feet. If God speaks today by His Spirit, does this undermine the authority of Scripture? What is the relationship between the written Word of God and the living word of God? Does a word from the Lord today equal the importance of the Bible? I recognized some of the dangers immediately.

In the last book of the Bible we read these words:

I warn everyone who hears the words of the prophecy of this book: If anyone adds anything to them, God will add to him the plagues described in this book. And if anyone takes words away from this book of prophecy, God will take away from him his share in the tree of life and in the holy city, which are described in this book. (Rev. 22:18–19)

We should be very cautious about anyone who claims to have subsequent revelations from the Holy Spirit that either add to or take away from Scripture. Muhammad and Joseph Smith claimed subsequent revelations from God that produced the Qur’an and the Book of Mormon, respectively, and the list of today’s self-styled cultic prophets who seek to lead people away from God’s truth is endless.

Heeding the New Testament’s warning against adding to or taking away from its

message, I turned to that message again in an attempt to understand the relationship between the Word of God and a word from God.

The holy Scriptures … are able to make you wise for salvation through faith in Christ Jesus. All Scripture is God-breathed and is useful for teaching, rebuking, correcting and training in righteousness, so that the man of God may be thoroughly equipped for every good work. (2 Tim. 3:15–17)

One of the reasons the Holy Spirit inspired the writing of Scripture was for the purposes of doctrine and teaching, especially the way of salvation through faith in Jesus. This is the Word of God. It is God-breathed and therefore carries the authority of God Himself (cf. 2 Pet. 1:20–21; 1 Cor. 2:13). But there is another reason for treating the

Bible as authoritative:


We did not follow cleverly invented stories when we told you about the power and coming of our Lord Jesus Christ, but we were eyewitnesses of his majesty.… We ourselves heard this voice that came from heaven when we were with him on the sacred mountain. (2 Pet. 1:16, 18)

That which was from the beginning, which we have heard, which we have seen with our eyes, which we have looked at and our hands have touched—this we proclaim concerning the Word of life. (1 John 1:1)

The second letter of Peter and the first letter of John appeared at a time when false teachers and prophets were becoming active (2 Pet. 2; 1 John 4:1). It was no longer sufficient for the disciples to say their writings had the authority of the Holy Spirit, because many other heretical teachers were claiming the same thing. The unique authority of the New Testament writers came from the inspiration of the Holy Spirit and their credibility as eyewitnesses to the earthly Jesus. They could match up the words of the Spirit with those of the earthly Lord Jesus whom they had known and loved. Until the second coming of Jesus, this authority will remain unique.

The canon of Scripture is closed because it carries the unique authority of Jesus Himself. The Old Testament anticipates and prepares for His coming, the Gospels describe His coming, and the Epistles testify to the effect of His coming. The Gospels and Epistles have authority because they came from those in touch with the early disciples who knew the earthly Jesus.

In Acts 1 Peter outlines the necessary requirements for election as an apostle:

It is necessary to choose one of the men who have been with us the whole time the Lord Jesus went in and out among us, beginning from John’s baptism to the time when Jesus was taken up from us. For one of these must become a witness with us of his resurrection. (Acts 1:21–22)

An apostle therefore had to be an eyewitness of the life and resurrection of the Lord Jesus Christ. They were the special people whose role was to teach (Acts 2:42; 4:2) and to be guardians of the faith (e.g. Acts 15:2). There are obviously no such eyewitnesses alive today and the canon of Scripture is closed.

Paul’s writings were accepted into the New Testament because others who knew

Jesus gave them authority. Although we believe that Paul did not know the earthly Jesus, Peter authenticates Paul’s letters as Scripture.


Our dear brother Paul also wrote you with the wisdom that God gave him. He writes the same way in all his letters, speaking in them of these matters. His letters contain some things that are hard to understand, which ignorant and unstable people distort, as they do the other Scriptures. (2 Pet. 3:15, 16)

If for no other reason, then, Paul’s letters stand as the Word of God because those who knew the earthly Jesus, such as Peter, validated them. He described them as “Scriptures.”

This means the Word of God has the authority of the earthly Jesus, plus that of the Holy Spirit who inspired their writing. The same Holy Spirit is present among us today, as He was in the early church, but the earthly Jesus and witnesses of His earthly life are no longer present to check things out. Jesus is here by His Spirit, but not in the flesh; we cannot see Him face-to-face, so we cannot test words from God except by Scripture. Thus a word from God today must not contain any new teaching; neither must it add to or take away from the doctrines of the Bible. It seems right to say that a present-day word from God may therefore illustrate Scripture, help to apply Scripture, authenticate Scripture, and enable Christians to fulfill the commands of Scripture, but must always be tested by Scripture. This enables us to understand the different purposes behind the Word of God and a word from God.

In Romans 10:9 Paul writes, “If you confess with your mouth, ‘Jesus is Lord,’ and believe in your heart that God raised him from the dead, you will be saved.” This is doctrine and teaches us the way of salvation. Such teaching is one of the main purposes of the Word of God.

In Acts 8:29 we read, “The Spirit told Philip, ‘Go to that chariot and stay near

it.’” Although it is part of the Word of God and teaches us the value of letting the Holy Spirit direct evangelism, this also provides an illustration of a word from God. It is a piece of local and particular guidance given to Philip by the Holy Spirit for one man in one place at one time. It is a word from God that enables Philip to fulfill the Word of God, going to that chariot, witnessing to that Ethiopian, and leading him to faith in Christ.

Through the Bible God speaks about the way to be saved and to live as

Christians, and through His Spirit God applies that truth to the right person in the right place at the right time. We could say a word from God released by the Holy Spirit supports the Word of God inspired by the Holy Spirit, helping Christians to live out its principles.

The example of a word from the Spirit that I witnessed in Sheffield illustrates

this. The Bible tells us to proclaim the kingdom, heal the sick, and cast out demons. The Spirit’s word about Linda helped John Wimber do those very things, in the name of Jesus, on the first night of the conference. The Bible gives doctrinal truth and general guidelines, whereas God sends a specific word by His Holy Spirit to give particular guidance. We should therefore keep, study, and regularly teach from the Bible, but discard words from God once we’ve acted upon their messages. The Bible teaches us doctrine and basic truths, and the Spirit speaks today to help us put those biblical truths into practice. Anything that contradicts Scripture or takes away from it is to be rejected at once as not of God, but a current word or nudge from God by His Spirit can help us apply the teaching of the Bible to our daily lives. A word from God can be expected to support the Word of God.

My thinking and sermon preparations were now complete. Biblically, logically,

theologically, and, in a limited way, experientially, I knew God to be a God who speaks. I knew that God wanted me to proclaim this truth when I went to my friend’s church in January.

Blogaholic Designs”=

Tuesday, November 8, 2011

Two GREAT Giveaways That I Found Today!

Here are two GREAT giveaways that I have found today!

The first giveaway is from Tania over at horseshoes. She is giving away a $100 Target gift card. To enter this giveaway go HERE ~ ENDS 11/14

The second giveaway is from Zuuzs.com. They are giving away a Kindle Fire!!! To enter this giveaway go HERE.


Blogaholic Designs”=

Monday, November 7, 2011

Winner of 'When Sparrows Fall'!


The Winner of '100 GFC Followers' Giveaway who will be receiving a copy of 'When Sparrows Fall' by Meg Mosely is...Karrieann W.

CONGRATULATIONS!!!


Blogaholic Designs”=

Friday, November 4, 2011

Interview with Justin Dennis and 'Through the Portal' Giveaway!

