Congratulations to the winners of A Lucky Child. They are Cheryl S., Momforeverandever, Principessa, Tatertot374 and BusyBee. Please contact me within 24 hours with your name and address. Also, if you have won on another blog, it would be gracious to allow someone else to win this one. Thanks.
Note: Tatertot374 never responded. Therefore my husband picked a new number and Lynne Schneider is the winner.
Thursday, April 23, 2009
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
First Wildcard: The Blood of Lambs--With a Review
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:
Howard Books (April 7, 2009)
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Kamal Saleem was born under another name into a large Sunni Muslim family in Lebanon. At age seven, he was recruited by the Muslim Brotherhood and immediately entered a Palestinian Liberation Organization terror training camp in Lebanon. After being involved in terror campaigns in Israel, Europe, Afghanistan, and Africa, and finally making radical Islam converts in the United States, Saleem renounced jihad and became an American citizen. He has appeared on CNN, CBS News, and Fox News programs, and has spoken on terrorism and radical Islam at Stanford University, the University of California, the Air Force Academy, and other institutions nationwide.Collaborator Writer, Lynn Vincent: Lynn Vincent, a U.S. Navy veteran, is features editor at WORLD Magazine, a national news biweekly. She is the author or co-author of six books, including the New York Times bestseller, Same of Kind of Different as Me.
This true story of an ex-terrorist reveals the life and mindset of radical Muslims. Now a US citizen, Kamal heralds a wake-up call to America.
Visit the author's website.
Product Details:
List Price: $23.99
Hardcover: 352 pages
Publisher: Howard Books (April 7, 2009)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 1416577807
ISBN-13: 978-1416577805
AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:
Beirut, Lebanon
1963
1
It was at my mother's kitchen table, surrounded by the smells of herbed olive oils and pomegranates, that I first learned of jihad. Every day, my brothers and I gathered around the low table for madrassa, our lessons in Islam. I always tried to sit facing east, toward the window above the long marble sink where a huge tree with sweet white berries brushed against the window panes. Made of a warm, reddish wood, our table sat in the middle of the kitchen and was surrounded by tesats, small rugs that kept us off the cool tile. Mother sat at the head of the table and read to us from the Koran and also from the hadith, which records the wisdom and instruction of Allah's prophet, Muhammad.
Mother's Koran had a hard black cover etched ornately in gold and scarlet. Her grandfather had given the Book to her father, who had given it her. Even as a small boy I knew my mother and father were devout Sunni Muslims. So devout, in fact, that other Sunnis held themselves a little straighter in our family's presence. My mother never went out without her hijab, only her coffee-colored eyes peering above the cloth that shielded her face, which no man outside our family had ever seen. My father, respected in our mosque, earned an honest living as a blacksmith. He had learned the trade from my grandfather, a slim Turk who wore a red fez, walked with a limp, and cherished thick, cinnamon-laced coffee.
Each day at madrassa, Mother pulled her treasured Koran from a soft bag made of ivory cloth and when she opened it, the breath of its frail, aging pages floated down the table. Mother would read to us about the glory of Islam, about the good Muslims, and about what the Jews did to us. As a four-year-old boy, my favorite parts were the stories of war.
I vividly remember the day in madrassa when we heard the story of a merciless bandit who went about robbing caravans and killing innocent travelers. "This bandit was an evil, evil man," Mother said, spinning the tale as she sketched pictures of swords for us to color.
An evil bandit? She had my attention.
"One day, there was a great battle between the Jews and the sons of Islam," she went on. "The bandit decided to join the fight for the cause of Allah. He charged in on a great, black horse, sweeping his heavy sword left and right, cutting down the infidel warriors."
My eyes grew wider. I held my breath so as not to miss a word.
"The bandit fought bravely for Allah, killing several of the enemy until the sword of an infidel pierced the bandit's heart. He tumbled from his horse and died on the battlefield."
Disappointment deflated my chest. What good is a story like that?
I could hear children outside, shouting and playing. A breeze from the Mediterranean shimmered in the berry tree. Mother's yaknah simmered on the stove — green beans snapped fresh, cooked with olive oil, tomato, onion, and garlic. She would serve it cool that evening with pita bread, fresh mint, and cucumbers. My stomach rumbled.
"After the bandit died," Mother was saying in her storytelling voice, "his mother had a dream. In this dream, she saw her son sitting on the shore of an endless crystal river, surrounded by a multitude of women who were feeding him and tending to him."
I turned back toward Mother. Maybe this story was not so bad after all.
