Into the Fire

Sunday's Offerings

Both low and high will be humbled,
and the eyes of the arrogant brought low.
But the Lord Almighty will be exalted by His justice,
and the holy God will show Himself holy
by his righteousness.

Isaiah 5:15-16 (NIV)

Saturday Sample

CHAPTER ONE

Claudia Madelyn Rutheford hated her name. Not even as a child did she once remember liking her name—especially when the other kids teased her by calling her a “clod” which she never thought was even remotely clever or funny in spite of their hysterics. By the time she was old enough to imagine such things, she wished her mother had been more adventurous and named her “Madison” or “Collette” or “Jenna”—anything but the names of her great grandmother and grandmother respectively. Nothing against them—she just happened to hate being named after them. So, by the time she was in high school, she went by C.M., and no one (other than her mother) had better call her anything else because she would respectfully but commandingly correct them. And by the time she was in college, she dropped the periods and went only by CM.
Matthew Preston, his 6 ft. frame slumped over his laptop set up on the glass coffee table in the living room of his expensive two bedroom apartment, inquired as he typed furiously, “So, did you like it or not, CM?”
“Geez, Matt, I don’t know. What’s that about anyway? Normally I would’ve really liked it,” she answered with irritation in her voice at her own indecisiveness. She squeezed the aromatic spicy flavored tea from the bag into her mug. “Did you get any honey?” she asked, looking in the cupboard.
“Forgot,” he answered as he continued to work. “Sugar’s there, though.”
“Matt—you know I’d rather have honey, darn it,” she said with muted ire as she grabbed the box of sugar and inadvertently slammed the cupboard shut. “I didn’t mean to,” she offered looking back at him before he could react further than the uplifted eyebrows she received.
“What’s buggin’ you anyway? It’s just another movie, right?” he asked, closing his laptop and stretching his muscular arms over his head while pulling his long legs out from under the coffee table so he could climb up onto the couch.
“You know it’s my job,” she said with a hint of disgust at his apparent lack of understanding. She sat down at the dining table and stared into her mug, stirring abstractedly.
Matt stood up and walked over to the table and sat down. “Hey, I know you take your work very seriously—and rightfully so—but c’mon—you can’t possibly expect to give your positive approval or your succinct rejection to every movie you see, can you?”
She noted his sincere logic as well as his genuine concern, and she wondered why in the world she didn’t love him madly and passionately—like in the movies, she thought in the brief span of a moment. He was gorgeous. And built. His above the collar length bleached blonde hair with its medium brown roots only accentuated his deep blue eyes and the natural color of his skin that always looked tan. He was a bona fide head turner.
“Well, can you?” he asked quietly, reaching over to place his hand over her free hand resting on the table.
“No. No, I suppose not,” she answered finally, trying to sound resigned to the fact and muster a smile.
He stood up and walked to the refrigerator, bending down to examine its contents. He pulled out a carton of pulpy Minute Maid orange juice and drained it, tossing it in the garbage under the sink.
“Let me take you out to dinner. We’ll go to ‘Carrera’s’.”
“You just want to get me drunk on Margaritas and take advantage of me,” she said, turning in her chair to face him.
“Yeah,” he said, grinning broadly with his incredibly charming smile lighting up his face. “I do.”
“I do appreciate your honesty, believe it or not,” she laughed.
“That’s one thing I’ve always liked about you, CM. You want it straight.”
“And don’t forget that either.”
“I don’t plan on it.”