Today I am interviewing Justin Dennis, author of 'Through the Portal'


Justin, welcome to Hardcover Feedback! Would you tell us a little about yourself?
Thanks for having me! Well currently I'm a freshman at Whittier College--it's just outside of Los Angeles, California--but I'm originally from a smaller city outside of Seattle called Sammamish. Really I'm just a huge nerd; I love technology! But I also love soccer and reading. I played soccer all throughout high school, but am not playing anymore, and I've been a barista at Starbucks for about two and a half years now. So I've got a lot going on!  But writing as always been something that I've enjoyed and try to dedicate as much time to as I can.


What are you currently working on?
Book number two in the trilogy! I haven't decided on a title yet, but it'll be the second Through the Portal book and I'm super super excited for it! I love this trilogy and I really think each book improves upon the last. It's difficult to find time for writing right now, with school and work and everything, but I'm also spending a lot of time writing and revising this book. It really is going to be spectacular.


What or who made the biggest influence on you wanting to become a writer?
You know, I'm sure it sounds cliched, but it has to be J.K. Rowling. The Harry Potter series just was so incredibly planned out and was an incredibly story full of strong morals that an entire generation grew up on. She really is a literary genius and I hope to develop stories and characters as deep and enriching as hers.



What was the first book you ever wrote about and was it ever published?
Through the Portal (Through the Portal Trilogy, #1)This book, Through the Portal, is really the first book I've written and finished. I've written other short stories, or weak attempts at a novel, but nothing really substantiated until this point. The closest I came was I wrote 10 chapters of a book just before Through the Portal, but I didn't have a clear idea where I was going with it and my ideas were all over the place so I just scratched it.


Do you have any writing habits that people might find unusual?
I tend to only be able to write late at night. I think I get too easily distracted in the mornings or afternoon. I'm not sure. For one reason or another, I'm only really able to crank out hours of writing starting past 9pm. It's like I get hooked into it and feel like I have to finish before I go to sleep, and my mind just seems to be clearer then.


I have heard that many authors listen to music while they write. Do you? If so, what do you usually listen to?
I've definitely tried, because I used to listen to music while doing homework and I figured it would be similar, but it just doesn't work for me. I get too distracted by the lyrics and can't focus. Probably because I used to listen to music for the melody and less for the lyrics, but nowadays I strive to listen to music with meaningful lyrics, and of course then I get caught up in them. So I try just to write in silence so that the story is the only thing I'm focusing on.


Do you have a favorite character or one that is especially close to your heart?
I try to make each of my characters have something about them that is close to my heart and will make the reader feel for them. In that sense, I could say that every character has at least some part of me that I feel is important. If I had to pick a favorite though, I would probably go with Sierra because she is a quiet girl, but really sticks up for what she believes in. Not only that, but she is a very strong, confident person, and I hope that she can be a role model for my readers as much as she is for me.


What is the best gift you have ever received and who gave it to you?
I don't know if this qualifies as a gift.... but a few years ago my parents paid for me to go to the Netherlands with a program called People to People so I could play soccer and experience the culture for 10 days. It was honestly the best experience of my life and I would go back in an instant. They never really called it a gift--they just said that whatever I couldn't fundraise, they would pay for--but it really was a gift looking back on it. They didn't have to pay for it, and it was probably very tough on them financially, but I am incredibly thankful for that opportunity.


What are three things (not people) that you wouldn't want to live without?
One, my phone. And not in the stereotypical " I have to text everyone right now or I'm going to die lol" fashion; I mean that my phone is my portal to everything. I read books on it (yes, on the Kindle app. E-reading: best invention ever), I get my news on it, I keep up with my school email, I have my work schedule, everything basically! I could live without it, honestly, but I'm much more informed and connected with it. Two, books. Specifically, ebooks. I'm a huge proponent of ereading (sorry die-hard paper fans!) because of the convenience and ease, so I'd be devastated if I could no longer read on my phone or Kindle. Three, Propel. You know, that water-ish thing that Gatorade makes. It used to be better (now it's this sugar-free something or other) but I still live off it like water.


What is something that you have always wanted to do, but just haven't gotten around to it yet?
I really want to travel to France! And England. And the Nordic countries like Sweden, Norway, Denmark, Finland. It's not so much that I haven't gotten around to it, but that I can't afford it. Trust me, the day I can afford to travel around Europe, I'm going!


All the music in the world is being destroyed and you can only save one album, which would you save and why?
Oh jeez, I know I'm gonna be hounded for this one... but it has to be Eminem's album Recovery. I know, I know, Eminem isn't exactly considered among the ranks of The Beetles or Led Zeppelin, but he really is a very good poet (yes, rappers are poets) and that album specifically is very motivational. If it makes you feel any better, I almost chose Will Smith's album Lost and Found. I don't know why but I've always liked rap. It really is very poetic and can be meaningful. Will Smith is an incredible tribute to that.


What is your all-time favorite book and what is your favorite book you have read this year?
All time: Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows. Just a fantastic, amazing, incredible, wonderful, spectacular, (yes, all those adjectives were necessary) finish to the Harry Potter Series. Tied up all the loose ends, explored some profoundly deep morals, and was just a heart-wrenching good story. As for this year, I recently read Douglas Adams' The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, and that's not the usual genre that I read, but honestly the book is hilarious. 
Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows (Harry Potter, #7)The Ultimate Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy (Hitchhiker's Guide, #1-5)

What do you like to do in your spare time?
Write. I really hardly have any free time, between work and school, so when I do, I write. Other than that, I don't have time! If I had more time I'd either read more or play video games. I haven't played a lot of video games in years! I miss those days.

Are you an early bird or a night owl?
Definitely a night owl. I swear I feel tired all morning and afternoon, but then as soon as the evening comes around I'm wide awake! This is a very poor biological clock for trying to operate within the basic societal time frame, but it seems to be ingrained into my very being. Going to bed early never works for me, and getting up early (especially at 3:45am to open at Starbucks!) does not work out well.

If you were throwing a dinner party and you could invite five people (fictional or real, dead or alive) who would you invite?
Seth Macfarlane, Barack Obama, Jackie Chan, Sarah Palin, and Albert Einstein. Can you imagine the hilarity that would ensue?

You are given a ticket that will bring you anywhere that you want to go, at anytime in history. Where would you want to go and why?
I would go to the 1920's during prohibition and be a moonshine runner. I know this sounds like an odd choice--and I definitely would not run from the cops in real life!--but that would just be fun. Have souped-up cars and drive around recklessly for a living!

Where can people connect with you online?
Or my Twitter: https://twitter.com/#!/JustinDennis4


Thank you so much Justin for being on Hardcover Feedback!
Thanks Megan!


Now for the giveaway. Justin has graciously offered to giveaway ten e-copies of his book 'Through the Portal'! Yes, I said TEN! To enter, all you have to do is follow this blog in at least one way and leave a comment on this post. There will be ten winners and the giveaway is open internationally.





Blogaholic Designs”=

FIRST Wild Card Tour: The Power of a Praying® Wife Devotional by Stormie Omartian

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:

Harvest House Publishers (August 1, 2011)

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:


Stormie Omartian is the bestselling author (more than 13 million books sold) of The Power of a Praying® series, which includes The Power of Praying® for Your Adult Children, The Power of a Praying® Wife, The Power of a Praying® Husband, and The Power of Prayer™ to Change Your Marriage. Her many other books include Just Enough Light for the Step I’m On, The Prayer That Changes Everything®, The Power of a Praying® Woman, and The Power of Praying® Through the Bible. Stormie and her husband, Michael, have been married more than 37 years and are the parents of two adult children.