"The bandit's mother was an observant woman, obedient to her husband and to Allah and Muhammad," my mother said. "This woman knew her son was a robber and a murderer. 'How dare you be sitting here in paradise?' she scolded him. 'You don't belong here. You belong in hell!' But her son answered, 'I died for the glory of Allah and when I woke up, He welcomed me into jannah.' "
Paradise.
My mother swept her eyes around the kitchen table. "So you see, my sons, even the most sinful man is able to redeem himself with one drop of an infidel's blood."
The Blood of Lambs © 2009 Arise Enterprises, LLC
1963
1
It was at my mother's kitchen table, surrounded by the smells of herbed olive oils and pomegranates, that I first learned of jihad. Every day, my brothers and I gathered around the low table for madrassa, our lessons in Islam. I always tried to sit facing east, toward the window above the long marble sink where a huge tree with sweet white berries brushed against the window panes. Made of a warm, reddish wood, our table sat in the middle of the kitchen and was surrounded by tesats, small rugs that kept us off the cool tile. Mother sat at the head of the table and read to us from the Koran and also from the hadith, which records the wisdom and instruction of Allah's prophet, Muhammad.
Mother's Koran had a hard black cover etched ornately in gold and scarlet. Her grandfather had given the Book to her father, who had given it her. Even as a small boy I knew my mother and father were devout Sunni Muslims. So devout, in fact, that other Sunnis held themselves a little straighter in our family's presence. My mother never went out without her hijab, only her coffee-colored eyes peering above the cloth that shielded her face, which no man outside our family had ever seen. My father, respected in our mosque, earned an honest living as a blacksmith. He had learned the trade from my grandfather, a slim Turk who wore a red fez, walked with a limp, and cherished thick, cinnamon-laced coffee.
Each day at madrassa, Mother pulled her treasured Koran from a soft bag made of ivory cloth and when she opened it, the breath of its frail, aging pages floated down the table. Mother would read to us about the glory of Islam, about the good Muslims, and about what the Jews did to us. As a four-year-old boy, my favorite parts were the stories of war.
I vividly remember the day in madrassa when we heard the story of a merciless bandit who went about robbing caravans and killing innocent travelers. "This bandit was an evil, evil man," Mother said, spinning the tale as she sketched pictures of swords for us to color.
An evil bandit? She had my attention.
"One day, there was a great battle between the Jews and the sons of Islam," she went on. "The bandit decided to join the fight for the cause of Allah. He charged in on a great, black horse, sweeping his heavy sword left and right, cutting down the infidel warriors."
My eyes grew wider. I held my breath so as not to miss a word.
"The bandit fought bravely for Allah, killing several of the enemy until the sword of an infidel pierced the bandit's heart. He tumbled from his horse and died on the battlefield."
Disappointment deflated my chest. What good is a story like that?
I could hear children outside, shouting and playing. A breeze from the Mediterranean shimmered in the berry tree. Mother's yaknah simmered on the stove — green beans snapped fresh, cooked with olive oil, tomato, onion, and garlic. She would serve it cool that evening with pita bread, fresh mint, and cucumbers. My stomach rumbled.
"After the bandit died," Mother was saying in her storytelling voice, "his mother had a dream. In this dream, she saw her son sitting on the shore of an endless crystal river, surrounded by a multitude of women who were feeding him and tending to him."
I turned back toward Mother. Maybe this story was not so bad after all.
"The bandit's mother was an observant woman, obedient to her husband and to Allah and Muhammad," my mother said. "This woman knew her son was a robber and a murderer. 'How dare you be sitting here in paradise?' she scolded him. 'You don't belong here. You belong in hell!' But her son answered, 'I died for the glory of Allah and when I woke up, He welcomed me into jannah.' "
Paradise.
My mother swept her eyes around the kitchen table. "So you see, my sons, even the most sinful man is able to redeem himself with one drop of an infidel's blood."
The Blood of Lambs © 2009 Arise Enterprises, LLC
My Review:
I found this book to be a fascinating look at what makes a terrorist tick. The author, who was recruited into terrorism as a child was a devout child looking for love, protection and attention; none of which he was getting from his father. He was convinced he was doing the will of Allah and remained convinced of that until one day he was in a car accident. Following the accident, which happened in the US, he was taken in and cared for by a Christian family. After seeing them up-close for months, he converts and beings a new life.