CM knew she was a cheap drunk. Two Margaritas and she would be flying high. Any more than that and she’d be sicker than a dog. It was also no secret to her that alcohol made it easier for her to enjoy sleeping with Matt—her conscience succumbed easily in that fluid state of mind allowing her to participate with less guilt in today’s version of love—or whatever it was supposed to be. At times she wished she knew. There was a place in her, now buried deeply, that resented Matt for his initial seduction of her, although she couldn’t deny her own participation in it. Granted by that time she’d already squandered her virginity on her first boyfriend after literally years of doing everything else but “that”. She remembered at her weaker moments the absolute terror she’d felt wondering if she’d gotten pregnant and never feeling more relieved than when her period showed up on time. Eventually her boyfriend became too frustrated to continue without the real thing, and after four years of sharing everything they had to give, they broke up. CM was nearly 20, and Jason had been 22.
Inevitably every time she slept with Matt, at some point during their time together, these memories surfaced to haunt her. Why couldn’t she just forget? Why couldn’t she just give in to all of it—after all, she was a very independent, self-sufficient 21st century woman. Matt almost begged her to move in with him, stopping just short of seeming desperate she thought. As much as she figured he was capable of loving someone, he loved her. He certainly thought he did because he never failed to tell her—especially, she never failed to notice, after enjoying her body. What was it with men anyway? Why did sex have to be involved in their ability to express “love”? She doubted sincerely that there were actually very many men who could really love a woman. Jason had adored her until they finally went “all the way”. Then that act became the focus of his life with her, and when she refused to do it anymore, it led to their split. By that time she was ready for the end. She felt used, and she regretted how their relationship had deteriorated to that point. She decided she had no idea what love was supposed to be or how it was supposed to feel because with all of her heart she’d thought she had loved Jason. Now with Matt she didn’t even pretend to love him. She really liked him—no doubt about that. She might even love him in a way—but not the way every girl hopes to love a man, not the way you figure your knees might actually give out on you when he gives you that certain look, no—not the way the motion pictures made you feel when you viewed Hollywood’s version of true romance on the screen. Momentarily heart stopping, silent gasping, sheer knock you to your knees romance. Did it even exist in real life? She ignored the fact that the first time she saw Matt that’s exactly what had happened to her, and she also chose to forget the certain look Matt could give her that caused a meltdown inside of her.
“What’re you thinkin’ about?” Matt asked, propping himself up on an elbow and gazing down at her.
Self-consciously, she discreetly pulled the sheet up higher. “Just taking inventory and making sure I’m almost ready to drive home.”
“Why do you always do that?” he asked quietly.
“Do what?” she asked with some surprise, afraid for a moment that he was reading her thoughts.
“Pull the sheet up to make sure you’re covered. Don’t you think it’s a little late for that?” He said it gently and with no sarcasm. “I love your body, CM. You’re beautiful. Have I done anything to make you feel awkward around me after all this time?”
She hoped he couldn’t see her blush in the soft low light of the antique lamp on the nightstand table next to his side of the bed. She faltered momentarily.
“Why don’t you stay tonight? I know you don’t like to give me any indication that you might actually want to live with me—don’t worry: message received.” He looked back for a moment at the red light on the digital clock. “It’s after midnight. I have to get up at five—you’ll have plenty of time to go home and change.”
He wasn’t pressing her, she could sense that. He was being kind, and perhaps he just wanted to spend the night with her, next to her, her thoughts random.
“You know me, Matt. I can’t. I—not tonight.” She slipped out of bed grabbing her clothes off the carpet to conceal most of herself as she always did and headed to his shower.
He lay back down in silent frustration and said nothing.
A few minutes later she emerged from the master bath with her naturally curly, just above the shoulder length brown hair flat on the top of her head with wet ringlets hanging down beside her face.
“Good night, Matt,” she said quietly.
“Yeah. Drive carefully,” he replied, resignation in his voice.
She felt the usual guilt driving home. She never experienced sex without guilt. Plus she felt guilty about leaving Matt there alone. He accommodated her every need for independence, never pushed her or their relationship into going somewhere she didn’t want to go—he was a strong yet tender guy, but . . . but what? “What?!” she screamed in the confines of her car, slapping the steering wheel with her left palm. The short drive home came to an end without any questions answered, as usual, and sometimes she felt like she absolutely hated herself for the decisions she’d made all through her life that left her in such a state of confusion and disarray. Maybe she should just end her relationship with Matt. She’d miss him for sure—he was a wonderful guy! But she couldn’t really make him happy the way she was, and so consequently he couldn’t make her happy either. Once inside the door she dropped her purse on the floor and shut the door harder than she intended. “How many times have I had this conversation?” she asked herself. “I’m sick of it.” Without warning the tears came in a rush. “Just sick of it,” she sobbed.