Visit the author's website.

SHORT BOOK DESCRIPTION:

New from bestselling author Stormie Omartian is a book close to her own heart—The Power of a Praying® Wife Devotional. Following up on the insights and prayers of The Power of a Praying® Wife (more than 3.5 million books sold) 100 brand-new devotions, prayers, and supporting Scriptures offer a praying wife fresh ways to pray for her husband, herself, and her marriage.

These easy-to-read devotions will increase any wife’s understanding, strength, and peace, as well as provide her with perspective on the situations and challenges she faces. And each prayer will help both husbands and wives be more attuned to the Holy Spirit so they can do what’s right without allowing negative emotions or unclear thinking to get in the way.

A must-have for anyone wanting God’s best for this most important relationship.






Product Details:

  • List Price: $14.99
  • Paperback: 320 pages
  • Publisher: Harvest House Publishers (August 1, 2011)
  • Language: English
  • ISBN-10: 0736926925
  • ISBN-13: 978-0736926928


AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:

When I Desire Greater Persistence in Prayer

Rejoice always, pray without ceasing,
in everything give thanks;
for this is the will of God in
Christ Jesus for you.

1 Thessalonians 5:16-18

As a wife, you need the kind of prayer habit that doesn’t give up or allow discouragement to get in the way, but instead persists and keeps on praying and asking.

When God told Abraham He intended to determine if Sodom was deserving of destruction, Abraham then interceded, praying on behalf of however many righteous people might be there. He asked God if He would destroy Sodom if fifty righteous people were found there, and the Lord said He would not. Abraham then asked if He would destroy the city if forty-five righteous people were found there, then forty people, then thirty, then twenty. Each time Abraham asked, God said He would not destroy it for that many people. Finally Abraham said, “Suppose ten should be found there?” And God said, “I will not destroy it for the sake of ten” (Genesis 18:32). As it turned out, only four righteous people were there, so God destroyed it. But Abraham had stopped asking at ten.

We need the kind of persistence in prayer that causes us to continue asking as Abraham did. Too often we stop short. Perhaps Abraham stopped asking because he couldn’t imagine that there wouldn’t be at least ten righteous people in Sodom. Or perhaps by then God had proved His point and revealed His intentions. God knew the city was wicked enough to destroy, but He saved the four righteous people—which were Lot, his wife, and their two daughters (Genesis 19:29).

Your prayers are powerful to save too. So keep asking and continue seeking, and don’t ask for crumbs when God wants to give you the banquet. When it comes to praying for you and your husband and your marriage, ask God to help you persist in prayer for even what may seem impossible. Ask for your marriage to not only be saved, but to be good. Ask for it to not only be good, but to be great. God doesn’t say “No” to what is His will. If your husband has a strong will that refuses to submit to God’s will, persist in praying that God’s will wins out.


My Prayer to God

Lord, I pray You would help me to be persistent in prayer—to ask and keep asking for what I believe is Your will. I know anything less than love, selflessness, kindness, peace, and generosity of soul is not Your will in my relationship with my husband. Help me to persist in praying for nothing less than the high standard You have for our marriage. Give me a vision of how You want me to pray. Show me the way You want our marriage to be and help me to pray accordingly so that it becomes all that.

I know I cannot force my husband’s will to be anything other than what it is, but You can touch his heart and turn it toward You. I pray You would do that. May he welcome Your Lordship in his life. Help me to pray consistently and passionately, and to persevere no matter what is happening. I thank You in advance for the great things You are going to do in both of us and in our marriage.

In Jesus’ name I pray.
Blogaholic Designs”=

Thursday, November 3, 2011

FIRST Wild Card Tour: Shadowed in Silk by Christine Lindsay

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:

WhiteFire Publishing (September 1, 2011)

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:


Christine Lindsay writes historical Christian inspirational novels with strong love stories. She doesn’t shy away from difficult subjects such as the themes in her debut novel SHADOWED IN SILK which is set in India during a turbulent era. Christine’s long-time fascination with the British Raj was seeded from stories of her ancestors who served in the British Cavalry in India. SHADOWED IN SILK won first place in the 2009 ACFW Genesis for Historical under the title Unveiled.

The Pacific coast of Canada, about 200 miles north of Seattle, is Christine’s home. It’s a special time in her life as she and her husband enjoy the empty nest, but also the noise and fun when the kids and grandkids come home. Like a lot of writers, her cat is her chief editor.

Visit the author's website.

SHORT BOOK DESCRIPTION:

She was invisible to those who should have loved her.
After the Great War, Abby Fraser returns to India with her small son, where her husband is stationed with the British army. She has longed to go home to the land of glittering palaces and veiled women . . . but Nick has become a cruel stranger. It will take more than her American pluck to survive.

Major Geoff Richards, broken over the loss of so many of his men in the trenches of France, returns to his cavalry post in Amritsar. But his faith does little to help him understand the ruthlessness of his British peers toward the Indian people he loves. Nor does it explain how he is to protect Abby Fraser and her child from the husband who mistreats them.

Amid political unrest, inhospitable deserts, and Russian spies, tensions rise in India as the people cry for the freedom espoused by Gandhi. Caught between their own ideals and duty, Geoff and Abby stumble into sinister secrets . . . secrets that will thrust them out of the shadows and straight into the fire of revolution.




Product Details:

  • List Price: $14.99
  • Paperback: 276 pages
  • Publisher: WhiteFire Publishing (September 1, 2011)
  • Language: English
  • ISBN-10: 0976544490
  • ISBN-13: 978-0976544494


AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:

December, 1918

Abby Fraser gripped the railing of the New Delhi and lifted her chin to defy the solitary expanse of sea. She refused to believe a wife needed an invitation to join her husband. The war was over at last. Nick and she were married, and it was about time he remembered that.

One of the Queen Alexandra nurses escorting the Indian troops home stood beside Abby. With a rustle of starched cotton, Laine Harkness leaned over and whispered in her ear. “Why do you look like you’re headed for the Black Hole of Calcutta and not about to have a passionate reunion with the love of your life?”

Abby ran a hand down her linen skirt and watched the blue line of shore draw closer. What could she possibly say? Instead of replying she cuddled her little son, Cam, nearer to her side. In less than an hour he’d meet his father for the first time. Had she been foolish not to wait for an answer from Nick? So few letters from him in four years.

“I know you’re American,” Laine went on, “but I assure you, the only thing to be afraid of in this part of the British Empire is the wife of your husband’s commanding officer.” She shuddered with drama and grinned maliciously. “Once you’re settled in your shady little army cantonment, the old battle-axe will whip you into shape in no time. Then you’ll be quite the proper memsahib. It’s them that run the colony for us Brits. Don’t you think for a minute it’s the Viceroy or our army—it’s the average colonel’s wife.”

Abby crinkled her nose as she smiled. “You win. Is this better?”

“Much better. You were altogether too peaked for meeting your handsome lieutenant.”

The New Delhi sliced her way through the narrows of Kolaba Point, and the familiar scent of Bombay reached out to Abby. Laine was right. No sense worrying. Tucking a strand of hair into her chignon, she savored a tantalizing whiff of overripe fruit, roses, marigolds and cloves, mingled with the acrid smell of dust. She lifted Cam up and snuggled her face into his neck, but he wiggled in her arms. At three years old he was heavy, much too big to be carried.