I have mixed feelings about his message, which is basically that about 10% of the Muslims in the US want to destroy the US as we know it and establish Islamic law. I don't doubt his message; I just wonder what the best way to win the battle is. Kamal wasn't won over by the sword or politics, it was seeing Christianity in action that convinced him of its truth. There is a mosque a few blocks from my home. My kids go to school with Muslim kids. There are Muslims in my neighborhood. Do I distrust them all? Do I treat them as a threat? At this point these are hypothetical questions because I don't personally know any Muslims, but will one occupy the office next to mine one day, or move in next door? Will a girl in a headscarf show up at my daughter's next party? All are in the realm of possibility. Do I view these people as threats? Do I treat them as I would any other new acquaintance?
If you are looking for a very readable book about how terrorists are recruited and trained, how they think and act, I think you'll enjoy this one. If your eyes rolled when you read that he converted to Christianity, that didn't happen until page 260/309. It is given as the explaination as to why he isn't a terrorist any more, but it isn't a major focus of the story.
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
First Wildcard: So Not Happening
Click here for my review.
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:
So Not Happening (The Charmed Life)
Thomas Nelson (May 5, 2009)
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Jenny B. Jones writes adult and YA Christian Fiction with equal parts wit, sass, and untamed hilarity. When she's not writing, she's living it up as a high school speech teacher in Arkansas.
Visit the author's website.
Product Details:
List Price: $12.99
Reading level: Young Adult
Paperback: 352 pages
Publisher: Thomas Nelson (May 5, 2009)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 1595545417
ISBN-13: 978-1595545411
AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:
One year ago my mom got traded in for a newer model.
And that’s when my life fell apart.
“Do you, Jillian Leigh Kirkwood . . .”
Standing by my mother’s side as she marries the man who is so not my dad, I suppress a sigh and try to wiggle my toes in these hideous shoes. The hideous shoes that match my hideous maid-of honor dress. I like to look at things on the bright side, but the only
positive thing about this frock is that I’ll never have to wear it again.
“. . . take Jacob Ralph Finley . . .”
Ralph? My new stepdad’s middle name is Ralph? Okay, do we need one more red flag here? My mom is marrying this guy, and I didn’t even know his middle name. Did she? I check her face for signs of revulsion, signs of doubt. Signs of “Hey, what am I thinking? I don’t want Jacob Ralph Finley to be my daughter’s new stepdad.”
I see none of these things twinkling in my mom’s crystal blue eyes. Only joy. Disgusting, unstoppable joy.
“Does anyone have an objection?” The pastor smiles and scans the small crowd in the Tulsa Fellowship Church. “Let him speak now or forever hold his peace.”
Oh my gosh. I totally object! I look to my right and lock eyes with Logan, the older of my two soon-to-be stepbrothers. In the six hours that I have been in Oklahoma preparing for this “blessed” event, Logan and I have not said five words to one another. Like we’ve mutually agreed to be enemies.
I stare him down.
His eyes laser into mine.
Do we dare?
He gives a slight nod, and my heart triples in beat.
“Then by the powers vested in me before God and the family and friends of—”
“No!”
The church gasps.
I throw my hands over my mouth, wishing the floor would swallow me.
I, Bella Kirkwood, just stopped my own mother’s wedding.
And I have no idea where to go from here. It’s not like I do this every day, okay? Can’t say I’ve stopped a lot of weddings in my sixteen years.
My mom swivels around, her big white dress making crunchy noises. She takes a step closer to me, still flashing her pearly veneers at the small crowd.
“What,” she hisses near my ear, “are you doing?”
I glance at Logan, whose red locks hang like a shade over his eyes. He nods again.
“Um . . . um . . . Mom, I haven’t had a chance to talk to you at all this week . . .” My voice is a tiny whisper. Sweat beads on my forehead.
“Honey, now is not exactly the best time to share our feelings and catch up.”
My eyes dart across the sanctuary, where one hundred and fifty people are perched on the edge of their seats. And it’s not because they’re anxious for the chicken platters coming their way after the ceremony.
“Mom, the dude’s middle name is Ralph.”
She leans in, and we’re nose to nose. “You just stopped my wedding and that’s what you wanted to tell me?”
Faint—that’s what I’ll do next time I need to halt a wedding.
“How well do you know Jake? You only met six months ago.”
Some of the heat leaves her expression. “I’ve known him long enough to know that I love him, Bella. I knew it immediately.”
“But what if you’re wrong?” I rush on, “I mean, I’ve only been around him a few times, and I’m not so sure. He could be a serial killer for all we know.” I can count on one hand the times I’ve been around Jake. My mom usually visited him when I was at my dad’s.
Her voice is low and hurried. “I understand this isn’t easy for you. But our lives have changed. It’s going to be an adventure, Bel.”