“Hey, CM! Your boyfriend’s here,” Char whispered excitedly. “Listen, if you ever dump him, let me know, alright? Talk about drop dead gorgeous!”
“Matt’s here?” CM asked in surprise, standing in her cubicle.
Char gestured secretively with her hand concealed by her body to a spot behind her across the room.
When she looked around Char, Matt caught her eye and put up his hand in a discreet wave. CM smiled nervously. What’s he doing here? she almost said aloud.
“Hi, Matt. What’s up?”
“Do you have a minute? I brought you a mocha,” he said reaching down to the table behind him and producing the coffee.
“Uh, sure. Thanks,” she replied. “I think the interview room is open. C’mon.”
She led the way to a small room with a round table and four maple captain’s chairs. He sat down at the table and she joined him.
“Normally I wouldn’t bother you at work. I’m sorry for that, but I don’t have a lot of time.”
“That’s okay. What’s going on?” she asked with concern, sipping the mocha and noticing how uncharacteristically serious he was. “Is something wrong?”
“Well, no—and yes, in a way. Look, CM, I’m leaving for California. This afternoon. I got a job offer that, well, it’s an incredible offer.” He looked down briefly, then continued. “To be honest with you, my first inclination was to ask you to go with me,” he said, looking directly into her subdued blue eyes. “But I knew that wouldn’t fly with you. And because of that fact, I decided to take the transfer and head back home. The main reason I’m here, CM, is to tell you I’ve been falling in love with you, but I know you don’t feel the same. It’s been fairly difficult these past couple months to carry on the way it’s always been with us, so I figured I’d just leave you alone and maybe you can find someone who floats your boat or whatever. Or maybe you won’t have to be encumbered with a ‘relationship’ at all. Anyway, I figured I’d just head out and spend a week with my folks and then get started on my new job.”
CM hated the tears flooding her eyes were making it impossible to speak. There seemed to be a plug in her throat, and she knew if she dared to pull it a dam of emotion would leave her in an ocean of weeping. So she simply nodded.

Sweet Release (Romance/Women's Fiction)

Father, thank you for your provision of words, your encouragement when there is no other, your faithfulness when mine is vacant and hollow. I'm desperate for you. In the Name of Jesus, Amen.

The Facebook Phenomenon . . .

I can now officially say I'm so glad I "joined" Facebook. Last Friday I mentioned one of my best friends when I was growing up. Just yesterday she found me on Facebook, and we've had quite a reunion reliving those days of old. What a treat as our lives intersect so many years later.

Turns out our memories have been passing through our thoughts simultaneously, so we both know the Lord has something special in mind for our new time together.

I've heard so many people say they found old friends through the Facebook experience, and now I've experienced it for myself. I don't spend a lot of time there, and I have the blog "wired" into my profile page, but this is a reward I really didn't expect.

Neither one of us were Christians in our youth, and now we are. Our friendship covered many years--those formative times when awkwardness and silliness go hand in hand, when laughing and crying are the norms, when horses and boys get equal time . . .

Thank you, Lord, for bringing Debbie back into my life. May we make the most of this renewed friendship. In the Name of Jesus, Amen.

Deterioration

Deterioration: a lowering in quality, character, or value; degeneration

It can always be argued that this great nation of the United States of America has suffered from the indulgences of excess. Robust vehicles of all kinds, huge theater screens for televisions, cell phones which can practically manufacture books and can contact the world, estates for homes, surgeries which give women breasts a man daydreams about, machines and formulas which make teeth whiter than sheet lightning, injections and creams to plump lips like Thanksgiving turkeys, corporate packages of multi-millions of dollars for exiting executives who ruined their companies. Yeah, we’ve gone over the top in different areas. Some of us.

But the real deterioration comes from within a soul. It produces an insatiable appetite for the addition of “things” which do not contribute to the betterment of an individual. Before you start shaking your head in agreement with all of the things I listed above, I want to state flat out that I think it’s positively wonderful for a person to be able to buy the vehicle, cell phone, home, or TV of his/her choice—providing he/she can pay for it. I do not have a problem with people enjoying their lives.

Do you know that missionaries to the Philippines have stated that it doesn’t matter how “poor” a family is, they have a television hooked up in their tiny tin roof dwellings? People like to have “things”. Tell me you don’t.

So what makes a soul “deteriorate”? The three letter word which few acknowledge as being at the root of pure “excess”. The “S” word. The thing that not one of us can escape because it’s virtually running through the bloodstream of our human nature. You know the word, the condition, the irreversible taunt which keeps us from seeking true relief from deterioration. Sin.