On the deck below, Indian soldiers stood with their British officers waiting to disembark. Yanking on her arm, Cam laughed and pointed to the tugboat pushing the ship into her berth, and Abby laughed with him. She felt six years old again. Like the troops, she was home. So close. In a few minutes she could touch her birthplace, so much brighter and warmer than Aunt Doreen’s dismal mansion in upstate New York or her father’s retirement manor in the Yorkshire Dales.

As soon as the liner stopped, it was as though an oven door dropped open, and hot air rushed in. On the quay, a kaleidoscope of color and humanity dazzled Abby’s eyes—Hindu women in saris of every hue, hot pinks, ochre yellows, lime greens. Parsee women wore their skirts of equally brilliant shades, their black hair ornamented with lace and gold. People balanced immense bundles on their heads. Bengali clerks rushed here and there, wearing yards of white muslin and Hindu caps, while other men wore turbans or solar topis. On the dock, uniformed soldiers joined the throng. So many people. She’d forgotten that claustrophobic feeling, the teeming press of millions. But she loved it all.

She hugged Cam and scanned the crowds of people on the quayside for Nick’s lean face and startling blue eyes. He’d be down there waiting for her, wouldn’t he? Her gaze stopped.

There he was. Her pulse pounded.

A tall soldier wearing his tan uniform, epaulets at his shoulder, his cap on his head, peered upwards at the passengers lining the ship’s railing. She could barely catch her breath as she waved. Cam, not seeing who she waved at, threw out his small hand, pumped it up and down, and laughed.

Nick looked up and waved. Her wide smile dimmed, and her hand went still. It wasn’t Nick. Someone farther along the ship’s railing sent an answering wave to the stranger on the quay.

Abby steadied her breath and swung her gaze over the crowd. Where was he? In addition to her letter announcing she was coming, she’d telegrammed Nick with her itinerary before she left Southampton. She’d sent another telegram and checked twice with the purser when they stopped at the Port of Aden days ago, and still there’d been no message from him.

“See you soon . . . goodbye . . . Christmas . . . take care of yourself,” the nurses said between hugs as they crowded toward the gangway. But Laine remained at Abby’s side.

“Please, Laine, go with the others. You’ve been wonderful, but Nick will be here.”

“You don’t know that for sure.” Laine’s practiced look was that of a nurse hating to give bad news. “You can’t fool me with that Yankee stoicism of yours. The whole voyage out, you’ve tried to hide your concerns.”

“Laine, please.”

“Oh, all right.” Laine grew gruff as she relented, tucking a dark strand of hair under her nursing veil. “I’m always sticking my nose in where I shouldn’t. Occupational hazard.”

Abby took Laine’s arm and shook it. “Don’t be silly. I don’t know what I’d have done those first days of the voyage if you hadn’t taken pity on me till I got my sea legs. We’ll see each other on the train later anyway.” She gave the nursing matron a firm hug.

Laine joined the nurses, but Abby didn’t watch them leave the ship. She arched her neck to look into the sea of faces below. Sunlight glinted off the tin roofs at the quay and bounced off the ground. She squinted like a cat soaking up its rays and, taking a deep breath, moved toward the gangway.

A half hour later she carried Cam on her hip and walked out of the blistering customs shed. A hired bearer followed with their baggage.

The warm breeze loosened tendrils of hair at the base of her neck, and she blew from the side of her mouth to free a strand clinging to her cheek. Too bad she couldn’t tie it back in a plait like she used to. But as the wife of a British officer the time had come for chignons, silk stockings, and serving tea with cucumber sandwiches in flower-laden gardens. Time at last to be a proper memsahib. Her insides skittered. Time at last to be a wife.

Please, Nick, where are you?

The crowd thinned, and her fixed smile began to slip. She kissed Cam on his grime-streaked cheek. Her little boy made up for everything. He had Nick’s deep blue eyes, the right one slightly more narrow than the left so it always seemed one side of his face grinned in mischief. Without the help of the single photograph she had of her husband she doubted she’d have remembered his features. The echo of his voice faded long ago. Had that happened during the first year of the war? Or the second? But they’d only known each other those few weeks in England before he’d shipped out to India.

Coldness seeped into her veins. Was it possible she’d disappeared from Nick’s thoughts? She roused herself. If that indeed had happened, she’d fight it. She’d win back their brief flash of love and turn it into something to last a lifetime.

“Won’t be long, honey,” she said to Cam, more to bolster herself. Nick would be here. Of course he would.

“I’m thirsty, Mama.” Cam fussed, but she didn’t have the heart to scold him.

Over his complaints came the reed-like notes of a lute, the backdrop to thousands of voices, calling out, bartering, chattering. Overlaying the odor of burning cow dung patties hung the pungency of blossoms. Dust and spices clouded the air. Horns beeped and trolley cars rattled past. Wooden axles on bullock carts squeaked, counterbalanced by the tinkling of bells. It all smelled and sounded like home, except there was no sign of her husband.

“Mrs. Abigail Fraser,” boomed a voice with a Cockney accent. “Paging Mrs. Abigail Fraser.”

Abby whirled around to wave to a burly English sergeant. The soldier presented her with a telegram. “Here you are, madam. May I hold the boy for you?”

Entranced by the soldier’s uniform, Cam went to him willingly while she held the envelope for a long moment before tearing it open to read:

Sorry STOP Away on Business STOP Meet your train in Amritsar STOP Nick STOP

All noise ceased and a buzzing filled her head, leaving her only marginally aware of the sergeant returning Cam to her arms and leaving. She blinked and raised her hand to shield her eyes from the sharp colors and white sunshine.

The last of the passengers moved away, and a swarm of children with extended bellies called out to her, “Maa maa, maa maa,” all stretching out small hands to grab her skirt.

“I’m sorry.” She gave them a few annas from her bag. “I’m sorry I don’t have any more.” She wasn’t sure if the moisture blurring her eyes was for Nick not meeting them or for these poor children as young as Cam begging for their food. Most of the children wandered off when the coins were gone, but a few stayed at her knee gazing up at her. A lump grew in Abby’s throat as she caressed one little girl’s head, but even this tiny one fled when a stench came close, gagging Abby.

A wild-eyed sadhu with three bars of sandalwood paste scoring his forehead strolled toward her. With Cam in her arms and her back to the luggage cart, she had nowhere to turn. Ash covered the sadhu’s emaciated body and long, matted hair. She tried to catch his eye, but his gaze—dead-looking—bore through her as though she weren’t there.

She offered him a few coins, but he swerved and glided past her. She shook her head. For a moment she was back in Albany, unseen by those who were supposed to love her.

#

Geoff Richards’ throat thickened as he and his risaldar-major Muhammad Khan, mingled with the troops on the quayside. His men stood with their usual spit and polish as the ranks were dismissed. Like him, their joy to be back on Indian soil shone from their eyes, but their smiles couldn’t quite cover the shadows there. Only a fraction of them were coming home. He could still envision every one of his men who used to ride out with him on parade. That was before they left India for European shores. And paid a terrible price for the British Empire. If the Indian people didn’t hate them . . . perhaps they should.

The familiar shaking began in his right hand.

Geoff clenched it into a fish behind his back and stopped to talk to a few soldiers lingering outside the customs shed. “Will any of you chaps from Rawalpindi have a chance this year at the Christmas polo tournament?”

A Sikh jemadar squared his shoulders, his eyes glinting black with his grin. “Yes, sahib, your regiment will not be able to keep up with us in a polo chukka. I can guarantee it.”