Adventure? You call meeting a man on the Internet and forcing me to move across the country to live with his family an adventure? An adventure is swimming with dolphins in the Caribbean. An adventure is touring the pyramids in Egypt. Or shopping at the Saks after-Thanksgiving sale with Dad’s credit card. This, I do believe, qualifies as a nightmare!
“You know I’ve prayed about this. Jake and I both have. We know this is God’s will for us. I need you to trust me, because I’ve never been more sure about anything in my life.”
A single tear glides down Mom’s cheek, and I feel my heart constrict. This time last year my life was so normal. So happy. Can I just hit the reverse button and go back?
Slowly I nod. “Okay, Mom.” It’s kind of hard to argue with “God says this is right.” (Though I happen to think He’s wrong.)
The preacher clears his throat and lifts a bushy black brow.
“You can continue,” I say, knowing I’ve lost the battle. “She had something in her teeth.” Yes, that’s the best I've got.
I. Am. An. Idiot.
“And now, by the powers vested in me, I now pronounce you Mr. and Mrs. Jacob Finley. You may kiss your bride.”
Nope. Can’t watch.
I turn my head as the “Wedding March” starts. Logan walks to my side, and I link my arm in his. Though we’re both going to be juniors, he’s a head taller than me. It’s like we’re steptwins. He grabs his six-year-old brother, Robbie, with his other hand, and off we go
in time to the music. Robbie throws rose petals all around us, giggling with glee, oblivious to the fact that we just witnessed a ceremony marking the end of life as we know it.
“Good job stopping the wedding.” Logan smirks. “Very successful.”
I jab my elbow into his side. “At least I tried! You did nothing!”
“I just wanted to see if you had it in you. And you don’t.”
I snarl in his direction as the camera flashes, capturing this day for all eternity.
Last week I was living in Manhattan in a two-story apartment between Sarah Jessica Parker and Katie Couric. I could hop a train to Macy’s and Bloomie’s. My friends and I could eat dinner at Tao and see who could count the most celebs. I had Broadway in my backyard
and Daddy’s MasterCard in my wallet.
Then my mom got married.
And I got a new life.
I should’ve paid that six-year-old to pull the fire alarm.
And that’s when my life fell apart.
“Do you, Jillian Leigh Kirkwood . . .”
Standing by my mother’s side as she marries the man who is so not my dad, I suppress a sigh and try to wiggle my toes in these hideous shoes. The hideous shoes that match my hideous maid-of honor dress. I like to look at things on the bright side, but the only
positive thing about this frock is that I’ll never have to wear it again.
“. . . take Jacob Ralph Finley . . .”
Ralph? My new stepdad’s middle name is Ralph? Okay, do we need one more red flag here? My mom is marrying this guy, and I didn’t even know his middle name. Did she? I check her face for signs of revulsion, signs of doubt. Signs of “Hey, what am I thinking? I don’t want Jacob Ralph Finley to be my daughter’s new stepdad.”
I see none of these things twinkling in my mom’s crystal blue eyes. Only joy. Disgusting, unstoppable joy.
“Does anyone have an objection?” The pastor smiles and scans the small crowd in the Tulsa Fellowship Church. “Let him speak now or forever hold his peace.”
Oh my gosh. I totally object! I look to my right and lock eyes with Logan, the older of my two soon-to-be stepbrothers. In the six hours that I have been in Oklahoma preparing for this “blessed” event, Logan and I have not said five words to one another. Like we’ve mutually agreed to be enemies.
I stare him down.
His eyes laser into mine.
Do we dare?
He gives a slight nod, and my heart triples in beat.
“Then by the powers vested in me before God and the family and friends of—”
“No!”
The church gasps.
I throw my hands over my mouth, wishing the floor would swallow me.
I, Bella Kirkwood, just stopped my own mother’s wedding.
And I have no idea where to go from here. It’s not like I do this every day, okay? Can’t say I’ve stopped a lot of weddings in my sixteen years.
My mom swivels around, her big white dress making crunchy noises. She takes a step closer to me, still flashing her pearly veneers at the small crowd.
“What,” she hisses near my ear, “are you doing?”
I glance at Logan, whose red locks hang like a shade over his eyes. He nods again.
“Um . . . um . . . Mom, I haven’t had a chance to talk to you at all this week . . .” My voice is a tiny whisper. Sweat beads on my forehead.
“Honey, now is not exactly the best time to share our feelings and catch up.”
My eyes dart across the sanctuary, where one hundred and fifty people are perched on the edge of their seats. And it’s not because they’re anxious for the chicken platters coming their way after the ceremony.
“Mom, the dude’s middle name is Ralph.”
She leans in, and we’re nose to nose. “You just stopped my wedding and that’s what you wanted to tell me?”