What quickens deterioration is the failure to admit our innate slavery to this condition. By dressing it up to look pretty, by calling it by new names to disguise its pull and degradation, by lying about its source, its demands, its critical importance, and its ultimate cure, sin is rationalized and justified.

One of the gravest concerns for the people of this nation right now is that some of them can no longer look straight into the eyes of sin and recognize it. Instead they point to those who have more than they do and rail against “excess” when in fact they are being covetous. Jealous because they do not have. They look straight at an administration and ignore the barbaric extermination of little babies in the womb, and instead of calling it infanticide which is its truthful name, they label it with “rights” for women to choose to murder their own children. When a nation calls murder “a woman’s right to choose”, there is advanced deterioration.

To avoid or refuse to look at sin and to mislabel it with policies and programs and bail-outs and packages to reward the fallen state of mankind for his misguided, degenerate, irresponsible, harmful, and sinful ways is to set mankind above the God of the universe. To declare our ways higher than His ways instead of vice versa. To state that regardless of what is inherently and eternally wrong, we do not acknowledge the ways of our Creator because we have a better plan—well . . . the only possibility is further deterioration and degeneration.

Woe to those who call evil good and good evil,
who put darkness for light and light for darkness,
who put bitter for sweet and sweet for bitter.

Woe to those who are wise in their own eyes
and clever in their own sight.

Woe to those who are heroes at drinking wine
and champions at mixing drinks,
who acquit the guilty for a bribe,
but deny justice to the innocent.

Therefore, as tongues of fire lick up straw
and as dry grass sinks down in the flames,
so their roots will decay
and their flowers blow away like dust;
for they have rejected the law of the Lord Almighty
and spurned the word of the Holy One of Israel.
Therefore the Lord’s anger burns against His own people;
His hand is raised and He strikes them down.
The mountains shake,
And the dead bodies are like refuse in the streets.

Isaiah 5:20-25 (NIV)

One day it will come. The quicker we turn away from Truth, the quicker we will suffer the consequences of eternal punishment. It won’t be from “excess”. It will be for ignoring Sin and the One who came to save us from its deathlike grip.

Jesus, keep me safe in your nail-scarred hands where my name is engraved on your palms along with those who have turned to you and acknowledged and surrendered to your excruciating sacrifice on our behalves. Thank you, Jesus, for rescuing me from the hold of sin which had me bound. Thank you, Jesus, for your divine and perfect love for me in spite of me. I love you, Lord.

Getting to know . . . Daisy Chain

Mary DeMuth has written six books, three non-fiction parenting books and three novels. Daisy Chain is her third novel, the first in the Defiance Texas Trilogy.

If you know anything about Mary, you know she is one of the hardest working writers out there in the publishing industry. Always searching for new ways to market her work, so dedicated to the craft of writing that she formed her own mentoring business for writers, called upon to teach at conferences, and devoted to the Lord Jesus Christ, Mary remains humble, transparent, and enthusiastic. She’s a treasure.

Daisy Marie Chance is Jed Pepper’s best friend and future husband according to Daisy. Sharing the special bonds of young kids who come from hard home situations, these two often congregate at an abandoned church at the edge of the woods away from their neighborhood, sitting in their own pew, and talking about the here and now and the past and future. Normally, Jed walks Daisy home from their private meetings, but time is running late for Jed, and fearing his father’s physical reprimands for being tardy to dinner, he insists Daisy can walk herself home this time. Her final words to him were, “You’ll regret it.” And he did.

The story opens with Jed Pepper returning to the memory and the place 30 years later and quickly we are immersed in the very day Daisy disappears in Defiance, Texas. From Jed’s perspective, that of a 14 year old son of a preacher who beats his family into submission, we see the fun-loving, sunny-haired, wise beyond her years Daisy who dares Jed to get outside his comfort zone, who tells him his family “ain’t normal”, and who cares for her single mother who neglects her and lives a sordid lifestyle according to Jed’s father who condemns just about everyone but himself.