“Right. I’ll take that as a warning, Kanvar. We’ll see you at the tournament in Lahore.”

Geoff clapped the young Sikh on the arm.

Dhyan Singh stood on the outskirts of the group. Both he and his brother had served in Geoff’s regiment while in France. Geoff moved toward the soldier, but the memory of Dhyan’s brother, dying in his arms, pulled Geoff back to the nightmare of the trenches. He locked his hands behind his back, clenching his fist in an attempt to still the tremor. Dear God, I failed them . . . brought only one son home to his mother and father.

He managed a smile. “Ah, Jemadar Singh, how many chukkas will you play when you get home? You must be terribly rusty, old man.”

Dhyan grinned. He, too, acted like a man recently come back to life. “Sahib, I am sure I will have no trouble playing at least ten. If my brother, Manjit, were here today, he would say you would be having many, many troubles playing even two or three.”

The men’s laughter roared, and Geoff leaned toward his risaldar-major. “Khan, did you hear that? I think I’ve been advised to stick to cricket. Seems rumors are about, my polo days are on the wane.”

His grin matched that of the men. It was good to talk about something that didn’t mean the choice between life and death. But his laughter stopped.

Cam Fraser and his mother stood not far from him. He’d know the child anywhere, having played marbles and shuffleboard with him a number of times on the voyage. Other than a nod and exchanging the time of day, he’d hardly spoken to Cam’s mother. Why were they still here? According to ship’s gossip, Lieutenant Fraser was to meet them. But here she was, balancing the boy on her hip, and with her free hand brushed her chestnut hair from her face. And no husband in sight. The trace of fear in her eyes was belied by her clamped mouth that silently said I can look after myself. Of course she could.

He’d leave her to it. His own plans were set, and he began to follow his men, but it was too late.

The boy saw him and squirmed free of his mother’s arms, shooting off like a missile to him. Geoff swept the child up, feeling the warm little body and wiry arms and legs wrap around him. Cam rested his head against Geoff’s chest. The sensation of the child’s curls under Geoff’s chin brought a shiver of feeling he’d thought long dead and buried.

Geoff’s voice quavered as he took steps in the direction of the boy’s mother. “Chin up, old man. There’s a good soldier.”

#

Sunlight blinded Abby. Against its rays the silhouette of a soldier with the lean lines of a cavalry man scooped Cam up. Her little boy wound his arms around the man’s neck, and she put her hand to her mouth. So many nights these past few years she’d urged sleep to come, imagining this scene at the pier.

As the man walked toward her she made out his clean-shaven features under the peaked military cap. Major Richards, who’d befriended Cam on the ship, carried her son back to her. It wasn’t Nick enfolding his son close.

“Mrs. Fraser,” Geoff said when he reached her.

She turned to the major a smile she didn’t feel. “With the two of you such good pals I think it’s about time you called me Abby.” She forced a lighter tone. “I was thinking those suffragettes back home might have something, marching about quite pleased with their self-reliance.”

The major’s stony look melted into puzzlement, then his gray eyes began to dance. “I can imagine you marching about with a placard in your hands. For a good cause, of course.”

“But of course.” In spite of Nick’s absence, her smile deepened. “My husband’s not able to meet us, so I was about to hire a—”

She couldn’t finish her sentence. As the major turned toward the street, the sun set afire the twisted, burgundy scar that traveled from his temple to his cheekbone. She fumbled for the word that escaped her.

“Rickshaw,” he finished for her. “If you’ll allow me, I’ll see you to the train station. Going that way myself. And you’re right, the little CO and I are great friends.”

“Little CO?”

He sent a pointed glance at Cam.

She laughed. “Oh, I see. I hadn’t realized he’d been given a recent promotion.”

“I’m meeting a friend, Miriam, at Victoria Station. We arranged to meet and travel at least some of the time together. She runs a medical clinic in Amritsar, where you’re going.” His mouth grew tender.

She darted a look up at him. What sort of woman made the ever-so-proper major’s heart flutter? Her own insides did a somersault. Did the same kind of love wait for her from Nick?

Within minutes a driver loaded their luggage onto a tonga. They climbed into a separate rickshaw and joined the hundreds of other tongas, bicycles, carts, trams, and cars. With the pier behind them they headed for the station.

“Unfortunate your husband was unable to meet you,” Geoff said, never taking his eyes from the passing streets. “India’s not safe for a woman and child traveling alone.”

“I’m aware of that, Major. I was born here.”

“But not raised here.”

Abby lifted her chin. “I may be a bit of a mixture—American mother, British father—but India is my home.”

His eyes twinkled as he dipped his head, conceding defeat. “Everyone onboard wondered how you as a civilian got passage with demobilizing troops, until we realized who your father was. I imagine the general’s name pulled strings for you.”

“Maybe,” Abby drew the word out. Her adrenalin surged, remembering the stuffy war department offices in London. “Let’s just say I made a few social calls to friends of my late father.”

“Many would call General Mackenzie Hughes a pillar of the British Raj. You must take after him. Most young woman would have collapsed into tears being stranded at the pier.”

“You forget, Major, I am coming home.”

His chuckle reverberated from deep within him. “I do keep forgetting. You’re an old India hand. How old were you when you left?”

“I was a wise old memsahib of six when I first left these shores.” She tucked a strand of hair under her straw boater hat and, catching his eye, laughed out loud.

“Ah, yes . . . a memsahib. “He sat back, and all amusement left his face. His tone bordered on dryness. “I daresay you’ve forgotten all that entails. No fear, the wife of your husband’s colonel—your burra-memsahib—will be only too pleased to instruct you on the protocols of being a proper memsahib.”

Their shared laughter had disappeared as if snatched by the flock of green parrots swooping over their heads. But as though he remembered his manners, the major lifted Cam onto his knee, his well-oiled Sam Browne belt creaking as he did. The man and the boy immersed themselves in conversation. Interspersed with Cam’s piping voice she caught the hint of a Northumberland burr in Geoff Richards’ speech. His crisp, English school accent must be a learned one, like Nick’s.

She had enough of an ear to recognize her husband had worked hard to gain that polished manner of speaking, but she knew next to nothing of Nick’s youth. Six weeks wasn’t long enough to know a man.

Bombay’s traffic bustled past. Her fingers itched to pull out the telegram she’d folded into her bag at the pier. But there was no need. The words were stamped on her mind. Nick hadn’t said much, but at least he’d acknowledged they were coming. She had to cling to that, to keep believing they’d become a real family, given time. Perhaps have more children. Cam would have brothers and sisters, a houseful of them . . . and love. Not the existence she’d had growing up in Albany under the disinterested eye of her mother’s only sister.

She’d waited four years. The train trip would take three days. Only three more days, and all she longed for would be waiting for her in Amritsar.

Blogaholic Designs”=

Tuesday, November 1, 2011

FIRST Wild Card Tour: Lethal Remedy by Richard L. Mabry, MD

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:

Abingdon Press (October 2011)

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:


Richard L. Mabry, MD, is a retired physician and medical school professor who achieved worldwide recognition as a clinician, writer, and teacher before turning his talents to non-medical writing after his retirement. He is the author of The Prescription for Trouble Series, one non-fiction book, and his inspirational piesces have appeared in numerous periodicals. He and his wife, Kay, live in North Texas.


Visit the author's website.

SHORT BOOK DESCRIPTION:

An epidemic of a highly resistant bacteria, Staphylococcus luciferus, has ignited, and Dr. Sara Miles' patient is on the threshold of death. Only an experimental antibiotic developed and administered by Sara's ex-husband, Dr. Jack Ingersoll can save the girl's life.