Faint—that’s what I’ll do next time I need to halt a wedding.
“How well do you know Jake? You only met six months ago.”
Some of the heat leaves her expression. “I’ve known him long enough to know that I love him, Bella. I knew it immediately.”
“But what if you’re wrong?” I rush on, “I mean, I’ve only been around him a few times, and I’m not so sure. He could be a serial killer for all we know.” I can count on one hand the times I’ve been around Jake. My mom usually visited him when I was at my dad’s.
Her voice is low and hurried. “I understand this isn’t easy for you. But our lives have changed. It’s going to be an adventure, Bel.”
Adventure? You call meeting a man on the Internet and forcing me to move across the country to live with his family an adventure? An adventure is swimming with dolphins in the Caribbean. An adventure is touring the pyramids in Egypt. Or shopping at the Saks after-Thanksgiving sale with Dad’s credit card. This, I do believe, qualifies as a nightmare!
“You know I’ve prayed about this. Jake and I both have. We know this is God’s will for us. I need you to trust me, because I’ve never been more sure about anything in my life.”
A single tear glides down Mom’s cheek, and I feel my heart constrict. This time last year my life was so normal. So happy. Can I just hit the reverse button and go back?
Slowly I nod. “Okay, Mom.” It’s kind of hard to argue with “God says this is right.” (Though I happen to think He’s wrong.)
The preacher clears his throat and lifts a bushy black brow.
“You can continue,” I say, knowing I’ve lost the battle. “She had something in her teeth.” Yes, that’s the best I've got.
I. Am. An. Idiot.
“And now, by the powers vested in me, I now pronounce you Mr. and Mrs. Jacob Finley. You may kiss your bride.”
Nope. Can’t watch.
I turn my head as the “Wedding March” starts. Logan walks to my side, and I link my arm in his. Though we’re both going to be juniors, he’s a head taller than me. It’s like we’re steptwins. He grabs his six-year-old brother, Robbie, with his other hand, and off we go
in time to the music. Robbie throws rose petals all around us, giggling with glee, oblivious to the fact that we just witnessed a ceremony marking the end of life as we know it.
“Good job stopping the wedding.” Logan smirks. “Very successful.”
I jab my elbow into his side. “At least I tried! You did nothing!”
“I just wanted to see if you had it in you. And you don’t.”
I snarl in his direction as the camera flashes, capturing this day for all eternity.
Last week I was living in Manhattan in a two-story apartment between Sarah Jessica Parker and Katie Couric. I could hop a train to Macy’s and Bloomie’s. My friends and I could eat dinner at Tao and see who could count the most celebs. I had Broadway in my backyard
and Daddy’s MasterCard in my wallet.
Then my mom got married.
And I got a new life.
I should’ve paid that six-year-old to pull the fire alarm.
Click here to read my review.
Monday, April 20, 2009
Mailbox Monday
Thanks to Marcia at the Printed Page for hosting Mailbox Monday
Well, I'll squeeze this post in under the deadline. Its tough being a one-computer family when you are used to having two (one is in the shop). Luckily I don't have to write a long post as my mailbox wasn't very full this week. I got The Note II which I have already reviewed. It was a sweet quick read, but I didn't like it as much as the original, which I also read and reviewed this week. So Not Happening is a YA novel about a rich New York teen whose recently divorced mom marries a blue-collar guy from Oklahoma and moves her out there--and makes her live that lifestyle. Read my review for more about it. Finally, I got The House on Grosvenor Square, which is the sequel to Before the Season Ends. They are classified as Regency inspirational romances. I haven't gotten to it yet, but I reviewed Before the Season Ends a few months ago. All these are First Wilcard books, so stay tuned to read the first chapter. As a matter of fact, So Not Happening is being toured tomorrow (Tuesday).
Well, I'll squeeze this post in under the deadline. Its tough being a one-computer family when you are used to having two (one is in the shop). Luckily I don't have to write a long post as my mailbox wasn't very full this week. I got The Note II which I have already reviewed. It was a sweet quick read, but I didn't like it as much as the original, which I also read and reviewed this week. So Not Happening is a YA novel about a rich New York teen whose recently divorced mom marries a blue-collar guy from Oklahoma and moves her out there--and makes her live that lifestyle. Read my review for more about it. Finally, I got The House on Grosvenor Square, which is the sequel to Before the Season Ends. They are classified as Regency inspirational romances. I haven't gotten to it yet, but I reviewed Before the Season Ends a few months ago. All these are First Wilcard books, so stay tuned to read the first chapter. As a matter of fact, So Not Happening is being toured tomorrow (Tuesday).
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