Having read and reviewed The Killing Tree by Rachel Keener, it’s kind of surprising to meet Jed’s father, Pastor Hap (Happy) Pepper who is very similar to the rigid Father Heron in that story. More concerned about appearances than he is about his family’s needs, Hap makes spectacles of sinners from the pulpit of his church and rules his family with his iron fist, slapping, degrading, humiliating, berating, and beating them if they contest him, disobey him, or if he construes any of their words or actions as a challenge to his authority. Jed, his little sister Sissy, and Mama live in palpable fear of Hap’s wrath which explodes like a tight coiled spring. The classic hypocrite who leads by legalism and assertions of power, he never apologizes for his punishing ways.

The search for the missing Daisy adds extra sorrows to the young Jed Pepper who blames himself for leaving her to rush home to avoid his father’s belt. Mixed in with the underlying fears about what could’ve happened to Daisy is finding out the strangeness of Daisy’s absent father turning out to be his mother’s old high school boyfriend and another source of contention between his father and mother. As the first segment of this trilogy heads toward its conclusion, we sense that Jed’s mama is becoming more defiant toward Hap and suffering more of her crippling headaches in addition to his abuse.

Layered within this woeful tale is the natural love children desire to feel for their parents regardless of ill treatment, how they hope for protection and security even when it’s rarely provided. The training to honor one’s parents collides with a tyrannical, volcanic father who spouts righteousness like a weapon but fails to deliver any of it. Hiding in the background is the coming of age from boy to young man and what it takes to accomplish this in a dysfunctional and hypocritical setting that instills a false picture of a mean, out of control, and incapable God. Throughout we witness a David and Goliath struggle building which culminates near the end.

For those writers who want to read a novel which is a clinic for application of the rules of writing, Daisy Chain should be your choice. Mary DeMuth demonstrates all of them in an illustrative, carefully written story with harsh and lovely characters, well-defined and easily conjured up in the mind’s eye. Vivid images, clever metaphors, active verbs—they’re all there in abundance—capturing the mindset of a distraught 14 year old boy and his lost love. (I couldn’t help but think of a young Mary as Daisy.)

I do have to say I did not like the finish of this first installment in the trilogy. Too abrupt and inconclusive. An author risks a setup when they begin a series, a technique that alienates readers like me. This novel didn’t feel like a setup to the one to follow as it inched its way to a realistic conclusion, but it didn’t really end this story. Instead it took us back to page one.

Readers will quickly turn the pages of this novel, meeting the best and worst Defiance, Texas, has to offer and be anxious (if not slightly miffed) to proceed to the next chapter in the next segment which is included before the study questions in this book. The story, the characters, the searing heat and sweat and bare feet . . . they’ll stay with you, lingering in your thoughts as you wait for the next book.

Father, I lift up the lovely Mary to you, the one who’s endured such pain and triumphed in you. Please continue to build her up, wrap your loving, protective arms around her, fill her with the stories you have for her to tell, and let her experience the divine expression of your love in abundance. In the Name of Jesus, Amen.

http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/0310278368

Tuesday Ten

Shows I miss on TV: Magnum P.I., JAG, Shark

Looking forward to: Johnny Depp’s new film about John Dillinger due out in July

Favorite colors: Black, yellow

Names of my remaining yet to be published novels: Sweet Release, Wounds . . . and Healings, Destination, The Fixer, and Breath of Life

I might go again to the Northwest Christian Writers Renewal this year . . .

I was elected Senior Class Secretary at my high school.

In the senior class skit, I played Agent 99 to Jed Neiderer’s Maxwell Smart. He was perfect.

I graduated at the age of 17 and didn’t turn 18 until I attended the U.

Some authors are very accommodating and interested in what their fans have to say about their books. Others basically ignore them.

I’m very sequential in my learning style but totally random when cleaning.

God, thank you for my life. Thank you for the opportunity to breathe in and out and remain and enjoy, to suffer, to cry, to learn, to fail, to groan under the weight of it all so I can appreciate when you lift me up to the high places. I love you. In the Name of Jesus, Amen.

Writers' Snobbery

Okay, some of it is unintentional. Nevertheless, inexcusable.

Because what it’s really saying is this: Why can’t others write as good as me? Why can’t others strive for excellence like I do? Why can’t others produce the kind of effort that I extend to make my writing as perfect as I can? Why can’t readers discern the pulp from the profound and appreciate the labor it takes to write something as meaningful as I’ve written? Why can’t publishers be more discerning and only give us books that rise above the mundane and common?