Dr. John Ramsey is seeking to put his life together after the death of his wife by joining the medical school faculty. But his decision could prove to be costly, even fatal.
Potentially lethal late effects from the experimental drug send Sara and her colleague, Dr. Rip Pearson, on a hunt for hidden critical data that will let them reverse the changes before it’s too late. What is the missing puzzle piece? And who is hiding it?



Product Details:

  • List Price: $13.99
  • Paperback: 288 pages
  • Publisher: Abingdon Press (October 2011)
  • Language: English
  • ISBN-10: 1426735448
  • ISBN-13: 978-1426735448


AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:

No one knew the man’s name. White male, probably in his late seventies, found unresponsive in an alley about two o’clock in the morning and brought to the emergency room. Just another homeless derelict, another John Doe.

“Pneumonia, late stages,” the intern said. He yawned. “Happens all the time. Drank himself into a stupor, vomited, aspirated. Probably been lying in that alley for more than a day. Doesn’t look like he’ll make it.”

“Labs cooking? Got a sputum culture going?”

“Yeah, but it’ll take a day or two to get the results of the culture. The smear looks like Staph. Guess I’ll give him—”

“Wait. I’ve got access to an experimental drug that might help. Let me start him on that.”

The intern shrugged. It was two in the morning. He’d been on duty for more than twenty-four hours straight—why’d Johnson’s wife have to go into labor today?—and he was bushed. The bum probably didn’t have a snowball’s chance of surviving anyway. Why not? “You’ll be responsible?”

“I’ll take it from here. Even do the paperwork.”

“Deal,” the intern said, and ambled off to see the next patient.

Three hours later, John Doe lay on a gurney in a corner of the ER. An IV ran into one arm, a blood pressure cuff encircled the other. Spittle dripped from his open mouth and dotted his unshaven chin. His eyes were open and staring.

“Acute anaphylaxis, death within minutes. Interesting.” He scratched his chin. “Guess I need to make some adjustments in the compound.” He picked up the almost-blank chart. “I’ll say I gave him ampicillin and sulbactam. That should cover it.”

* * *

The woman’s look pierced Dr. Sara Miles’ heart. “Do you know what’s wrong with Chelsea?”

Chelsea Ferguson lay still and pale as a mannequin in the hospital bed. An IV carried precious fluids and medications into a vein in her arm. A plastic tube delivered a constant supply of oxygen to her nostrils. Above the girl’s head, monitors beeped and flashed. And over it all wafted the faint antiseptic smell of the ICU.

Chelsea’s mother sat quietly at the bedside, but her hands were never still: arranging and rearranging her daughter’s cover, twisting the hem of her plain brown skirt, shredding a tissue. Sara decided that the gray strands in Mrs. Ferguson’s long brunette hair were a recent addition, along with the lines etched in her face.

Sara put her hand on the teenager’s head and smoothed the matted brown curls. The girl’s hot flesh underscored the urgency of the situation. Since Chelsea’s admission to University Hospital three days ago, her fever hadn’t responded to any of the treatments Sara ordered. If anything, the girl was worse.

“Let’s slip out into the hall,” Sara said. She tiptoed from the bedside and waited outside the room while Mrs. Ferguson kissed her sleeping daughter and shuffled through the door.

Sara pointed. “Let’s go into the family room for a minute.”

“Will she be—?”

“The nurses will check on her, and they’ll call me if anything changes.” Sara led the way into the room and eased the door closed. This family room resembled so many others Sara had been in over the years: small, dim, and quiet. Six wooden chairs with lightly upholstered seats and backs were arranged along three of the walls. Illumination came from a lamp in the corner. A Bible, several devotional magazines, and a box of tissues stood within reach on a coffee table.

This was a room where families received bad news: the biopsy was positive, the treatment hadn’t worked, the doctors weren’t able to save their loved one. The cloying scent of flowers in a vase on an end table reminded Sara of a funeral home, and she shivered as memories came unbidden. She shoved her emotions aside and gestured Mrs. Ferguson to a seat. “Would you like something? Water? Coffee? A soft drink?”

The woman shook her head. “No. Just tell me what’s going on with my daughter. Do you know what’s wrong with her? Can you save her?” Her sob turned into a soft hiccup. “Is she going to die?”

Sara swallowed hard. “Chelsea has what we call sepsis. You might have heard it referred to as blood poisoning. It happens when bacteria get into the body and enter the bloodstream. In Chelsea’s case, this probably began when she had her wisdom teeth extracted.”

I can’t believe the dentist didn’t put her on a prophylactic antibiotic before the procedure. Sara brushed those thoughts aside. That wasn’t important now. The important thing was saving the girl’s life. Sara marshaled her thoughts. “We took samples of Chelsea’s blood at the time of her admission, and while we waited for the results of the blood cultures I started treatment with a potent mixture of antibiotics. As you can see, that hasn’t helped.”

“Why?”

Sara wished the woman wouldn’t be so reasonable, so placid. She wished Mrs. Ferguson would scream and cry. If the roles were reversed, she’d do just that. “While we wait for the results of blood cultures, we make a guess at the best antibiotics to use. Most of the time, our initial guess is right. This time, it was wrong—badly wrong.”

“But now you know what’s causing the infection?” It was a question, not a statement.

“Yes, we know.” And it’s not good news.

Hope tinged Mrs. Ferguson’s voice. “You can fix this, can’t you?”

I wish I could. “The bacteria causing Chelsea’s sepsis is one that . . .” Sara paused and started again. “Have you heard of Mersa?”

“Mersa? No. What’s that?”

“It’s actually MRSA, but doctors usually pronounce it that way. That’s sort of a medical shorthand for methicillin-resistant Staphylococcus aureus, a bacteria that’s resistant to most of our common antibiotics.”

Mrs. Ferguson frowned. “You said most. Do you have something that will work?”

“Yes, we do. Matter of fact, when Chelsea was admitted I started her on two strong antibiotics, a combination that’s generally effective against MRSA. But she hasn’t responded, because this isn’t MRSA. It’s worse than MRSA.” She started to add “Much worse,” but the words died in her throat.

Sara paused and waited for Mrs. Ferguson to ask the next question. Instead, the woman crumpled the tissue she held and dabbed at the corner of her eyes, eyes in which hope seemed to die as Sara watched.

“This is what we call a ‘super-bug,’” Sara continued. “It used to be rare, but we’re seeing more and more infections with it. Right now, none of the commercially available antibiotics are effective. These bacteria are resistant to everything we can throw at them.”

Mrs. Ferguson’s voice was so quiet Sara almost missed the words. “What do you call it?”

“It’s a long name, and it’s not important that you know it.” Matter of fact, we don’t use the proper name most of the time. We just call it “The Killer.”

“So that’s it?”

“No, there’s a doctor at our medical center doing trials on an experimental drug that might work for Chelsea.” No need to mention that Jack is . . . No, let it go.

“Can you get some of this? Give it to Chelsea?”

“I can’t, but the man who can is an infectious disease specialist on the faculty here at the medical center. Actually, he helped develop it. Notice I said ‘experimental,’ which means there may be side effects. But if you want me—”

“Do it!” For the first time in days, Sara saw a spark of life in Mrs. Ferguson’s eyes, heard hope in her voice. “Call him! Now! Please!”

“You realize that this drug isn’t fully tested yet. It may not work. Or the drug may cause problems.” There, she’d said it twice in different words. She’d done her duty.

“I don’t care. My little girl is dying. I’ll sign the releases. Anything you need. If this is our only chance, please, let’s take it.”

Lord, I hope I haven’t made a mistake. “I’ll make the call.”

“I’m going back to be with my baby,” Mrs. Ferguson said. She stood and squared her shoulders. “While you call, I’ll pray.”

* * *

“Mr. Wolfe, you can come in now.” The secretary opened the doors to Dr. Patel’s office as though she were St. Peter ushering a supplicant through the Pearly Gates.

Bob Wolfe bit back the retort he wanted to utter. It’s Doctor Wolfe. Doctor of Pharmacology. I worked six years to earn that Pharm D, not to mention two years of research fellowship. How about some respect? But this wasn’t the time to fight that battle.

He straightened his tie, checked that there were no stains on his fresh white lab coat, and walked into the office of the head of Jandra Pharmaceuticals as though he had been summoned to receive a medal. Never let them see you sweat.

Dr. David Patel rose from behind his desk and beamed, gesturing toward the visitor’s chair opposite. “Bob, come in. Sit down. I appreciate your coming.”

Not much choice, was there? Wolfe studied his boss across the expanse of uncluttered mahogany that separated them. Pharmaceutical companies seemed to be made up of two groups: the geeks and the glad-handers. Patel typified the former group. PhD from Cal Tech, brilliant research mind, but the social skills of a tortoise. Patel had been snatched from the relative obscurity of a research lab at Berkeley by the Board of Directors of Jandra Pharmaceuticals, given the title of President and CEO, and charged with breathing life into the struggling company. How Patel planned to do that remained a mystery to Wolfe and his co-workers.

Patel leaned forward and punched a button on a console that looked like it could launch a space probe. “Cindy, please ask Mr. Lindberg to join us.”

Steve Lindberg ran the sales team from an office across the hall. Lindberg could memorize salient scientific material and regurgitate it with the best of them, but Wolfe would bet the man’s understanding of most of Jandra’s products and those of its major competitors was a mile wide and an inch deep. On the other hand, Lindberg had his own area of expertise: remembering names, paying for food and drinks, arranging golf games at exclusive clubs. No doubt about it, Lindberg was a classic glad-hander, which was why he had ascended to his current position, heading the marketing team at Jandra.

Wolfe hid a smile. Interesting. The President of the company and the Director of Marketing. This could be big. The door behind Wolfe opened. He deliberately kept his eyes front. Be cool. Let this play out.

“Hey, Bob. It’s good to see you.” Wolfe turned just in time to avoid the full force of a hand landing on his shoulder. Even the glancing blow made him wince. Lindberg dragged a chair to the side of Patel’s desk, positioning himself halfway between the two men. Clever. Not taking sides, but clearly separating himself from the underling.

Wolfe studied the two men and, not for the first time, marveled at the contrast in their appearance. Patel was swarthy, slim, and sleek, with jet-black hair and coal-black eyes. His blue shirt had a white collar on which was centered the unfashionably large knot of an unfashionably wide gold-and-black tie. Wolfe wondered whether the man was five years behind or one ahead of fashion trends. He spoke with a trace of a British accent, and Wolfe seemed to recall that Patel had received part of his education at Oxford. Maybe he wore an “old school” tie, without regard to current fashion. If so, it would be typical of Patel.

Lindberg was middle-aged but already running to fat—or, more accurately, flab. His florid complexion gave testimony to too many helpings of rare roast beef accompanied by glasses of single malt Scotch, undoubtedly shared with top-drawer doctors and paid for on the Janus expense account. Lindberg’s eyes were the color of burnished steel, and showed a glimmer of naked ambition that the smile pasted on his face couldn’t disguise. His thinning blond hair was combed carefully to cover early male pattern baldness. The sleeves of his white dress shirt were rolled halfway to his elbows. His tie was at half-mast and slightly askew.

Patel, the geek. Lindberg, the glad-hander. Different in so many ways. But both men shared one characteristic. Wolfe knew from experience that each man would sell his mother if it might benefit the company, or more specifically, their position in it. The two of them together could mean something very good or very bad for Bob Wolfe. He eased forward in his chair and kicked his senses into high gear.

Patel leaned back and tented his fingers. “Bob, I’m sure you’re wondering what this is about. Well, I wanted to congratulate you on the success of EpAm848. I’ve been looking over the preliminary information, especially the reports from Dr. Ingersoll at Southwestern Medical Center. Very impressive.”

“Well, it’s sort of Ingersoll’s baby. He stumbled onto it when he was doing some research here during his infectious disease fellowship at UC Berkeley. I think he wants it to succeed as much as we do.”

“I doubt that.” Patel leaned forward with both hands on the desk. “Jandra is on the verge of bankruptcy. I want that drug on the market ASAP!”

“But we’re not ready. We need more data,” Wolfe said.

“Here’s the good news,” Patel said. “The FDA is worried about The Killer bacteria outbreak. I’ve pulled a few strings, called in a bunch of favors, and I can assure you we can get this application fast-tracked.”

“How?” Wolfe said. “We’re still doing Phase II trials. What about Phase III? Assuming everything goes well, it’s going to be another year, maybe two, before we can do a rollout of EpAm848.”

“Not to worry,” Patel said. “Our inside man at the FDA assures me he can help us massage the data. We can get by with the Phase II trials we’ve already completed. And he’ll arrange things so we can use those plus some of our European studies to fulfill the Phase III requirements.”

Lindberg winked at Wolfe. “We may have to be creative in the way we handle our data. You and I need to get our heads together and see how many corners we can cut before the application is ready.”

Wolfe shook his head. “You say this drug will save us from bankruptcy. I don’t see that. I mean, yes, it looks like we may be in for a full-blown epidemic of Staph luciferus, but we won’t sell enough—“

Lindberg silenced him with an upraised hand. “Exposure, Bob. Exposure. If we get this drug on the market, if we’re the first with a cure, our name recognition will skyrocket. Doctors and patients will pay attention to our other drugs: blood pressure, cholesterol, diabetes. Our market share will go through the roof in all of them.”

Wolfe could see the salesman in Lindberg take over as he leaned closer, as though to drive home his point by proximity. “We’re preparing a direct-to-consumer push on all those drugs, ready to launch at the same time we release Jandramycin.”

The name didn’t click with Wolfe for a moment. “I . . . Well, I’ll certainly do what I can.”

“Do more than that,” Lindberg said. “Jandra Pharmaceuticals is hurting. We’re staking everything on Jandramycin.”

That was the second time Wolfe had heard the term. “What—“

“Stop referring to the drug by its generic name,” Patel added. “From now on, the compound is Jandramycin. When people hear the name Jandra Pharmaceuticals, we want them to think of us as the people who developed the antibiotic that saved the world from the worst epidemic since the black plague.”

Lindberg eased from his chair and gave Wolfe another slap on the shoulder. “This is your project now. It’s on your shoulders. The company’s got a lot riding on this.”

And so do I. “But what if a problem turns up?”

Patel rose and drew himself up to his full five feet eight inches. His obsidian eyes seemed to burn right through Wolfe. “We’re depending on you to make sure that doesn’t happen. Are we clear on that?”

* * *

Sara leaned over the sink and splashed water on her face. The paper towels in the women’s rest room of the clinic were rough, but maybe that would put some color in the face that stared back at her from the mirror. Her brown eyes were red-rimmed from another sleepless night. Raven hair was pulled into a ponytail because she could never find time or energy for a haircut or a perm. Get it together, Sara. She took a deep breath and headed for the doctor’s dictation room, where she slumped into a chair.