Authors are a unique bunch. You do get the humble with the haughty, that’s for sure. The hacks with the heroic. The daring and the delicious. The dark and the didactic.

I can’t tell you how many times newly introduced novelists expound on how it takes an excellent story, well-written, to break through the publishing curtain. What is it they’ve written? Chick-lit or a mystery? Of course this is fostered by the common bonds of expression they parrot from the pros. And, granted, what are agents and editors going to say other than “Write the best story you can write because only the best will be published”? Even though, it’s all a matter of opinion.

I apologize to keep harping on the point in different ways, but don’t you think it’s a valid point? Next thing we’ll be hearing from these writers is that Jesus (when He walked the earth) was a snob, too, because . . . Huh? Because they always use the example of God demanding the most excellent craftsmen to build the temple of God. And my response to that is always: Yeah, and who gave those craftsmen their excellence? And who is supposed to receive the praise and glory for all excellence, good, and perfection? Not man.

The craft, the desire to seek after excellence in anything, to pursue the heights of creativity—it’s all God inspired, acknowledged or not. When “not”, it’s a matter of the flesh, the exclamation of the ego seeking to glorify itself, to point to “me” and “my” achievements. Even in Christians.

And I think it’s a shame. I really do.

I think sometimes we get confused about what is pleasing to God. We forget all about the obedience factor, the effort it sometimes takes to actually do the task set before us by the living God, the One who takes us to any of those heights we often seek for ourselves instead of for Him. We justify our efforts, our labors, our exquisite pain in creating our masterpieces and rail against those little novels which seem to pop up like so many kernels of corn in microwave popcorn. How dare those authors be mentioned with the likes of the designated authors of the classics—take your pick of which author you would proclaim. How weak the general public reader must be to pick up those rags to read and then to share how much they love the stories!

CBA fiction takes a lot of hits, and as much as I’ve read in “Christian fiction” I can say with some authority that there are some poorly written novels in the bunch. In fact, I’ve reviewed a couple here. And there are some magnificent authors in the overall genre as I’ve also reviewed here. The point is—again—for every single novel that I thought was not so good, there were others who truly loved it.

When we belittle and insult the craft of other authors, it speaks volumes about how we view ourselves. And the noise I hear is obnoxious snobbery.

Father, help each one of us to do what you have for us to do to the best of those abilities that you’ve given us as an offering to you. Let us be about our own individual business and not try to determine what you’ve designed for others. In the Name of Jesus, Amen.

Sunday's Offerings

And do this, understanding the present time. The hour has come for you to wake up from your slumber, because our salvation is nearer now than when we first believed. The night is nearly over; the day is almost here. So let us put aside the deeds of darkness and put on the armor of light. Let us behave decently, as in the daytime, not in orgies and drunkenness, not in sexual immorality and debauchery, not in dissension and jealousy. Rather, clothe yourselves with the Lord Jesus Christ, and do not think about how to gratify the desires of the sinful nature.

Romans 13:11-14 (NIV)

I'm "Guest Posting"!

Amy at "My Friend Amy" has given me the opportunity to guest post on her blog here:

http://www.myfriendamysblog.com/. Thank you, Amy!

Friday Five

I took ballet lessons from pre-school age through the sixth grade. I quit because I didn’t think I could keep up the heavy schedule in junior high school. My teacher tried to convince me to stay, and it made my mother sad when I quit.

When I was in grade school, I used to direct “recitals” in my back yard.

I still remember my best friend Debbie’s dogs: a black Lab named Sarge and a little Beagle named Brownie. Following them were her Dad’s two German Shorthair bird hunting dogs, Maggie and her daughter Kate. My first dog’s name was Tag.

I used to get to go with Debbie and her parents on weekend camping trips to eastern Washington. They had a trailer her dad pulled with a Lincoln Continental. Her mom baked wonderful pies in the oven of that trailer. In the summer heat we used to get our beach towels wet with cold water, wring them out and use them for blankets at night. One of the major treats we enjoyed at the café at Park Lake was a huge fountain coke for 30 cents.

I remember crying all through Kindergarten and sneaking home during recess in the first grade. My mom marched me right back to school. Shortly after that I met Debbie and school became bearable.

Father, thank you for best friends throughout my life. And, Jesus, you’re the best friend who’s been there all along, even when I didn’t know it. I love you, Lord.