“Something wrong, Dr. Miles?”

Sara turned to see Gloria, the clinic’s head nurse. “No, just taking a few deep breaths before I have to make a call I’m dreading.”

Gloria slid into the chair next to Sara. The controlled chaos of the internal medicine clinic hummed around them. The buzz of conversations and ringing of phones served as effectively as white noise to mask her next words. “Is it one of your hospital patients? Got some bad news to deliver?”

“Sort of. It’s Chelsea Ferguson.”

“The teenage girl? Is she worse?”

“Yes. The cultures grew Staph luciferus.”

Gloria whistled silently. “The Killer. That’s bad.”

“The only thing that seems to be working in these cases is that new drug of Jack Ingersoll’s.”

“Oh, I get it. That’s the call you don’t want to make.” Gloria touched Sara lightly on the shoulder. “When will you stop letting what Ingersoll did ruin the rest of your life? I can introduce you to a couple of nice men who go to our church. They’ve both gone through tough divorces—neither was their fault—and they want to move on. It would be good for you—”

Sara shook her head. “Thanks, but I’m not ready to date. I’m not sure if I can ever trust a man again.”

Gloria opened her mouth, but Sara silenced her with an upraised hand. No sense putting this off. She pulled the phone toward her and stabbed in a number.

* * *

Dr. John Ramsey found a spot in the Visitor’s Parking Lot. He exited his car and looked across the driveway at the main campus of Southwestern Medical Center. When he’d graduated, there were two buildings on the campus. Now those two had been swallowed up, incorporated into a complex that totaled about forty buildings on three separate campuses. Right now he only needed to find one: the tall white building directly across the driveway at the end of a flagstone plaza. The imposing glass façade of the medical library reflected sunlight into his eyes as he wove past benches where students sat chatting on cell phones or burrowing into book bags. He paused at the glass front doors of the complex, took a deep breath, and pushed forward.

There was a directory inside for anyone trying to negotiate the warren of inter-connected buildings, but John didn’t need it. He found the elevator he wanted, entered, and punched five. In a moment, he was in the office of the Chairman of Internal Medicine.

“Dr. Schaeffer will be with you in a moment.” The receptionist motioned him toward a seat opposite the magnificent rosewood desk that was the centerpiece of the spacious office, then glided out, closing the door softly behind her.

John eased into the visitor’s chair and looked around him. He’d spent forty years on the volunteer clinical faculty of Southwestern Medical Center’s Department of Internal Medicine. For forty years he’d instructed and mentored medical students and residents, for forty years he’d covered the teaching clinic once a month, and today was the first time he’d been in the department chairman’s office. He swallowed the resentment he felt bubbling up. No, John. You never wanted to be here. You were happy in your own world.

John couldn’t help comparing this room with the cubbyhole he’d called his private office. Now he didn’t even have that. The practice was closed, the equipment and furnishings sold to a young doctor just getting started. John’s files and patient records were in a locked storage facility, rent paid for a year.

He wondered how many of his patients had contacted his nurse to have their records transferred. No matter, she’d handle it. He’d paid her six months’ salary to take care of such things. What would happen after that? He didn’t have the energy to care. Things were different now.

For almost half a century he’d awakened to the aroma of coffee and a kiss from the most wonderful woman in the world. Now getting out of bed in the morning was an effort, shaving and getting dressed were more than he could manage some days. Since Beth died . . . He shook his head, trying to clear the cobwebs that clogged his brain. The knowledge that he’d never again know the happiness of having a woman he loved by his side made him wish he’d died with her. What was the use of going on?

But something happened this morning. He’d awakened with a small spark of determination to do something, anything, to move on. He tried to fight it, to roll over and seek the sleep that eluded him. Instead, he heard the echo of Beth’s words: “You’re too good a physician to retire. People need you.” He remembered that conversation as though it were yesterday. She’d urged, he’d insisted. Let’s retire. I want to get out of the rat race and enjoy time with you. Retirement meant the travel they’d put off, the time to do things together. Only, now there was no more together.

This morning, he’d rolled out of bed determined that today would be different. It would be the start of his rebirth. As he shrugged into a robe, as he’d done each day since her death he looked at the picture on their dresser of him and Beth. She’d been radiant that spring day so many years ago, and he wondered yet again how he’d managed to snag her.

He’d shaved—for the first time in days—with special care, and his image in the mirror made him wonder. When did that slim young man in the picture develop a paunch and acquire an AARP card? When had the thick brown hair been replaced by gray strands that required careful combing to hide a retreating hairline? The eyes were still bright, although they hid behind wire-rimmed trifocals. “You’re too old for this, John,” he muttered. And as though she were in the room, he heard Beth’s words once more. “You’re too good a physician to retire. People need you.”

Fortified with coffee, the sole component of his breakfast nowadays, he’d forced himself to make the call. He asked his question and was gratified and a bit frightened by the positive response. John dressed carefully, choosing his best suit, spending a great deal of time selecting a tie. He’d noticed a gradual shift in doctors’ attire over the past few years. Now many wore jeans and golf shirts under their white coats. But for John Ramsey, putting on a tie before going to the office was tantamount to donning a uniform, one he’d worn proudly for years. And he—

“John, I was surprised when I got your call. To what do I owe the pleasure?” Dr. Donald Schaeffer breezed into the office, the starched tails of his white coat billowing behind him. He offered his hand, then settled in behind his desk.

“Donald, I appreciate your taking the time to see me. I was wondering—”

“Before we start, I want you to know how sorry we all are for your loss. Is there anything I can do?”

Perfect lead-in. See if you can get the words out. “As you know, I closed my office four months ago. Beth and I were going to enjoy retirement. Then . . .”

Schaeffer nodded and tented his fingers under his chin. At least he had the grace not to offer more platitudes. Ramsey had had enough of those.

“I was wondering if you could use me in the department.” There. Not the words he’d rehearsed, but at least he’d tossed the ball into Schaeffer’s court.

“John, are you talking about coming onto the faculty?”

“Maybe something half-time. I could staff resident clinics, teach medical students.”

Schaeffer was shaking his head before John finished. “That’s what the volunteer clinical faculty does. It’s what you did for . . . how many years? Thirty? Thirty-five?”

“Forty, actually. Well, I’m still a clinical professor in the department, so I guess I have privileges at Parkland Hospital. Can you use me there?”

Schaeffer pulled a yellow legal pad toward him and wrote a couple of words before he pushed it aside. “I’m not sure what I can do for you, if anything. It’s not that easy. You have no idea of the administrative hoops I have to jump through to run this department. Even if I could offer you a job today—and I can’t— I’d have to juggle the budget to support it, post the position for open applications, get half a dozen approvals before finalizing the appointment.” He spread his hands in a gesture of futility.

“So, is that a ‘no’?”

“”That’s an ‘I’ll see what I can do.’ Afraid that’s the best I have to offer.” Schaeffer looked at his watch, shoved his chair back and eased to his feet. “Coming to Grand Rounds?”

Why not? John’s house was an empty museum of bitter memories. His office belonged to someone else. Why not sit in the company of colleagues? “Sure. I’ll walk over with you.”

As the two men moved through the halls of the medical center, John prayed silently that Schaeffer would find a job for him. With all his prayers for Beth during her final illness, prayers that had gone unanswered, he figured that surely God owed him this one.

Blogaholic Designs”=